Wednesday, 16 May 1883

It is so hot that one only lives in the evening. I had fancied that Bastien would come — and naturally he did not; so I go up to my rooms, very happy in all this quiet upper floor, with the infinity of sky…
Only, spring does not drive me to sentiment but to childishness! Rosalie says I shall come to a bad end (I am in the habit of always saying to Coco: you will come to a bad end), and that it isn’t possible, for heaven’s sake, to get out of bed and, instead of sleeping, put on a bathrobe to walk about the studio and play with Coco, to whom I say that I despise him. So the carriages going by are visitors for Coco — visits of condolence, because I have despised him. One hears the whistle of the railway and the bell of the church in the rue Brémontier…
It is very poetic… On these lovely evenings one ought to make excursions into the country… On the water, to the back of beyond, with company; what company?
I think of all that Paris of the Champs-Élysées and the Bois which is living… while I am here, as if in America. Am I doing right or wrong to throw my youth to be devoured by ambitions that… Well, shall I reap the interest on the capital invested?
That whistle is very harmonious at night; a crowd of people are coming back from the country, tired, dreamy, happy, tipsy, worn out…
Always that whistle…
When I am famous… And it may be in a year… I am very patient, as if I were sure…
I must have more self-assurance in front of Bastien-Lepage. He must see that I understand him. But one can do nothing if one sees each other so rarely… one does not know what one is saying…
And if he were mine, that little painter, it would be the same as with the Harlequin… and how could it be otherwise? He is not a Gambetta, who was a complete subject; here the infatuation is relative, conditional and local…
The whistle, always… And they say that when you hear the whistle like that, it means a storm is brewing, and now it makes me think of what Dominique says about the storm that is about to break, in Paul and Virginia…
Very hard to read Balzac in this frame of mind, but I shall read nothing else, so as not to get myself worked up…
The bell again, and the whistle.

Notes

Saint-Marceaux’s bronze. ↩
Bernardin de Saint-Pierre’s novel (1788). ↩