Tony came, very pleased with the paintings. Bojidar is better and dines here — it is a pleasure to abuse Jules in front of him. Vain, small, horrible, that atrocious green painting. That yellow. That contemptible plein-air painting without air. Eleven days since the dinner and he hasn't returned. He hates me — told his brother so. He has been worked up against me and doesn't like me, but I don't like him either, and I find it perfectly silly that I keep writing his name. Everything and nothing sets my nerves on edge. And then — I have a vision. A decorative panel: Spring. A woman leaning against a tree, eyes closed, smiling, like a beautiful dream. Around her: a delicate landscape in tender greens and pale pinks, apple blossom, peach blossom, the first pale shoots of everything. I have never painted sincerely, not once. Landscapes stuffed with old washerwomen and stooped figures. I want the enchanting; I want sun; I want a poetic orchard somewhere in the south — a woman bare-footed in the cool grass, with the murmur of a stream, the scent of violets, and patches of dappled sunlight through the leaves.