Saturday, 2 June 1883

I do not know what will become of this picture — Villevieille, Claire, the Orthodox priest, conversations, a model who does not pose!
And in the morning we called at Julian’s to find out whether he is coming this evening; it is a matter of a ticket for the circus. He tells us that Mme Cartwrigth wants to have her portrait painted, and since that means fame for an unknown, he is thinking of this man or that woman — none of whom is me. And when I ask him why, he says I have as many opportunities as I could wish and have no need of anyone looking after me...
I really do not know why I persist in regarding Julian as a friend. Or why I was so indignant with Tony, who is worth ten of him.
Alice wrote to little Canrobert before writing to me. It all hangs together. Until now I have treated her with disdain, but that is not always understood. This little thing, to whom I have been absolutely perfect... is a fine specimen of humanity.
I am ashamed to say it, but I went so far as to give her a dress. How contemptible the world is, and how right Saint-Marceaux’s Harlequin is! Saint-Marceaux himself maintains that the world is a vast madhouse, that one must as far as possible make out the mania of those one meets and, if they are dangerous, keep out of their way as one goes about.
My aunt and Dina are at the circus, on the eve of the Grand Prix. I stay here composing a letter to the little American and one to Tony.
Letters will be my ruin, and it is a mania.
Dina maintains that if I were left alone with my own death warrant, which I had only to sign to be executed, I would sign it for the pleasure of writing something.
What a deplorable fortnight. I have quarrelled with everyone and everyone is abandoning me.
O my God, to have talent.

Notes

Saint-Marceaux’s statue. ↩