Sunday, 24 June 1883

We go to the École to see the envois de Rome, but since the halls were open I begin by wandering through them and revisiting the copies of masterpieces glimpsed in Italy. The splendid naturalism of Michelangelo the sculptor enchants me, and we have only a moment to see the paintings — in short I see only two: Schommer's canvas and Doucet's.

And both dazzle me. Schommer's is Edith discovering the body in a field strewn with corpses — three figures standing out vigorously against an evening sky: Edith and the two monks. I noticed only the effect, which is marvellous. [Words blacked out: Similar light, the sun] which is no longer visible but which reddens the sky — it is gripping.

Doucet's Ave Maria is a thing of exquisite beauty. A town with white walls on which the sun plays. And the Virgin, dressed in white upon that other white — so adorably luminous. An angel in a yellow flowered robe kneels before her. The whites are ravishing, ideal, celestial in colour. It is full of air, full of sunlight — it radiates! [Crossed out: Never have I seen envois de Rome of such beautiful feeling, of such value.]

Doucet redeems himself — his technique becomes simple, broad; I am mad about it. And then? If I were in communication with the world, as the writers one reads are... What is the use of opinions, impressions, sensations? They die here in this notebook. And all these furious forces which come to dash themselves against this rampart [words blacked out: imprinting such a shock on my whole being that I remain] suffocated and bruised.

I must uncork myself. I need air. I am stifling. Dante, Shakespeare, Michelangelo, Chopin, Beethoven, Balzac... Ah — how small we are... What wretchedness, what emptiness!

And to remain here on a Sunday, doing nothing... If at least someone would come — someone interesting, with whom one could talk — but let us not count on it. Old Mme Engelhardt and her son will be here for dinner. And here we go. Truly, it sometimes seems that the things one calls... must happen... It is unjust. Is will nothing then?

Another of the things that has contributed to making me believe in my own superiority is having found in one of Balzac's Philosophical Studies this theory of the omnipotence of Will which has preoccupied me for years, ever since I began to think. Dreams. Show me realities that match them.

The Engelhardts and Bagnitsky the journalist to dinner, and Mme Bailleul — everything goes well. Ah!

I think of the foolishness I wrote about Antonelli. As when I said that I thought of him every evening, that I awaited him, and that had he arrived unexpectedly in Nice I should have thrown myself into his arms. And people believed I was in love with him — those who read it will believe it. And never, never, never was it so. No, never.

But when one is bored, in the evening, in summer, one often thinks that one would be happy to have reasons to throw oneself into the arms of a man who is in love with one... This happened to me a hundred times in imagination. But then I had a name to write, a real being whom I could call Antonelli — very well, Antonelli it was...

But by that reckoning... If [Crossed out: Ah! no, no] no — never that little Italian... In love. I was rather in love with Audiffret — oh yes. But Antonelli, never — and I am the more vexed that I have passed for being mad about him. Come now! There was the fancy of being the niece of the great cardinal who might become pope... But...

No, I have never been in love and shall no longer be so — a man would have to be so superior to please me now; I am so exacting; it would have to be... And simply to be in love with any charming young man — no, that will never be possible again. *Monday, 25 June 1883*

Already yesterday evening I had returned to the envois de Rome; I see them again this morning and the evening's impression is confirmed. It is curious how I never take in things at first sight — I see paintings much better two days after viewing them than when I look at them. I took this peculiarity for stupidity, but Balzac reassures me — he says that in many great minds perspicacity is not spontaneous; that in natures gifted with the faculty of living much in the present, second sight needs a kind of sleep to identify itself with causes. Richelieu was like this. In any case, Schommer's painting is abominable — empty, stupid, conventional... and execrable. Doucet's is truly ravishing in colour, and the technique makes one think of Bastien and even of A. Morot in his Temptation of Saint Anthony... But it does not stand up as thought and character. That tone alone, and nothing else.

Without believing I am consumptive — for my hair is increasing in very considerable proportions and is truly beautiful now, though only reaching to my waist —

Bojidar came this evening with his dog — for want of better... it is always something. But I cannot do without an intimate being who will remain there, ready to listen to everything, nod in agreement, recount stories! Man or woman. Alice played the confidante; the Captain Blanc once, and the architect more significant than Alice or Bojidar because of Jules... In our household there is always someone who is the intimate friend, who is coddled, to whom one tells everything, and who ends by committing some small treachery.

With Bojidar that danger is past — one need only thrash him if he misbehaves. Jules has returned to Paris. Bojidar has seen him. Saint-Amand came this morning, still besotted. *Tuesday, 26 June 1883*