Sunday, 8 July 1883

My aunt takes me to the Canroberts', near Versailles in the village of Jouy-en-Josas. A charming property — an old hunting lodge fitted out with the English genius for comfort, though quite simple. It is impossible to convey the warmth, the kindness, the graciousness of these people. The Marshal has the grandest manners, the Maréchale is divine, Claire is charming, and the boy — not yet ten years old — is an absolute love. I spent three days there alone; my aunt went back to Paris after lunch. But in spite of their delicacy I suffered greatly — I shall never grow accustomed to my misfortune. It is the poisoning of everything. I had looked forward to those three days with dread, and they passed... But there is a formal, sacred promise to return for a fortnight! Yesterday evening we went for a drive; most of the time is spent in the garden chatting about nothing. I did not work — we hunted spiders instead of painting; I bring back two large ones in a jar, and shall have them copied in enamel. I return for dinner and find the Engelhardts, the priest, and Dusautoy. I wrote something there... A sketch. Stories come to me like that in quantity — I watch them as if at a play, or I live them myself. Then one has only to recount what one saw or felt. It is like reality itself; imagination gives the illusion of life; one has only to try to render one's impressions. And no thesis — just an event, a story, true feelings, an interesting situation. What is the use of it? I don't know — it is a need; almost every day I make a few notes, impressions or inventions; but it is very rare that I make sketches for paintings, from which I conclude that writing comes naturally to me. *Monday, 9 July 1883 I saw the new moon over my left shoulder. It is idiotic to believe in such things — but I do believe. I shall have another bad month of painting, like the last. Confound it! The picture hardly advances at this rate. But after it I am going to do a... My God, be good to me! Tuesday, 10 July 1883 Sculpt from eight to noon, paint from one to seven, and draw in the evening. That is the life. For I must make a drawing for that M. de Bellina's publication. The article in the Novoye Vremya has been reprinted in the Yug* (Russian). That will cause an outcry in Poltava, no doubt — since they give my age as nineteen, one need only correct the figure; but had I said twenty-four they would have said twenty-nine. And if at least, after ten or twelve hours of work, one were satisfied! But no — I have terrible remorse; I am ashamed of the result, and want to start everything over. In short! If it were leading somewhere, even that would be something!