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 fairly simple. It is impossible to give any idea of 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, who is only ten, is a darling. I spent three days there alone; my aunt went back to Paris after lunch. But in spite of their delicacy I suffered a great deal; I shall never grow used to my misfortune.
It poisons everything. I had looked ahead to those three days with dread; they are over... But there is a formal, sacred promise to come back 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, and I bring back two big ones in a jar, which I shall have copied in enamel.
I come home for dinner and find the Engelhardts, the priest and Dusautoy.
I wrote something there... A sketch. Stories come to me like that in quantities; I watch them as if at a play, or I live them myself, and then one has only to tell what one has seen 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: an event, a story, true feelings, an interesting situation. Then what is the use of it? I have no idea; a need. Almost every day I jot down a few notes, impressions or inventions, but it is very rare for me to make sketches for pictures, from which I conclude that writing comes naturally to me.