Wednesday, 11 July 1883

Agitation. For I had invited the wretched architect to come on Wednesday or Thursday, and since his brother is here, people imagined he would come too. Instead we have Bailleul, Tchoumakoff, and the priest. Serves me right. *Thursday, 12 July 1883* The Canroberts to lunch, and then we go to the exhibition at the Rue de Sèze. But before we go out, the false Bastien arrives on a visit. The real one left for Brittany yesterday, and the false one is leaving this evening for four days. Dirty beast. No, there is nothing to be done — I do not interest him; well, never mind, I do not care for him either. What I want is to have talent. My God. That is all there is now, nothing else. Dressing, coquetry — none of it exists; I make myself presentable because that too is an art, and I could not go about frumpily dressed — but otherwise... This constant preoccupation makes me ugly and old; I bury myself, I shut myself in — and what will it bring me. All this is magnificent to recount after the blossoming of genius — but as things stand now! I do not find Benvenuto Cellini very impressive for burning his furniture; I fling far more and far better things into the flames — and what will come back to me. He knew what it would be — and I?! If I could soon be rid of this picture of the urchins, I would go to the country — real countryside, with wide horizons, moorlands, no mountains, beautiful sunsets, grey terrain, grasses and wild pink flowers... And space, space. And paint a large picture with an infinite sky... Grasses and wild flowers... I forgot — Tony came yesterday, very pleased with my sculpture and with the large picture that is roughed in; he persists in saying one can make something beautiful of it. As for the urchins, they are more or less where they were; I have redone the same thing ten times, and in the end there is not a patch worth keeping... I want to go to the country and bury myself still better. Fool.