Saturday, 10 November 1883

I should like to attribute a slight fever — brought on by yesterday's wind on the Seine — to moral causes... I am working at home. Sculpture. My poor child, everything drives you to the feet of Art; do not mistake these various signs, go to it. Glory alone gives what you desire, and they say you can attain it. Do not scatter your energies, do not spend yourself on fantastical Juleses whom you do not love in the slightest. Since your misfortune, you can find grace only by becoming illustrious. Well then, instead of... But is one master of one's thoughts? One must be... more or less. In any case, I wish it — but I am sad; I was already sad before that little artist passed by without coming to see us. What shall I think of all this when I read it again in ten years? And what shall I be? And where shall I be then? My God, I wish I could implore Your protection — but what have I done to deserve it? If the most absolute, the most sincere humility could plead in my favour... before You, my God... perhaps... But no — for I am already counting in advance what my prostrate thoughts may earn me.