Friday, 16 November 1883

I am at Jouy to paint landscape. But it rains and is so cold that I remain huddled before the fire, having set out — Claire, myself, the chambermaids, the provisions, the canvases, the carriage — all returned wet and frozen. And now I am reading a study on Chopin and Liszt — there is Paganini. There are men who seized hold of their world. There are artists whose hands were kissed by duchesses — artists who were grandees, artists who were gods. That is more like it. Wagner was one of them. Whereas... So, my little one, you are susceptible only to worldly, flashy, chic glories? No — but I require that genius be attended by them; genius must enjoy all the music, all the incense, all the flowers of life. [Words blackened: enhanced by] so much adoration, it takes its true aspect in my eyes, and only then can it dominate me completely. Dominate — but to what end? Ah! My God, leave me independent, let me work, and instead of making me a society woman at the feet of some man of genius — let me myself become a true star. Meanwhile, this future star plays chemin de fer¹ with the Marshal² and loses twenty-five centimes this evening and two sous yesterday. Yes... I am not being reasonable. One must not go looking for Chopins and Liszts — one must be oneself.