Saturday, 8 December 1883

I must note my work each day, for when I reproach myself for doing nothing and call myself to account for time. A woman's head laughing — painted entirely, despite a visit from Claire and Louis. And from five to seven, modelling a life-size arm. Yes — I fear he mocks my music; all these instruments... In the end, the fact is that I am very sentimental at bottom, and he has wounded me, or will wound... He has wounded nothing — but it seems to me he will... I, who wound at every instant all sensitive natures by my philosophical and mocking exterior... I laugh at everyone, and at myself — but the idea that he, or anyone, might mock me!!! Even gently, even in conversation, even... Horrible, horrible. Perhaps I shall never see Jules again — but these reflections apply to another. What is called Jules at the moment is the Him of women — the Him one waits for. He was called Paul; he is called Jules; he will be called X, Y, Z. It is a formula to summarise briefly a thousand aspirations. I feel him as an enemy, and it paralyses me... One would have to...