Sunday, 16 December 1883

Bojidar's head repainted and finished. I am nothing. Everything I do is bad — nauseating as technique, cardboard-flat; the sculpture too is going very badly; my Nausicaa means nothing, one cannot understand that she is weeping. The urchins are... If only it were words, false humilities! But it is because I am one of those who see clearly! And when a man of talent is harsh on himself, that is proof he is a true artist — but in my case it is because I see too clearly, too truly! For me, it is the Truth — and so!... Bojidar is coming to pose. This series of laughing heads could be very amusing if each were good. If it had been done by Breslau, for example... But good God, who then... And why have I had confidence in myself? Where are the proofs of my talent? Where is anything I have done that is good? Every time... It will be next time... I turned the little girl's head to face the wall and do not dare go look at it. Ah! If only I could be wrong! But no — it will be as with my chest... It is atrocious. In any case... Paris — I detest it, and [word blackened: let us reserve] one's tenderness for the Russian countryside... I love my country; I have only felt it the other day while painting... It seems to me that Rome alone can be loved like a homeland. That truly magical city left me an incomparable impression... Five or six months after I had left it... So... Nothing?! The priest and Prince Obolensky to dinner. The Prince is married — rather stout; his wife is in Russia; he serves at Court. Many calls these past days — Turquan (Joseph, the one in the Senate) presented his young wife.