Saturday, 30 August 1884

Serious things.
I do nothing. Since the Sèvres painting was finished, I have done nothing. Nothing, save two wretched little panels.
I sleep for hours on end in broad daylight. I did make a small study in a cab. But that is laughable.
The painting is set up, everything is there — only I am missing.
How little they amount to, Bastien and all the fancies I dress him up in!
No, this is not a life! It is two years since I left Paris. No travel, no watering-place, and this winter in mourning — so sad.
And it is by my own will that I bury myself!
Unable to go, save on rare occasions, into high society, I ought to content myself with the salons on the fringe, where one amuses oneself, dances, converses. Every time I have gone out I have been a success — except at the horrible Fitz-James’s, where they dragged me without warning, without a proper gown...
Well yes — even the Cartwright salon, anything at all, but to amuse oneself, to be courted, to laugh. Instead of spending whole months shut up in this No. 30 rue Ampère as in a Bastille. To live, at last!
But here! The Orthodox priest! The Engelhardts, the architect!
Is it not like being in a village! I can bear it no longer — all my reasoning flies away! And all that is young in me revolts!
If I were to say everything! The dreadful fears. September is here; bad weather is not far off. The slightest chill can put me in bed for two months, then the convalescence... And the painting!! So I would have sacrificed everything, and...
Ah! here is the moment to believe in God and pray to Him.
Yes, it is the fear of falling ill; in the state I am in, any pleurisy at all can finish me off in six weeks. That, in any case, is how I shall go. Since I shall work on the painting regardless... and it will be cold... And if not from working, then from walking — people who do not paint die all the same... Well.
crossed out[words blacked out]
In vain shall I invent Bastiens for myself, or other diversions. Ah! poor Bastien — how little he counts against the despair of not being able to work. The rage of watching oneself die!
So here it is — the end of all my miseries! So many aspirations, so many desires, plans, so much of everything... to die at twenty-five, on the threshold of everything.
Whose fault is it? My family’s? Destiny’s? What have I done?
I had foreseen it. “God, being unable, without showing Himself partial, to give me what is necessary to my life, will make me die.” Years ago. So many years, so few. And nothing.

Notes

In French in the original: grand monde. ↩
In French in the original: à côté (with côté in italics in the source). ↩