Sunday, June 23, 1889 It has been exceptionally cool, more like late September than June, and this forenoon the sunshine was cold and watery, but a clear, still and brilliant air this afternoon. I have read the most of the day and have finished the diary and letters of Madame D'Arblay in the reading of which I have had great entertainment. She saw great sadness in her last years as necessarily almost every one does who survives friends and associates. I have written to no one today as is my usual custom. I do not feel cheerful or happy and so I think I had better not write to any one. I seem to be waiting for some indefinable happiness or satisfaction and when I ask myself what it is I cannot tell. I am unhappy that my time is passing in absolute indifference, if I might not more justly say, repugnance to my art. If I were only at work on a picture which interested and absorbed me how much happier I should be. I hope I have not finally bidden farewell to the days in which I delighted in my work.
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