My routine at Fontainebleau is no different to life at home. All I do is paint. For two weeks, I have been cooped up in my room with my work, creating a picture that expressed my torment after visiting the abattoir. The picture I’ve painted is of a horse being attacked by a lion. Of course, I live in Paris, so I’ve never witnessed that first hand. Even here in Fontainebleau, where the oak forests have bears and deer and wild boar hidden in their darkest depths, there are no lions. There is a stuffed lion in one of the museums in Paris, though, and I’ve seen him up close. I spent a whole day there before we left for Fontainebleau, sitting at his feet and drawing him, noting particulars like the texture of his fur, the shagginess of his mane. These sketches I have now reworked into my painting to show the great beast leaping through the air and gouging his claws into the back of a wild horse.

The horse in this painting is based on a young colt here at Fontainebleau. There was a thunderstorm one afternoon, and I watched this bay colt running wild as the lightning struck, the way he tossed his mane in fear and the whites of his eyes gleaming. That is what I have tried to capture here in the painting, with the sinew and flesh from the abattoir to make my work realistic. I want to feel as if the horse in my painting is truly alive.

This is my assignment for school this term, and as soon as I’m done with it, as a reward, Papa says he will take me hunting. The horses we keep in the stables here at our chateau are very good, and the forests are perfect for riding. This will be my first time riding out with the hounds. I’m very excited. But first I must finish the work. Madame Gris knocks on my door every few hours with a tray of food. There’s still more to be done before the painting is finished, but the light is fading now, so I will paint by gaslight for a while and then I’ll sleep, and in the morning I’ll begin again. Everyone envies the artist’s life, but this is the part they don’t see. I should be on holiday, picking wildflowers and berries and playing in the gardens, but instead I do nothing but work, work, work. Still, it will be worth it, if the work is good enough.

August 26, 1852

The work is dreadful. I don’t know why. The paint sits on the canvas in a way that should please me, but it is horrible. It has no soul. I give up. I’m going out hunting.

August 27, 1852