Thursday, 29 November 1877

It is between nine and eleven o'clock that we go to Carolus-Duran's — he receives at that hour, since... we missed our private audience.
One enters a house with a vaulted ceiling, a portico, a dark staircase — just like Italy. The neighbourhood (near the Luxembourg) completes the illusion.
Only I did not shine much and hardly knew what to say to this man who believes himself the greatest painter in the world and despises all who paint or aspire to paint, regarding them from the height of his tremendous presumption. One forgives him for it — he produces things of very grand effect, and he is original, handsome, interesting, and everything one needs to be fashionable. He sang for us and played the guitar — no voice, but charm and a curious manner, Spanish airs. What is good is that he speaks no ill of Italy and is not ashamed to express all the admiration and respect it inspires.
Nothing is so disgusting as those wretched daubers who mock everything that ought to be sacred to the true artist... those false Diogenes!
I made the mistake of mentioning Robert-Fleury, and so forth. In a trice, amiable Carolus demolished him — along with everything else in creation except himself.
I returned to the Folies-Julian quite rattled.
Now I am better. I reason, and I find that Carolus's effects cannot be learned, and that the main thing is to receive a solid, classical education — the rest depends on oneself.
He himself and these Spanish and Arab songs are charming — as for his portraits, they are known to all, and I shall no doubt have a better occasion to speak of them. Like all painters, great and small, old and young, he found me of marvellous colour and perfect harmony in the tones of flesh and dress.