Saturday, 1 December 1877

We had talked of going to see If I Were King with Cassagnac — so one had to telegraph or write to him; instead, Maman went herself like a madwoman to tell his manservant that “the Russian ladies, etc., etc.”
Two hours later we received a note from the great man, who had understood nothing and was asking what it was all about. And afterwards we had onions — the smell of which sends me into involuntary fits of fury.
Instead of going to Julian’s, I went this morning to the Louvre with Breslau to see the masters’ drawings.
And now I am tired, because I have just been drawing human bones from life while on the floor above an American family is giving a party. I do not envy them.
The mandolin has come home after making another impression. Amélie is furious and says she does not believe in prodigies, and that people often claim to have barely started when they have in fact been drawing for a long time. Take that! In truth, perhaps I really have drawn, and a great deal — though I do not think so; in truth I have no idea.
Alexandre is fighting a duel — you know that already.

Notes

Opera by Adolphe Adam (1852). ↩