Wednesday, 5 December 1877

As we were near the Grand Hôtel to buy a Russian newspaper, Marcuard (pronounced Marcouard) came to the carriage door and told us he had just come from burying a cousin, and that he had been told I was to marry Gerhardt von Doenhoff. This Swiss kissed my hand on leaving. The creature really fancies himself a gentleman, and gives me no news of poor Alexandre, who was, I believe, my first love.
It was dark all day, one could not draw, and I went off to the Louvre with a Finnish woman named Wiik — and since she looks like an English governess, I made the journey on foot, delighted with the style of my otter-fur overcoat and bonnet. At the Louvre one learns by looking at beautiful things with someone who knows something. The princess plays the artist, appears before Breslau who is copying a Ribera, and passes on after saying a few trifles that are genuinely kind, likeable, and original, and that have the good sense not to touch on the copy at all. They expected to see me proud and vain, and instead they find me simple, easy, erasing all distances in so charming a manner that I love myself the better for it.
Above all because it all comes naturally, and the distinguished woman, the great lady, never disappears — even when she says coarse things, which, moreover, have a tinge of affectation just sufficient to make them both frankly blunt, like certain of Popaul’s sallies, and mocking, like me.
Madame Doubelt this evening.
Madame de Fayet has called and is going to introduce Prince Philippe de Bourbon — who, judge of my surprise, sees me every morning on my way to the atelier. The whole world has disappeared for me; I see no one, except my art, which is a hard trade. The lady repeats each time that the prince is very rich and needs no dowry.
Well — without suspecting it in the least, I am causing havoc...
At the Louvre I saw the Italians from Salvini’s troupe who had come to see the beautiful things. The noble creatures! What other nation can compare with that one? Frenchmen would go to a restaurant — Italians go to look at pictures. And the understanding, the need for beautiful things, is in their nature. The beautiful natures, the noble natures — and a curse on the philistines who think otherwise.

Notes

In Italian in the original: la belle cose (so in the source; standard Italian would be le belle cose). ↩