Tuesday, 16 July 1878

Multedo does not know how to manage his affairs. He has sent me my guitar — mended. You can well imagine the difference a new guitar in a pretty case would have made. Nothing of the sort. No, truly, poor boy — you are not generous, and however much you may resemble Napoleon the First, you are nonetheless a man who does not know how to manage his affairs, to say nothing of courtesy or gallantry.
Not to mention that the tone has gone bad since the repair. Dear Multedo. And as if on purpose, Villemessant has abolished La Petite Correspondance. Otherwise I should have had it printed immediately that the gentleman who broke a guitar by... sitting on it, and who has returned it glued together, is requested to present himself at Soden so that it may be broken over his head.
Do you know what our Russians get up to? They play roulette — each taking the banker’s turn — but it is the fat Afrossimoff who is banker nearly always.
The Hohenlohes are not the ones from the Embassy — in any case I trouble myself no more about it, although there is a young man... but all men are indifferent to me at present; I prefer only those who prefer me — and the Deceased. It is only when thinking of others that I find him still within me.
I am vexed — and why? If I did not say these things I should think them none the less. There are things so... frail; they are light shadows that turn into stains once written down... and then I should not like to commit myself too far... suppose the Deceased grows fatter still and becomes a peaceable and reasonable deputy... I doubt it, but still, in that case I should be very sorry to have taken him for the Man.
Well, in that case I shall repeat the same thing: it is my fault.
To tell you the truth, I concern myself with him very little, or rather not at all, but I suppose that you concern yourselves with him, and so I talk to you about him. I still place him in my fantasies — not because he pleases me, but rather as though he did. As for thinking of him in any other way, you will understand that there is nothing of the sort. For me, he is dead — and well dead.
If he grows great, I shall lament his death and reproach myself for not having prevented it. That is the truth, I give you my word of honour. I am sorry to be growing detached from him... and I console myself by saying that we shall meet again, for I truly believe it is written, and whatever happens I shall always come back to it. I felt the same about the Surprising One, but in another way... It seemed to me that one day I should come round to letting him court me till he was frantic. Well, there is nothing incredible in that. It was so stupid, when I think of it... I never stopped giving him the cold shoulder, and towards the end, when he came into the box, I would not speak to him so as to forestall his contempt, which I had no need to fear, and then I took offence at his coldness. The poor fellow paid me the most commonplace court, and seeing himself treated so cavalierly he had nothing left to do but go away... But here there are too many affinities, too real an attachment on my part, for us not to meet one day; it is not a matter of girth or of colouring; these are bonds, likenesses that are purely moral and all-powerful.
So far he is the only one like me, and I do not believe I shall find another... But all this does not prevent me from being very calm and from mourning his death. It is in the midst of these conclusions that painful, wretched doubts about his loyalty arise. And as long as those shadows hover over him I shall be kept from making him my angel on earth, even while acknowledging him as the only one like me and groaning with jealousy if he grows in glory. Since I do not share it, I envy it, and I shall reproach myself unceasingly for having let such a monstrosity be consummated.
I believe the state of my mind is as settled as can be, allowing for the small variations of every day, which change nothing in the whole, for that matter.
All this is my ideal side, my fine side. The other side cares neither for the heart, nor for the soul, nor for the mind; the other is taken up with vanity and and with the things of every day.
I mean to succeed through painting or through anything at all... Do not think, though, that I occupy myself with art only out of vanity. There are perhaps few creatures as thoroughly artists as I am, in everything. You have noticed it, moreover, you who are the intelligent part of my readers; as for the others, I do not care. The others will see me only as extravagant, because I am odd in everything without meaning to be.

Notes

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