Sunday, 19 October 1879

I chose a few drawings and went with Amanda to Saint-Marceaux’s; neither of us knows him. I dressed modestly but with chic. I was frightened, but there is a poodle there who had already made a great fuss of me the first time we went.
Saint-Marceaux is short and dark, with a black beard, a bald head and a pale, matt complexion. He is only thirty-two.
Then I tell him my little story: I am passing through Paris, I have a brother who has been drawing for two years — he drew for a year, then he began to paint, and the painting is not going very well, so I thought, etc., etc. In short, he asks whether I have any drawings with me; I fetch them from the carriage and he finds them very, very, very good; the portrait in red chalk “is stunning”. “But,” he says, “it wasn’t you who drew them? You know, people sometimes come and say that to find out the truth!”
“Oh no, no, Monsieur, I paint fans, and I sent one to the Salon, which was refused. But do these drawings look feminine?”
“Not at all, on the contrary! And has he had advice?”
“Yes, Monsieur, from a foreign artist.”
“And how old is this boy?”
“Eighteen.”
“By Jove! I should have been only too happy to have done that at eighteen! It is very good, but... it is even astonishing for so short a time... That figure as a whole is stunning... But how... it seems to me there is already a certain facility here. But with what is here one can go a long way, for after all it is well constructed, it is accurate, it is good. Was it drawn at the École des Beaux-Arts?”
Yes, these are a sculptor’s drawings rather than a painter’s, hmm... It has style, this movement is very pretty... The heads are not as good as the whole figures.
He tells me that sculpture is a thankless art, etc., etc., everything people say about sculpture, and that when he came to Paris he went to M. Jouffroy, who asked him whether he had enough to live on. “More or less,” he answered. “Then become a sculptor; but if you are counting on it for a living, do something else.”
At last, when he had said a great many fine things to me, I told him: “It is I.” He is very amiable, very kind; he told me how to begin and promised to come and give me advice. I do not remember it all, but I am very pleased.
Yet it seems to me that he does not mean what he says, that he is doing it on purpose... I told him so, and he answered that that was hardly likely, since he does not know me and does not know where I come from.