Tuesday, 25 November 1879

The studio at No. 37 is rented and almost fitted out. I spent the day there. It is very large, with grey walls. I took there two poor Gobelins that hide the back wall, a Persian carpet, Chinese mats; a large square Algerian pouffe. A model’s table, a heap of scraps of fabric; large draperies of sateen in an indeterminate, warm shade. A great many plaster casts: the Venus de Milo, the Medici Venus, the Venus of Nîmes, the Apollo, the Faun of Naples, an écorché, bas-reliefs, etc., etc. A coat stand, a water cistern, a looking-glass at four francs twenty-five centimes, a clock at thirty-two francs, a chair, a stove. An oak chest of drawers with a paint box for a top. A complete tray for making tea. An inkstand and a pen. A bucket, a jug (?).
Canvases in quantity, caricatures, studies, sketches. Tomorrow I shall put out a few drawings, but I fear they will make my paintings look worse. An écorché arm and a life-size leg. A skeleton. A carpenter’s box. I shall still need the Antinous, because his shoulders are shaped like Joseph’s.
written across the page
and there is also the modelling stand for sculpting.
My studio at home is becoming a real, serious library with a touch of madness. Everything is dark red; the far end of the room is lined with black shelves full of books.
The panels on either side of the window (facing the books) are hung with caricatures and little portraits of men and dogs, and two faience dishes.
With your back to the window (which is on your right as you come in), you have on your left the chimneypiece, surmounted by a looking-glass, all of it covered in red plush. An Empire clock, comical through sheer hideousness, and a heap of sham Etruscan things and contraptions of I know not what kind. Between the chimneypiece and the books, a divan in a fabric imitating old tapestry, with Oriental cushions. A black wooden desk separating the divan from a large antique armchair that stands almost against the opposite wall and serves as a desk chair. In this way I am on stage when people come in and find me writing, and the divan is left clear, the desk being long and narrow, laden with a few books such as Montesquieu, Plato, Plutarch — lofty pedantry that amuses and interests me. The instalments of Duruy’s Roman History published so far, the Nouvelle Revue, sketchbooks, an Etruscan dish for visiting cards, a bell, a wooden paper-knife shaped like the sole of a little boot, my medal in its case. A fairly large inkstand and some sort of Oriental metal thing for quill pens of every colour, which make a rather pleasing bouquet. Any number of lampshades. A few chairs covered in tapestry fabric. An owl with outspread wings above the books, shot by Alexis. He had it stuffed and gave it to me the other day; while he was nailing it up I even felt like pinching his calf to see his face; I did not do it, but I told him so, to console myself. Opposite the chimneypiece, in front of which lies a rug of rather pretty colouring (all the carpets in the flat are of dark red velvet), there is a table with the tea tray, the tea service and the silver salver; on the right a chair, on the left a palm that separates the table from the large armchair and breaks the length of the wall.
Above this table, a rough sketch by Anna of beggars returning to the town towards evening in winter, very prettily felt, and beneath it a head of me; on the right the guitar, on the left the mandolin — these, with the palm and the paintings, make this wall pleasant. Opposite, beside the chimneypiece (on the left as you face the looking-glass), a head of me and a large horseshoe of black wood holding various riding crops, and beneath it an academy study in red chalk. Above the divan (on the right as you face the chimneypiece) there is nothing yet. A paint box and an easel wander about the room, in any case.

Notes

Victor Duruy’s history of Rome. ↩