Sunday, 21 March 1880

I wrote a pile of notes and letters yesterday -- to Enault, to Andrieux, to Blanc, and to artists: to Saint-Marceaux, to M. de Caillas, Beaumetz, Julian, Tony. It was necessary to announce or explain or thank.
I was disturbed today. The Mouzays, the family; Kiki came but stayed only two hours and behaved quietly.
Then Tchoumakoff, who gives advice, and finally Saint-Marceaux, who also gives me advice.
I rather like him, but he leaves me with a feeling of unease. He seems absent-minded; he walks fast, talks fast. A bundle of nerves. I am like that myself, but he still leaves me with a feeling of unease, although he spoke well of my painting. Only here is the thing: when no one says anything, I am discontented, and when they speak well, it seems to me they are treating me like a little girl and making fun of me. In short, this evening I am not as cheerful as yesterday. It is because the right arm is too long from reworking the shoulders and head; there are five centimeters too many, and I, the severe draughtsman, am humiliated before a sculptor like Saint-Marceaux.
Soutzo has had sweets sent from Bucharest. But can you imagine this fellow! I mock him, and now he wants to take back everything he has said.
Yesterday, speaking of Courtes, I said to him: that idiot Courtes has no need to tell me you are in love with me -- what business is it of his? Then he tells me that indeed Courtes is an idiot to say it, and that he has heard it said by others. And that it is even disagreeable to him.
What does it matter to you?
It matters because it can harm a young lady.
Me?
You.
And how?
But not seeing it end in marriage, and seeing the gentleman not break off relations with the family, as one does when refused -- what do people say? It is not proper.
He adds that knowing my theories, he knew in advance he would not succeed. "I came to your house knowing what to expect."