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. There were things to announce, or explain, or thanks to give.
I was interrupted today. The Mouzays, the family; Kiki came but stayed only two hours and behaved himself.
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. Anyway, this evening I am not in such good spirits as yesterday. It is because the right arm is too long from reworking the shoulders and head; there are five centimetres too many, and I, the stern draughtsman, am humiliated before a sculptor like Saint-Marceaux.
Soutzo has had sweets sent from Bucharest. But can you imagine this fellow! I laugh at him, and now he would like to take back everything he said.
Yesterday, speaking of Courtès, I said to him: that idiot Courtès has no business telling me you are in love with me -- what business is it of his? Then he tells me that indeed Courtès is an idiot to say it, and that he has heard it said by others. And that it is even unpleasant for him.
What does it matter to you?
It matters to me because it can do a young lady harm.
Me?
You.
And how?
But when people do not see it ending in marriage, and see the gentleman not breaking off relations with the family, as he does when refused, what do they say? That 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.”