Thursday, 29 April 1880

Soutzo, to whom I granted a sitting for this morning yesterday, arrives an hour late (Kiki posed yesterday). Since he has already missed and neglected several times while coming to pester me every day asking for sittings, I make an example of him: upon his shoulders, I paint Coco's head — it was rather comical above the fur collar. I believe this made him furious. He took the canvas, saying it belonged to him, wiped it with his gloves, and while smiling politely and responding to my mockery, he threw everything into the fire, gloves included. And as he was breaking the stretcher, I told him he was not strong enough — such trifling remarks always anger men. I stoked the fire, sent the gentleman to fetch me a newspaper so the fire would catch faster, and the whole thing was burned. Naturally, he begged me to begin the portrait again, swearing to be punctual, asking forgiveness, and saying he had been furious even though he had not shown it.
"If you had shown it, I would have put you out the door."
All in all, I did it to set an example. It was not proper to keep me waiting and not to be there five minutes before the appointed time, especially having missed twice before.
Monsieur and Madame de Lesseps have left their calling card. That is astonishing.
This evening, dinner at the Simonides household. Everything about them is strange. (I know the lady from Julian's.) The husband is handsome and young, the wife is beautiful and past thirty-five; they are very close, live in seclusion, see only a few artists, and produce extraordinary drawings and paintings.
A sort of imitation of the Renaissance, subjects astonishing in their naivete: the death of Beatrice, the death of Laura; the woman who encloses the head of her lover in a pot from which flowers have grown — all of it drawn as though centuries ago. Madame dresses as if from Boccaccio's time. This evening she wore a gown of white Japanese crepe, adorably supple, with long, narrow sleeves like the Virgin's and other sleeves tied behind. The dress straight and simple; a belt of antique braid gave her a rather short waist; a bouquet of lily of the valley at the bodice. Pearls at her throat, earrings, and bracelets of old goldsmith's work. With her pale complexion, her black, curly hair, and her gazelle eyes, she looked like a fantastic apparition. If only she had the sense to style her hair simply instead of ruffling it into a fright, she would be very remarkable. We had been back a quarter of an hour in the studio off the dining room (where we had an excellent dinner, flowers, fruit, and a very artistic arrangement), and I was accompanying Madame as she sang old classical Italian romances, when Maman came to fetch us for church. It is Holy Week.
But we arrive too late. I say my prayers at home.
Tomorrow is the vernissage; I shall bring the little American so that she poses well.

Notes

A reference to Boccaccio's Decameron (Day IV, Story 5): Isabetta and the pot of basil.