Sunday, 16 May 1880

I went alone to the Salon, early; there were only people with passes. I looked carefully at the Joan of Arc and especially at Morot’s Good Samaritan.
I sat before the Morot with opera glasses and studied it. It is the painting that has given me the most complete pleasure in all my existence.
Nothing jars; everything is simple, true, good. Everything is done from nature and recalls nothing of the dreadful academic and conventional beauties of the Lefèvres. It is delightful to look at — even the donkey’s head is good, the landscape, the cloak, the toenails. It is felicitous, it is right, it is good.
The Joan of Arc has a sublime head, but the landscape is deplorable — the more one looks at it, the more painful it is.
These two canvases are in two neighbouring rooms; I went from one to the other. I was studying the Morot through my glasses and thinking of that good Soutzo when he walked past me without seeing me, and as I was leaving I saw him in the garden, pointing out my painting to a person who had the look of a journalist.
We leave with Adeline and then go to see poor Odette, who is big as a house; her husband has just broken his leg, and yesterday fire broke out in the apartment.
All misfortunes at once.
Adeline finds I have a good heart... And Saint-Marceaux’s Harlequin! When last year’s Salon closed, I thought the medal of honour had turned my head — the work being no longer there to reassure me. After six months, I was persuaded I had exaggerated Saint-Marceaux, but this Harlequin reopens my eyes. On the first day I stood there rooted to the spot, unable to imagine whose work it could be. Such a thankless subject, but what talent — it is more than talent. He is a true artist, which is why people do not speak of him as much as of others — sculpture manufacturers; they are all manufacturers beside Saint-Marceaux...
The Mouzays at dinner.