Sunday, 27 June 1880

I did some modeling in the morning.
Madame Engelhardt at lunch, after which we went to the Gavinis'. Madame criticizes my hat. Perhaps she has had enough of me, just as I have had enough of her.
La Pernety, the Daveaus, Nervo, etc. I am as low as possible, but one must appear cheerful, and this suppressed misery makes me old and stupid. I no longer know what to say, I laugh by force, I listen, I utter banalities, and I want to weep.
At Mme de Brimond's, where we go afterward, it is the same; I feel old, wilted.
Misery of miseries!
Apart from my art, which I began from fancy and ambition, which I continued from vanity and which I now adore --- apart from this passion, for it is a passion, I have nothing, or the most atrocious of existences! Ah! misery of miseries. And yet there are happy people on this earth. Happy --- that is too much; a bearable existence would suffice for me, and with what I have, that would be happiness. I am not spoiled. Tears and a white hair.
Madame de Quincy came to introduce Gaillard to us as her future husband. They are charming and happy.
I had just finished reading Seraphita by Balzac when this letter from Soutzo was brought to me. I read it through twice; the second time it seemed less impressive, but it is not bad all the same. And after rereading half of it a third time, I want to write this to him, but I shall wait until tomorrow. I reread the letter, which is not good --- if one were to pick it apart --- [Crossed out: to love gradually] A love that has no real outpouring, and if he is losing his head, it is not from loving but from not being loved --- as La Palice would say.
And yet it is a response to my stupid manual.

Notes

An allusion to the truistic "Lapalissades," obvious statements derived from the satirical song about Jacques de La Palice.