Sunday, 4 July 1880

Yesterday I sent Soutzo the dissertation copied by a public scribe. But I may as well say it: it is purely for myself, he will not understand it, and I shall enjoy only the pleasure of having produced a masterpiece. What a nonentity he is, having left no more trace than I know not what. Yet I am displeased to have been maternal and to have allowed him, in the grip of all his foolish despairs, to lay his ordinary head on my shoulder.
Little Miranda comes to see me, and we take her to the Bois, and afterward around seven o'clock to the Gavinis', but it bores me to death. But I need tickets for the Chamber tomorrow.
I am doing a small portrait of Wodzinski. He is a good fellow, and he is in love with Mlle Konchine, who has been in Russia for several days with the entire family. I easily discovered the feeling through a thousand almost imperceptible things, and as I teased him gently about it, he revealed himself even more and began to trust me. He is thirty-two but becomes like a child when I tell him what he has not needed to say. But it seems the parents do not want it; yet I believe the young people are in agreement, and I predict it will happen. You should see the happy look, the faded laugh, the blush --- and yet he is neither childish nor stupid. People greatly admire his beauty; he is handsome indeed.
He is always at the Konchines', so people tease him a great deal about this love, but that would still be nothing; where one sees that he is in love is in everything he says, even when he speaks of other things. And then there is that childish, irresistible pleasure one takes in speaking of the Object or of anything that concerns her.