Saturday, 15 January 1881

M. Cot takes up his duties; he is to alternate with Tony. I showed him nothing, although Julian had pointed me out as the person he had spoken to him about. “It is Mademoiselle,” he said, pointing to the large canvas that had such trouble getting in yesterday, “who is going to do this.”
— Yes, Monsieur, I am the author of that canvas with the safety padlock.
Julian came afterwards to tell me that he had spoken of me to Cot as a very interesting pupil, etc., etc... and that if I showed him nothing it was out of shyness. All that and more besides, to overcome my reluctance to accept the advice of this maker of pictures fit to be turned into coloured prints. The graceful style he has adopted makes a great many people happy; perhaps he will give good advice all the same.
You know I am not mad about the painting of our illustrious Tony, but Tony is a strong man, a serious artist, an academician, a classic, and the lessons of such people are always excellent. In painting as in literature, learn the grammar first, and then your nature will tell you whether you should compose dramas or little songs. So, if Tony happened to be murdered, I would take Lefèbvre, Bonnat or even Cabanel... which would be painful to me. Painters with temperament, like Carolus, Bastien-Lepage, Henner, force you in spite of yourself to imitate them, and at that game, so they say, one picks up only the faults of those one copies.
And then, as a master I should not want a painter of single figures; I need to see around the painter a whole heap of history pictures; they surround him, people him, and make me listen to his opinions, although I often prefer a single figure to five or six pictures of thirty people each. But all in all this Cot seems good-natured; his début touches me. He must be forty-seven; he has neither paunch nor hair, and he chatted quite pleasantly in the atelier at number 51 — there were only nine of us in all with him — and there he loosened up.
The least interesting face in the world can become interesting with certain arrangements. I have seen the most commonplace models’ heads become superb thanks to a hat, a beret or a drapery; all this to tell you, modestly, that every evening, coming home from the atelier grubby and tired, I wash, slip on a white garment and drape over my head a fichu of Indian muslin trimmed with lace, like Chardin’s old women and Greuze’s little girls; it gives me a ravishing head, one would not think me capable of it... This evening the fichu, a little large, draped itself in the Egyptian fashion, and somehow or other my face became superb; as a rule that word seems to clash with my face, but the drapery worked the miracle. It puts me in good spirits.
The princess and Bojidar dine with us.
It is a habit now; staying bareheaded in the evening makes me uncomfortable, and “my sad thoughts” like to be sheltered; I feel more at home, more at peace.