Thursday, 6 October 1881

Yesterday M. Escobar came, placing himself entirely at our disposal, etc. etc. etc. Very ugly — well! Very ugly. In the evening he takes us to the theater — carriage, box, everything very fine. I am looking extremely pretty in a mantilla. That name Escobar had been rattling around in my head a year or two ago, I don't know in what connection — I knew neither who nor what it was, yet I kept repeating to myself: Escobar, I shall see Escobar — a celebrated man; I don't know what. How strange that this morning young Pollack comes to find me at the museum — we speak of yesterday's theater — and the same words have already been said, I don't know when; in short, exactly: he said such-and-such, I thought the same, then another thing, I replied in such words and he spoke again… In short it is altogether strange — either all of this has already happened before, right down to the slightest movement of thought, or I have dreamed it exactly. This has happened to me before — having lived the same thing twice… If at least it were something striking — but no, mere insignificant scraps of dreams fulfilled, or memories of another life… I copied a hand from Velázquez, very modestly, all in black and in a mantilla like all the women here — but many came to watch me, one especially. It seems that in Madrid they are worse than in Italy: serenading under windows, guitar playing, they follow you talking everywhere and it goes on! Notes exchanged in churches, and the young girls have five or six suitors in this fashion — they are extraordinarily gallant toward women, without there being anything offensive in it, for the demi-monde as it exists in France does not exist here; such women are very much despised — but in the street they tell you very prettily that you are beautiful, that they adore you, they ask to accompany you, knowing that you are a lady with entirely honorable intentions. And you see men throw their cloaks down for you to walk on. For my part I find it delightful when I go out extremely simply but chicly — they look, they stop — and I am reborn. It is a new romantic existence, tinged with medieval chivalry… Dirty ignorance? No — it is very charming. Le Figaro speaks of my chic at Biarritz — it is the society column

sent by me to Saint-Amand, whose letter accompanies this — and communicated to Mme de Peyronney. Here besides is the letter of Saint-Agathe and "Le carnet d'un mondain," of which certain entire passages are by your humble servant. I think you will be able to distinguish — the flourishes are the vicomtesse's. Pollack came walking with us; we kept him for dinner and until ten o'clock we talked about art and made music. He is twenty-two and not very strong — the other day he showed us some studies, not very strong, no, he is not very strong, but there is something there. I think he thinks and talks too much about painting and does not do enough of it. I can see that I dazzle him — excuse the word — he paints the situation; it amuses me, and I am dazzling without extravagance, not as I used to be, alas…