Friday, 6 January 1882

Yesterday the elders were out, and Paul, his wife, Dina, Bojidar and I amused ourselves with laughter, illegible — it being the eve of our Christmas¹ — and imagining our trip to Algeria. We distributed the roles in the manner of Dumas’s travels: Paul cook and his wife dishwasher, Dina housekeeper, Bojidar treasurer and I draughtsman. We could already picture Bojidar striking the cashbox against a camel and being chased by us all in single file.

Today the whole family and Brisbane go to Carrier-Belleuse’s; I dress myself so well that he occupies himself entirely with my tones. It was amusing — I wish to cultivate artists... and take Carrier-Belleuse to Algiers; one would also need a poet and a musician... That could be entertaining... Carrier-Belleuse, the son of the sculptor, does not have a monstrous talent, you know — but he has one quality: unless I am mistaken, he takes to me as a painter. Besides, nothing is more sensitive and perceptive than an artist... One is afraid even of the ignorant; there is I know not what note of anxiety in the voice; one is a woman, one is a child... Art, even among the humblest, elevates the soul and gives one something more than those who do not belong to the sublime fraternity.

The princess came.

Melissano dines informally; we went to the Gavinis’. All this bores me. I am not working well — I drift like a blind Arab playing at some street corner down there in Algiers, in Morocco, in the sun, I don’t know where — painting, open air... idiot.