Tuesday, 28 March 1882

Bojidar has telegraphed Sarah Bernhardt to offer her lodgings at our villa, and we are waiting for a reply. I should be delighted if it came off — to enrage Gambart, who poses as a patron of the arts and at whose house she always stays. And then it would be very amusing.

I have just done a sketch of Dina, and the evening ended as usual — that is to say, with a frightful wrestling match between Dina and Bojidar, Bojidar thrown, pulverised, and letting out peacock shrieks. I can still hear them shrieking on the stairs. Yesterday it was my turn; I called him Pomar at the end of a string of insults, and he called me Caithness, pronouncing it Caitness, which apparently is even more offensive. It is charming to have a boy like Bojidar around; the family goes off to Monaco and the three of us stay behind to draw, talk, and fight, and every evening endless laughter.