Thursday, 18 May 1882

Maman receives a letter from Soutzo, saying he does not dare present himself in person and imploring her to tell him who could have invented the idea that he said anything whatsoever. Four very candid pages in which he is greatly indignant at being taken for a slanderer — he who is so devoted to us, and so on.
Now you know that it was Bojidar and the Princess who said all this — they had even claimed they had not come here for a whole year because "that pig" Soutzo was coming. Just recently in Nice, Bojidar repeated all of it to me. And now here is Soutzo back, and Bojidar and Alexis and their mother on the best of terms with him. Alexis even said he had believed that Soutzo had spoken ill of us, but that it was not true.
As for Bojidar, he says nothing — he who had insisted so forcefully, swearing that he would have to bash Soutzo's head in if he met him.
I no longer know how he is going to extricate himself.
Besides, these Karageorgevitches have monstrous cheek — infuriating people with their Slavic ways, and even that is a slander on the poor Slavs. These Karageorgevitches are very dangerous; they make a drama of everything, and every day one hears them say that so-and-so has stolen or cheated them of this or that, or that... In short, monstrous things — and a week later they fall back into the arms of these villains and thieves. In the country, or for installing or moving a studio, Bojidar is invaluable — but otherwise! It is fortunate that Soutzo is nobody interesting, because if all this gossip had been about someone charming, it would be more serious. It would be so easy to demolish them with the Soutzo affair that I am horribly embarrassed to bring it up and I say nothing. Bojidar dined here yesterday as if nothing had happened.
And today we met Soutzo while visiting an apartment next to the Princess's. We spoke to him of his letter and all these intrigues; he was very moved and stuttered, while the Princess blessed us from her balcony like a mad old woman.
Bastien-Lepage is the foremost, the most charming, the most powerful, the most genuine artist of our age... Saint-Marceaux and he.
Wicked of me, I know — but I will not hide from you that I am relieved to see Breslau's fisherwoman so mediocre.
Worse than mediocre. It is poorly composed, poorly placed on the canvas, with a fretful, laboured look and a repellent colour. In short, it might as well be mine — I feel the same revulsion before my own paintings.