Thursday, 25 May 1882

This evening a charity performance with Sarah Bernhardt in The Lady of the Camellias,¹ with her husband Dalmas² in the role of Armand. The finest artists in the smallest roles. We go as a family and I am thoroughly bored. The Jew Hecht is beside us. Sarah is not so admirable as they say.

She does not satisfy me — as for the husband, he acts not at all badly.

But this morning we went to Carolus’s.

What an astonishing and charming creature. One laughs at him a little because he does everything... What does it matter? He shoots very well, he rides, he dances, he plays piano, organ, and guitar, he sings. They say he dances badly, but for everything else he does it with infinite grace. He was called Charles Durand; he calls himself Carolus-Duran and believes himself Spanish and Velázquez reincarnate. Very seductive looks, an enveloping manner, and in his whole person something so good-natured — a great contentment with himself, such candour and happiness in his admiration of his own person, that one cannot hold it against him; on the contrary. And though one smiles at moments, one is won over all the same — especially when one thinks of all those who think no end of themselves without having a quarter of what he has. They say he is still very much in demand on the island of love³ despite his full forty-five years — I believe it. He takes himself perfectly seriously, and for that matter, putting ourselves in his place, who would not have their head turned somewhat. This morning the studio never emptied; the light falling from above gives something of a meditative air to the very modern studio; the visitors look solemn and admiring, and Carolus plays the master with a slight air of the faun in Don Giovanni or Rigoletto — going from group to group, moustaches waxed and curled, calves taut, beard diabolical, hair inspired, and from time to time going to write something at his desk with a wild look and pressing his hand to his brow as if to compress the genius there. He is exaggerated — that is evident — but I am always charmed when a man carves out an interesting personality that makes one think of vanished romantic times. This mixture of music of pomp and wit is very amusing. And if in these times it invites a little laughter — so much the worse for those who laugh. Carolus is right — all the more so since his talent justifies his posturing and his pretensions.

He is of the Cassagnac family, after all! And besides, they say he is amiable with all women — he produces banalities that please.

“What did you find beautiful the other day at the Salon?”

“You were there — what else was there to look at!...”

Or else, when I was complaining about my painting:

“Ah! Art is terrible — you would have it at your feet like men prostrate in the dust... But no, it resists you... and you adore it.”

Poseur, theatrical show-off — say what you will. I will not hide from you that I have a horror of dull people, and so much the worse for those who see only the comic side of these exceptional, theatrical, self-dramatising, and charming natures. You will cite to me superior talents who remain modest and tranquil.

Ah! So much the worse — for them and for us. When heaven has granted you all its gifts, you are an incomplete creature if you stay in your corner instead of making use of your real worth to perform a little show, as the vulgar fools say.