Sunday, 9 July 1882

So, we took Tony to Mme de Fitz-James’s, who would like her granddaughter to take up painting. The little one was furious, however, and made no attempt to conceal it, which embarrassed us considerably, I assure you. After this, dinner with Tony, Julian, and the Engelhardts — “Engel” for short... Tony and I discuss painting first — the subject being M. Baudry,¹ whose qualities I fail to appreciate, it seems — and from there the conversation moves to Italy, to poetic impressions which Julian mocks. He says that despite all its beauties one would be sad there alone... To which I reply that there is something better than the real presence² and that this divine land causes... produces... I forget what... Aspirations which... Tony finds this very right, and that the impression is so strong that if one were to find a moral being responding to one’s aspirations, one would die on the spot. Perhaps one would not die, but I understand how such an expression might be called forth by the intensity of the impression.

I pity those who have felt nothing there... I was there under disagreeable stormy conditions... but I return to it in memory... Tony is decidedly a sentimental creature, and this evening, as we met on several heights of feeling — glimpses of fugitive nuances... He may have had his head a little turned... One feels such things, and one is all the more sparkling for it. There is nothing that appeals and makes one charming like the sense of exercising an influence... an engaging one... And then! Oh happiness! Saint-Marceaux³ told him that I am charming, original, extraordinary, and compelling! But... he has a married mistress and an affliction of the stomach!

After dinner we go to Bidel’s⁴ to see the animals at Neuilly — Bidel, a Cassagnac among lion-tamers. It is magnificent. As it is not yet late we go up in a balloon, and as after all it is only half past eleven we drive as far as Tony’s, and having dropped them on the pavement I send the carriage back to ask which of the two is called Joseph... one of them had left his overcoat behind...

I am intoxicated with myself — I have held forth at length and I am delighted... Artists are very refined company already, but I should like to meet men of letters; I am sure I should make the happiness of such thinkers... No — because, you see, it is amusing: words are more beautiful than painting — delving into feelings. Ah, what scope for discussion, what charming conversation!... And the best of it is that I have hopes of shining... Yet one never shines when one is counting on it. O youth, O life, O everything! I am content! About what? That is rather difficult to define... A woman has no greater contentment than when she believes herself charming...