Friday, 4 May 1883

We went to the Salon, where I had a small quarrel with Alice, who told me she is displeased because I said to Émile that we concerned ourselves with his brother’s escapades. It is my fault also — I always go too far — and this little fool, this nonentity, this nobody was able to point it out to me. It plunges me into disproportionate dejection; fortunately one encounters a crowd of agreeable people — the Gaillards, Laporte, Hecht, others — and a painter is introduced who is pleased with my painting.
And the others pay me a great many compliments that seem sincere. Émile Bastien is walking with Fourcaud — the second Wolff — it seems he saw my painting, went back to it of his own accord, had Irma pointed out to him, and that I shall have an article. That would be to be nearly established…
In any case, that is not the question. He dined here this evening. I did not play the innocent, nor the madwoman — I was neither stupid nor ugly! He was simple, gay, charming; we did caricatures together. Not a moment of awkwardness. Émile looked composed and content. And I — very radiant. I once spoke of fraternal love for Cassagnac; here I am disposed to love in a maternal way… He is very intelligent. Besides, I allow no specialisations in genius: a man of genius can be and must be everything he wishes. And he is gay — I had feared to find him unresponsive to a joke, which to be refined must stay between wit and excuse the expression ribaldry. In short, he has, like Roland’s mare, every quality… except that he is dead… or very nearly. How foolish.

Notes

La jument de Roland: a proverbial joke going back to Roland’s mare in Ariosto’s Orlando furioso (canto XXX), which had every good quality except that it was dead (0.8). ↩