Wednesday, 9 May 1883

We are having a little republican-artistic-poetic dinner this evening. Gaillard and his wife, Clovis Hugues and his wife, Dusautoy — that Dusautoy was one too many, he is there only to gossip, and so is a journalist friend of the Gaillards whose name I do not know. Then there are Julian and Tony. I very much wanted to invite the brothers, and this morning I wrote a line to… the architect, explaining this impromptu dinner: would your brother care to come. If you bring him, I shall give you a painting! …you understand, for him to come it would take… he will not come; if he was bored last time — he came for his brother’s sake, and once that service was rendered, he has had enough of us too.
No — but something happened, something happened! Ah, it is ravishing. When one does not expect it, while expecting it all the same, and it does not keep one waiting, and yet it is unexpected. He came. At half past seven. They both came. He came at last!
Ah, it is charming. No — admit it is charming, admit it is very charming. But I dined between Clovis Hugues and Émile Bastien, and Jules farther away — deliberately… Can you believe it! That is how I love things to happen!
It is his brother the architect who does him harm, because he is ugly and gives a poor idea of him, but he himself, Jules, has a charming head illegible Julian says that for the moment I do not make an impression on him, but that I am going about it in a way that will get there. That I have taken him in hand very well. “You will make him your creature.”
Those are things that seem impossible to me, as being too good to be true, and that enchant me. Julian is a joker. All the same… Yes, I should like to make him my creature, like the Harlequin — you know that I have had a Harlequin in bronze for the last three or four days. Only it came a little late; I needed it at the moment when I was carried away. All the same, it is mine…
And Bastien — it is a child’s wish, that he should be mine. And what would I do with him?
Why, a friend, an admiration, a congenial comrade!
And besides, that is no business of yours. But he stays cold…
Anyway, that is not the point. He came; that is something.
This evening it is a world apart, one that would greatly shock our usual society, but that amuses me beyond measure.
Bastien does not spend himself — he who preaches so much the economy of the mind, of one’s strength, of everything, so as to concentrate it all on one point. Well, I think one can find… that is to say, in me there is such an exuberance of everything that if I did not spend myself, I could not bear it. No doubt, if conversation or laughter exhausts you, you are right to abstain, but… And yet he must be right.
We go up to the studio, and naturally my large canvas is turned against the wall, and I almost come to blows with Bastien to stop him seeing it, for he had squeezed himself in between the canvas and the wall.
The Harlequin is run down, and Gaillart improvises verses on that masterpiece, which they call the work of a man of fashion — I do not understand how anyone can understand it so badly. Well, I keep coming back to the fact that Bastien has dined here twice in six days. Clovis Hugues recites verses, and later he did his famous and unbearable imitations of Gambetta, Madier, Clémenceau, etc. One thinks one is hearing the real Gambetta, and even in caricature that eloquence is gripping. Bastien made a sketch of Hugues declaiming, with a great many arms round his body to convey his wild gestures, and Hugues improvised thirty-four lines on Love in the Village. The verses were copied into my album and signed. I shall paint his portrait and he will repay me with the pen.
Mme Hugues knows Mme Presseq and likes me. How could I not prefer an evening full of art, of wit… and of poetry to some insipid cotillion!
I exaggerate. As for Saint Marceaux, Bastien says he is jealous of him and is going to oust him little by little.
He said it several times, and the other day too. And although it is a joke, it delights me.
He must believe that Saint Marceaux is adored more than he is — artistically, of course. I keep asking him: “You love him, don’t you, you do love him?”
— Yes, very much.
— Do you love him as much as I love him?
— Ah, no, I am not a woman; I love him, but…
— But it is not as a woman that I love him!
— Oh yes it is, there is a little of that mixed into your admiration.
— No, it is not, I swear to you!
— Oh yes, it is unconscious!
— Ah! How can you think such a thing!…
— Yes, and I am jealous of him; I am not a handsome dark man, you see…
— He looks like Shakespeare.
— You see…
Well, the joke is, on seeing either an Easter egg or an egg at table, to say that it is a very good likeness. Because I once drew the illustrious sculptor myself as an egg in an eggcup.
And the architect? Well, he told me he had nothing to do. To get Jules to come — Jules turned up all by himself. Rapture! He leaves at midnight. But that is sensible; he always says it is disastrous to go to bed late, that this is why he avoids going out, so I almost send him away myself. The others stay until two. Poetry, parliamentary and artistic reminiscences.
I am more at ease after the Thrifty One has gone.
Gentle Tony is positively delighted with my views on art. He says it less than it shows in his eyes and in the way he listens to me; besides, there was a moment when I suddenly noticed that everyone was listening to me in silence — I was talking in an undertone to Julian about this year’s sensational Salon entries. Oh! I know very well how to sing my own praises in this journal — and with such modesty.
Bastien is going to detest me!
Why? I do not know; I am afraid of it. We are hostile to each other; there are little inexplicable things one feels. We are not in sympathy, and something stops me from saying in front of him the things that might perhaps make him like me a little.
We think identically about art, and I dare not speak in front of him. Is it because I know he does not like me…
Well, there is something.

Notes

Saint-Marceaux’s bronze. ↩