Thursday, 17 May 1883

I am dining at the Canroberts’ this evening. The little one worked with me while I was redoing the pastel of Villevieille, and then we walked as far as the rue de Marignan, dropping Villevieille on the way.
Naturally it is the Marshal who gives me his arm to go in to dinner, and I try to be agreeable. He is deaf, so that I scarcely manage it, and I listen obligingly to historical anecdotes he knows by heart.
Afterwards we go to the Bois; the weather is fine. The Maréchale, Claire, Alice and little Louis Canrobert, who is ten. I feel an enmity towards Alice; it is a tarnished relationship, and for ever, without anything being changed in our manners…
There is a day lost; the thing is that on Thursdays and Sundays it is impossible to have the urchins: not being at school, they go off to the devil.
And Jules? Jules who?
It is a name my mouth has got into the habit of saying, and that is all. I no longer speak of him to anyone at all, and I make a show of criticising his talent with just enough moderation to be believable. I talk of Henner, of everybody, turning eclectic, and it is no longer as it was when there was only he.
First because it is more seemly, and then because it is not by adoring him that I shall bring him to… do me justice… And that, after all, is what would be amusing, and it is not… One runs up against a possibility that is indifferent in itself and ceases to be so because it is an impossibility… And why an impossibility? How should I know — there it is: one gentleman passes by and does not look at you, another passes and looks at you. Why is it Jean instead of Jacques?
It is not a question of vanity, nor a question of anything whatever… but…
To desire Bastien-Lepage’s friendship very much is to give that feeling too much importance… To distort it, so to speak, and to put oneself, in one’s own eyes, in a false and disproportionate position, “if I may venture to put it so”. That friendship would have been very pleasant to me, like that of a Cazin or a Saint Marceaux, but I am vexed at having thought about his private life, and after all he is not glorious enough for that. He is not an artist-god, as Wagner has just been, and it is only under such conditions that the idea of a great admiration would be admissible. What I am seeking is to make myself an interesting salon, and each time that hope begins to take shape, something goes wrong. There is Maman gone away, Papa dying, and heaven knows what. I had planned to have a dinner every week followed by a reception for people of society, on Thursdays for instance, and on Saturdays another dinner for artists; in this way the chief celebrities would appear at the Thursday evenings, having dined on the Saturday before…
And then it has all come to nothing. But I shall begin again next year. Calm as if I were strong, and patient as if I were eternal, and persevering as if I were encouraged.
Now let God stay neutral, and I shall be grateful to Him for it as for a kindness.