Tuesday, 17 July 1883

Still preoccupied with crystallisations, with no object, alas.
And with sculpture. The painting is going a little better.
Oh! to have talent!! To wipe out that wretched mention! To exhibit the urchins, and the Holy Women in a plain black frame with the text below: “...And having rolled a great stone to the door of the sepulchre, he departed. And Mary Magdalene and the other Mary remained there, over against the sepulchre.”
And a statue. Nausicaa or Ariadne; the sketches are quite settled. Ariadne will set people joking; they will say it is me, abandoned by whom? And Nausicaa. I love them both.
Three things. Two pictures and a statue. I want it so much that I fear the most dreadful misfortunes.
Stendhal says that love lives on hope and on fear of the most dreadful misfortunes. Well, then, is this love? The equivalent. Ah! the object must be irreproachable to inspire such feelings.
Come now, am I not going to fall in love? And with whom? The least impossible would still seem to be the painter who detests me, but not even he. A stranger? But I shall find faults in him. No.
Love cannot absorb me entirely; it will be an accessory, the crowning of the edifice; an agreeable superfluity. Well, we shall see. If I were married to the Baron, that would settle a great many things... For then love would not be an eternal commitment; I should be less hard to please, since I could change... As little as possible. Ah! that would be a very pleasant existence... But it will not happen; things planned in advance almost always fail.
Someone whistles (there is a speaking tube from the hall to the studio) and I go to ask what it is with a slight flutter of the heart, for it might well be the architect, who must be back. It is Dusautoy.
A flutter of the heart for Bastien’s brother? Why, yes; I have explained that to you. Have I not sometimes spent a whole hour waiting for Julian and Tony, and in a great state, believe me? And it is still like that, and when the bell rings my heart pounds. But these are really absurdities; these heartbeats have nothing to do with Stendhal’s. Then explain them? Why? They are friends with whom I like to spend an evening, who amuse me, before whom I think I shine. And the architect above all, because I imagine he adores me. There. I am boring my readers, but I am noting my impressions.
If I miss my Celebrity, it will be idiotic.