Friday, 14 September 1883

Vernissage. The moment we arrive we encounter Saint-Amand, and a few minutes later Emile escorting Madame Mackay. In Jules's absence, this respectable and virtuous person could naturally accept only her brother's arm. She will end by marrying him. How tiresome. And then Gavini comes to offer me his arm! I did not look at the Bastiens — that inept Bonapartist would have enraged me with his idiotic opinions and his superior air. What an ass.
Since I have not seen the Bastiens, it is difficult for me to speak of painting.
As for sculpture, I have seen Saint-Marceaux: the Harlequin, the Genius, and the portrait of M. Renan.
My opinion has not changed; I write three pages of it to Bojidar, interweaving Bastien throughout — but Bastien in the background. Bojidar will erase the signature and send the letter to Saint-Marceaux, as if by way of a betrayal.
Having prayed to God has done me good — I hear better. But let us return to the Exhibition. Saint-Amand played a trick on me that half undid me: he has taken up and is launching a new little actress who was briefly at the studio, and he brings her to me and I am obliged to speak to her. I felt myself turn quite white; it cut my legs from under me. I did not need that blow — for I am ill, and it was with a considerable fever that I walked about all afternoon.
In the evening Saint-Amand rushes over and swears by all that is holy, gives his most sacred word of honour that he did not bring her, that she came alone, of her own accord, and wanted to see me, having been to the Atelier Julian, etc. He is mad, this man — and dangerously so. But since he denies it and gives his word, I forgive him, or rather I believe his word. He wearies me.
As for the architect, he has come to stay with us since his sister-in-law left. It seems his brother finds France has been hard on him and will go to live in America. That is madness.
It is a tiring day. The architect permits himself to consider himself a man, and has been paying the occasional compliment for some time now. But how to put it? He is not courting me — oh, no, certainly not — but there is something in his manner, it seems to me… It is understood that I give no sign, and I shall never let it appear that I admit he might admire me. [Words: He irritates me. I admire Jules.] She will get herself married. How foolish.
I am very ill and very sad.
Saint-Amand has asked me for notes on the Salon for Le Sport.
I have praised Bastien and Saint-Marceaux to the skies.
The architect pretends to understand the Harlequin as I do.
So Jules Bastien-Lepage… will come to a bad end… Like Coco.
Come now — it will not be him either. It is discouraging. I admire Saint-Marceaux's talent, his genius — but I speak of it too much to truly think of him. And I talk with the architect in preference to the others because he is the brother of an interesting being. He is a reflection.
And I prefer that reflection to the lanterns of the others.
At any rate, I am not in love with him as I was the other evening — but I have grown accustomed to thinking of him. That lasted a few hours.
When, then, will this be serious?

Notes

Vernissage: the private preview day at the Salon, when artists would varnish their paintings before the public opening.