Saturday, 12 January 1884 (continued)

And that is all — at midnight we drink champagne and exchange wishes.
It seems the first person one sees after midnight must be a dark-haired man — I closed my eyes at midnight; a few seconds after, Julian was telling me to open them, watch in hand; and it is indeed a man, and he is dark-haired.
Well, I enter the year in a passable — even good — fashion. I have heard nothing but artistic encouragement, and this evening there are only friends around me, and stylish ones at that... I am expressing myself like a cook... Speaking of cooks: the poor architect was invited this evening and he wrote me such a stupid letter! He tried to answer my jokes with jokes in return... But it is so leaden — one would think him a Prussian.
And his brother is like that? Also? Probably. Ah! my children — if only I could have talent — the night before last I could not fall asleep until very late, for I was laughing alone in my bed composing the following unspeakable couplets:
Tune well known in Montmartre.
He was not handsome at all, So he pleased no one much, Though he had sable-hair brushes in Montmartre.
He had the look of a little Aztec, And his brother was an archi-tec, Both of them loved one Bashkirtseff in Montmartre.
He had painted two lovers And it was nothing much, The canvas being green all over in Montmartre.
Since he had paid the dealer in flowers The dealer refused him colours, He could have committed murders in Montmartre.
But when he had seen my pictures He found them so beautiful, so beautiful, That he stood there open-mouthed in Montmartre.
Seeing himself so quickly surpassed He found himself embarrassed And went to weep under a mound in Montmartre.
Then — and this crowned it all — He got drunk at the barkeep’s, Having green absinthes bought for him in Montmartre.
At last abandoned by Albert Wolff, He hid under the name of Adolphe, Spending the whole day doing nothing but groan rue Legeindre.
When he died like an old rat Only his brother wept for him, For Émile is a tender soul rue Legendre.
Signed: Manet
I have only ever liked verse like that.
I am going to sleep with the sweet and strengthening conviction that I do not care a fig for this little peasant painter — oh! but to such a degree that he cannot do little less than help adoring me now that I despise him in earnest.

Notes

The verses are a mock chanson in the style of a Montmartre street-song, with refrains ending in Montmartre and rue Legendre (where the Bastien-Lepage family lived). “Adolphe” is Marie’s contemptuous nickname for Jules Bastien-Lepage. “Aztec” (astèque) was contemporary slang for an ugly or outlandish-looking person. “Archi-tec” rhymes with “astèque” and refers to Gabriel Géry’s profession. The attribution “Signed: Manet” is a joke at Manet’s posthumous expense — himself recently pilloried in the press. ↩