Monday, 14 January 1884

Bojidar comes to tell us about his evening at Mme Cartwright's — the first person he saw there was Gervex busy running Bastien down, so he believes it is Gervex [who wrote the verses]. Villevieille and Claire being at luncheon with us, our Bojidar sings us those couplets; he had scattered them at Cartwright's, and he pronounced the name "Adolphe" in front of Gervex... without it having any effect on him... "Adolphe" makes everyone double over with laughter, for they picture Bastien hiding behind the name Adolphe...
I was still singing those fine stanzas towards six o'clock when the archytecht [sic] arrived — this good fellow brings me a drawing he has made, representing the hat of... His hat. How touching. Jules's hat! So I tell him it is too late, for I no longer love him!
— And to think he never knew anything of that love! cries the brother.
[Blacked out: .No], but do you know that quite seriously this rascal of a brother keeps and has always kept for himself all the written and spoken provocations meant for the other. It is vexing, and at the same time consoling.
— I should never be done, he says, if I told him all these mad things — you say nothing but horrors about him, you call him heartless, a shrivelled old man, an egotist, a Jesuit, a wretch, a vile creature, a vain fool... and since he has a very good opinion of you, I don't want to spoil that.
So all those pretty quarrels were destined to die in the vast bosom of the architect...
I feel as if I have made a journey to Damvillers — he has told us so much: plans for paintings, his way of life; he does nothing in secret, he has not forbidden talk, he has not... If he did not invite us to see the Concarneau studies, it is because he never invites anyone; he would even think it pretentious to invite people to see a few studies done anyhow at Concarneau, where he had gone to rest, and that in any case the very cordial welcome he received in our home [Crossed out: ought to have] dispensed with such formalities of its own accord; he would have been delighted had we come, etc. And that even for his great paintings he never invites anyone — he merely tells his humble brother to inform a few friends...
But here is something more significant: when his brother told him about my painting, he said: why didn't you tell me in Paris — I would have come to see it.
— And I had told him nothing about it in Paris because if he had come, you would have hidden everything from him as usual; he knows nothing of what you do except your Salon. You turn your canvases face to the wall — do you know that he will never want to see your painting again if you do that!
— He will, if I wish it, if I ask him for advice.
— He will always be delighted to give it...
— But I am not his pupil, alas...
— And why not? He would ask for nothing better; he would be very flattered if you consulted him and he would give you disinterested advice — sensible advice, in short, for his judgment is very sound, without prejudice... And he would be happy to have an interesting pupil; believe me, he would be very flattered and very pleased.
Enough, is it not? And you know that when it comes to Jules, the architect does not joke — it is sacred.
Well, it pleases me, greatly.
And under this pleasant impression I start up a string of those maddening running jokes unworthy of a serious woman; they give the architect a headache, and he says his brain is becoming like vinegar viewed under a microscope — it churns, it rushes, it spins, one is driven mad.
I forget to mention that I slashed Dina's portrait — it was not working. And nothing does one as much good as destroying one's own work: one is reborn, ready to begin again, one feels new strength.