Wednesday, 26 March 1884

The painting is sketched out. The architect writes to ask if he may dine this evening and adds: "I know the sympathy you have for me and for my brother too, and I shall come to talk with you about what weighs so heavily on my heart."
Given these words of friendship and the genuinely serious illness of Jules, Maman and even Rosalie warned me firmly against allowing myself any jesting... It would be cruel and in bad taste... Well, he had in his pocket a letter that this wretched Jules had written to his friend Chariot, i.e. the engraver Baude. He gives it to us at my request.
Eight pages of a mean little scratchy hand, with crossings-out — like my illustrious correspondent.
The letter is quite simply charming — he speaks of what "Maman" says... of the Arabs... he went out with "Maman"... then fresh impressions and charming, warm things — not those of an ordinary man... Well, this letter, which gives me a glimpse into the private life of a man I scarcely know, makes a certain impression on me, and I begin to sneer, to quote passages and ridicule them, and end by declaring that "this creature is not even ill!" Judge the effect. And as everyone protested, the architect said he cannot bear it — it is as if one laughed at God before a priest, etc. etc. That if Jules were not ill he would have said nothing — but that he is almost condemned, that he may die, and that I choose this moment to etc. etc.
Well, being in the wrong, I first played the questionable joke of asking to see all of Jules's letters... and this for an hour. And as I saw him preparing to leave in a bad impression, I accused him of misunderstanding me, insulting me, interpreting innocent things in an odious fashion, and attributing detestable sentiments to me. And I ended by summoning him to beg my pardon. We discuss it from midnight until ten minutes to two in the anteroom.
He maintains he is not guilty; we all assure him he is, and moreover that we must have the letters as proof of his friendship. The moment it is as proof of friendship, and since he has friendship for me, I shall have the letter — but as for asking my pardon, here is his formula: "if without knowing it I have offended you, I beg your pardon."
Tomorrow I shall have his letter.
Certainly my manner of speaking about this Jules is strange — I pepper him with barbs — but it is because I am vexed at being nothing to him, and I cannot admit it. I am jealous of all his friendships, and on what grounds can I admit such pretensions? The architect takes it for studio banter in questionable taste, and I prefer that he believe that. Each time I want to maintain dignity and give Jules no thought at all — but then I overstep and say harsh things. In sum, it is unreasonable to torment this architect like that: "tell him I despise him" or "embrace him on my behalf." He is not going to repeat that to this ill man who scarcely knows me and has not the slightest idea what tone I adopt when speaking of him...
Well, all this remains at the level of rather stupid incoherence.
This brother of His tells me that more than thirty people have spoken to him about my landscape at the Union des femmes. Duez spoke to him of it. In short, he says, you were positively holding the lead — a real success.
That is delightful. And I was right to send that landscape to the Salon...
I do nothing today, having read until three o'clock after the architect's departure; that scene exhausted me. After all, I could not care less about this Jules.
Very preoccupied by my work — why have I not yet produced in oil the equivalent of the pastel made nearly two years ago! Good heavens.