Friday, 9 May 1884

I am reading and adoring Zola; his criticism and his studies are entirely admirable things and I am wildly in love with him.
To please such a man one would do anything! And you think yourself capable of love... like everyone else! Ah! Lord.
Well, I loved Jules as I love Zola — Zola whom I have never met, who is forty-four, has a wife, and has a stomach. I ask you whether men of the world — these men one is supposed to marry — are not atrociously ridiculous?
What on earth could I find to say to such a gentleman all day long?
Emile Bastien dines here and announces for Thursday morning a visit with M. Hayem, a well-known collector. He owns Delacroixs, Corots, Bastiens, and has a speciality for discovering future great painters. The day after Bastien's grandfather portrait was exhibited, Hayem appeared in his studio and commissioned from him a portrait of his own father. He is said to have a remarkable instinct. Emile ran into him today in front of my painting.
— What do you think of it?
— I find it very good. Do you know the artist? Is she young? And so on. This Hayem has been following me since last year, when he noticed the pastel, and this year the painting...
In short, they will come on Thursday. He wishes to buy something from me.
What do you say to that?
But I have no paintings that can be sold — they are all large-scale work; I have not had time to produce things of ordinary dimensions... Well.
Jules is no better.
But I love Zola with reverence, with terror, and without hope — as one loves a God.
And yet if I were as I used to be... Ah! it is a great misfortune!
If God existed, would He have struck me like this? Why?
This morning to the Salon with Claire; lunch in the rue de Marignan.
Then many callers at home.
I am bored. What does it mean, to be bored? It is fully six years since I have said that — I am bored.
It is May that unsettles me. Probably, yes.
This evening at the Théâtre des Italiens. After Etincelle's panegyric I am scrutinised through every opera-glass, which embarrasses me, as I am not sure I am looking my best. I had to pile on quantities of violets to conceal the right side of my neck, since the bodice is low-cut. This unfortunate necessity was probably taken by the public for a studied effect of originality. Our escorts are Missak and M. de Azevedo, the Portuguese minister.
They are singing Lucia — but after Gayarre this ordinary, cold tenor fills me with pity.
Well, I am not without looks — but the violets on my bodice vex me. After that ridiculous newspaper article about my beauty and my painting I should have liked to appear dressed like everyone else [Crossed out: that stupid affectation of dressing as an artist]. In sum, it is only the violets — for the rest I wear a black gown, low-cut, grey tulle thrown over the shoulders, and this fatal garland. The garland alone would be nothing — everyone wears those flower-cord sashes — but I had to double the flowers over the shoulder, and people must have thought I was posing as the artiste. All those people watched me and trained their opera glasses on me, in every box... Mme de Pourtalès, the Bisaccias, Mme d'Hervey, even General de Galliffet...
On the whole, perhaps those violets were rather pretty.