Sunday, 15 June 1884

That creature Hayem came this morning. He advises me to ask two thousand five hundred francs for the Meeting.
I told you I believe a firm called Oppé & Co. enquired about the price. They are major dealers. I was foolish enough to say six thousand francs — and naturally I have received no reply. These are people who buy to resell, and six thousand francs for a tradesman is steep. Hayem says that Montenard, a man of recognised talent, has told him he likes my painting enormously, and has been complimenting him on my account.
He is accepting congratulations for having discovered me! Filthy Jew. Meanwhile he keeps circling without deciding anything.
I am beginning to dislike Julian a little. My affections and hatreds are slow to form. Several blows are needed, and then a moment comes when I reckon up and add them together. This soup-merchant has always said stupid things about me under the pretence of recounting the eccentricities of "this extraordinary nature." He was never a friend — to begin with he thought God knows what, things in the style of the world he frequents, demi-mondaines, Cartwrights and the like. And besides, he is the sort of person before whom someone could say I had been dancing in a low-class hall — he would not leap up, he would say neither yes nor no. We have made peace now, but the peace I have with my family — disdainful indifference. He is not as foolish as my family, but he has given me many disillusionments. A very coarse foundation.
Whereas Tony is decent, if limited — but Julian is limited too, only he is more modern, he knows what is being said on the boulevard and he adores Balzac. No, I have no friends. There is the architect, but he is more than limited — though he is a very loyal nature, a good fellow.
The Canroberts? If you like — but I do not give myself entirely to them; it takes time. Yes, time. There is certainly sympathy or antipathy at first sight, but after that there is a very long process.
There are also people who at first say nothing to you — take Emile. And Julian: it was after some months that I began to enjoy his conversation; I was foolish enough to be flattered because he supposed me more perverse than I was. And then little by little I came to see that he is not as clever as all that.
In the Bois, I am in grey and pretty. In the days when I went for a walk every day I always had some face I was keen to encounter. I go and do not look — no one interests me. Do you remember Italy? In sum I regret nothing — that past time was not happier, only different... And yet... it was gayer; I occupied myself with the young men...

This evening we go to see Macbeth (Richepin's translation) with Sarah Bernhardt. The Gavinis are with us. Denis is becoming quite senile — he has gone off these past two years!
I go to the theatre so rarely that it amuses me. But the declamation of the actors offends my artistic sensibility.
How beautiful it would be if these people spoke naturally. Oh! the declamation! Marais (Macbeth) is good at moments, but he lets slip intonations so false and so theatrical that it is pitiful. Previously I did not notice this so much. Sarah — she is always admirable, even though her golden voice has become an ordinary one.
And then we are in the carriage, going home.
Maman: — As for me, I detest all that — first because it is in verse, which is tedious, and then these assassination stories are not of our time — it is out of fashion.
How this painting bores me!! And there are still the hands to do! This apple tree in blossom and these violets no longer interest me! And this dozing peasant girl! A one-metre canvas would have been quite large enough. And I made it life-size! It is ruined! It is bad Bastien!
And three months down the drain!
Damn it all.