Saturday, 5 July 1884

Tony came this morning to see April. The man said nothing of what might have interested me about the painting. He found the hair insufficiently finished, also certain imperfections in the execution of the hand and the apron.

The background too green in places. But on the whole, he said, as a sketch it is very good. With three days’ work you can make something very fine of it.

That is all. But it does me good. For what I thought was bad, atrocious, is not. To fix the head and the hand is nothing!

And since he understood nothing of this painting — absolutely nothing — it does me good, I do not know why. Had he grasped and criticised the feeling... but no. He is [Crossed out: He is [too]

If it is only the head and the hand... all is well. Of course, I knew it was incomplete... But that can be fixed...

The painting is seen this afternoon by the Gavinis and others.

And also by Ducros. Ducros is a young man, a friend of Gaillard, a poet, a cigalier¹ — in fifty years’ time will anyone know there was a society called La Cigale some of whose members are poets of great talent? So this young man makes art his speciality; he knows all the painters, even tries to wield some influence over the jury, and has published various volumes on the Salon (my painting appears in one of them). It is no doubt in order to cadge canvases and gradually build himself a collection, an expertise, a position as an influential critic perhaps.

So this Ducros claims that my new canvas is the finest and that it will look splendid at the Salon. The imbecile ranks it above the Meeting!!

Yet he described it to Géry, who had not seen it, in my presence, and he describes it exactly as I understood it. Yes, this young man has grasped precisely what I meant to do. The leaves and grasses pushing up; the apple-tree blossoms, the violets, the intoxication of the April sun, the amorous drowsiness overtaking the girl.

As for the wrestlers, Tony says it would be magnificent but that Falguière did it eight years ago — though on the other hand it is a subject that has been done and will always be done again. I know that... All the same. We shall see.

I have a charming grey linen dress, the bodice made like a studio smock, without any ornament except for lace at the neck and sleeves. An ideal hat with a large lace bow — airy and coquettish. I was therefore very eager to go to the rue Legendre, thinking myself very presentable. Only it would be too frequent, and he is not sick enough... A cab was sent for; I went downstairs — Maman was already there — then I changed my mind and we went back in. Then he is. I wanted to have some

I should rather make him wait until Monday... but why? It would be charming to go often, to cheer him up, to talk... And yet what if it tires him or bores him? What if it seems clumsy, ill-timed? Yes, but an interval of five days — given that he does not go out and we are neighbours and it is so easy for me to come, and since he has asked me to... Yes, but what if I make myself too available? And what if I seem too cold?

Why not go simply as a comrade, as an admirer, as a good sport, since he is very ill.

But if I do not go, I shall be more desirable, more chic.

And if I do go, I shall be kinder.

Which approach is better? And how will he take it?

Resolved not to go, I remain disconsolate. Then company arrived — the Gavinis, Valentine (Mme Pernetti). That was that; but once they had gone Maman proposed we go after all, and Mme Pernetti dropped us at the Place Malesherbes to conceal our destination — we told her we were going to see an elderly sick lady... It arranged itself of its own accord.

I also did not want to go because of Maman, who brings me ill-luck and exaggerates everything, throws everything into relief, and pushes me into foolishness — the moment she sees I have feelings for someone she urges me forward with all her strength, delighted at this distraction from our troubles. And since she is clumsy, devoid of tact and... well, you understand why I resist. And she tells herself and tells me that I am a fool with my cold haughtiness; sometimes I truly think I have too much of it, and then I do something foolish in the opposite direction... That is, in the past — now that is finished.

All the same, she brings me ill-luck, and so I keep my guard up.

So we go! His mother is delighted, she claps me on the shoulder, speaks of my lovely hair, and so on... Emile is still in a daze, looking annihilated since his monument.

And Jules is better. He eats his broth and his egg in front of us; his mother runs to bring it all so that the manservant need not come in — it is she who serves him.

Besides, he finds all of this quite natural and accepts even our services with perfect composure.

Nothing surprises him. In speaking of his appearance, someone remarks that he ought to have his hair cut, and Maman recounts that she used to cut her son’s hair when he was a child, and his father’s hair too.

Shall I cut yours — I bring good luck?

Everyone laughs, but he consents at once; his mother runs to fetch a cape and Maman proceeds to the operation, acquitting herself with honour.

I also wanted to take a turn with the scissors, but the creature says I shall make a botch of it, so I take my revenge by comparing them to Samson and Delilah — my next painting. He deigns to laugh.

Emboldened, Emile proposes to trim the beard as well, and sets about it religiously, slowly, with slightly trembling hands.

It transforms his appearance and he no longer looks so ill and changed; the mother utters little cries of joy: “I have him back at last, my boy, my dear little boy, my dear child H—‘

What a fine woman; so simple, so good, and full of adoration for her great man of a son.

They are good people.

Only I cannot judge anything — this Jules, of whom I have spoken so much and who was always far away, at Damvillers, at the Mackays’, or in Algeria; here he is now, close at hand, in the flesh; I see him three times a week, I treat him as a close friend, we are constantly sending him little things to eat, fruit — it is an entirely new state of affairs, yet one that Jules seems to find perfectly natural, knowing as he does my great admiration. Our intimacy with his brother helps. All the same, I cannot judge anything.

This evening, as there were Géry, Ducros and Engelhardt — three men — we took advantage to go to Neuilly. It would have been easy to invite men who would accompany us, but for going to see wrestlers I prefer people of no consequence: Engelhardt the Aztec, old Géry, and the chance-met Ducros. Fashionable young men would perhaps find it rather shocking to see me studying nearly naked men, and they would talk about it.

Whereas with these fellows... I need make no effort, and am entirely given over to the spectacle.

Who is sitting in the front row in front of us? The odious Larderel and his kept woman. To think I was once infatuated with that little gentleman! Is it possible? No. The sight of him awakens no memory, none at all — something disagreeable, but almost nothing.

Wrestling is superb! At one moment I found myself on my feet, shouting and applauding with everyone else. There was an exciting moment when an amateur wrestled against the professional. The crowd became impassioned, and the enthusiasm of a crowd is an absolutely irresistible force! I cried inwardly: rather die than not paint this picture!

It is gripping!! It has everything. The crowd! Oh! The crowd! Not the academic crowd arranged according to the rules, but the real crowd. And when one has a sense of the real, of life... Oh! It is beautiful, beautiful, mad!

And these two men with their swelling muscles. Yes, it has everything, [truly].

All the more so as one’s thoughts turn to antiquity — that antiquity whose prestige is so intense that one is almost proud to say: we too are Romans of the decadence! Well, it is not those dead Romans who must be revived, it is ourselves we must paint, our own life! What we are! That is far more difficult than historical reconstructions, let me tell you.

But why is Mme Mackay not always there?

Suppose that... Well, a man one has loved for three years, who is very ill — but it seems to me it would be the simplest thing in the world to spend several hours a day with him and distract him... in all propriety.