Friday, 18 July 1884

Since my painting is finished — in my head, which amounts to the same thing — I am calm, and while waiting to begin it I am working on a flower panorama.
Yesterday they said to each other: we really ought to return the kindness of these ladies who are so amiable — Emile will go. And Emile came to tell us that Jules was greatly amused by the Neuilly toy, that Jules devoured the salmon, that Jules is very fond of chicken soup, that Jules will certainly come to luncheon and that it will give him very, very great pleasure, truly.
Now their conscience is clear.
I reproach them for nothing — we are like family. What grieves me is that there is nothing that comes no spontaneous warmth from his side.
Warmth that owes nothing to broth or to foie gras in aspic.
It is not his fault.
This morning they sent him a consommé, salmon in aspic and a cutlet. But it will only be for this evening, as they were already at table and there were even three gentlemen from Algeria at luncheon. They ate the smoked fish from yesterday, and Jules reported that this fish comes directly from Russia. They found it exquisite, by the way.
He boasts of it, the creature — people admire his genius, send him things from the depths of Russia. That is how he takes it. And it is we who are supposed to be charmed.
Oh! that is not what I am complaining of. I ask for nothing better than to... And after all I am flattered that he condescends to accept our attentions without ceremony. But what grieves me is that he has no involuntary sympathy for me!! It is not his fault.
But it is not cheerful. It is, in fact, very vexing.
Had he made us feel that our attentions were a nuisance, we might have concluded we were disagreeable to him — but it is not even that; we are very pleasant. He simply feels no need to see us, no desire to come... He will come and it will give him pleasure, but... do you understand? In short, I give him gold and he returns copper — without realising it.
Note well: I am not asking this sick man to fall in love with me. I would simply like to amuse him and be agreeable to him, as much as I am to Julian or to others.
A visit from Mme de Ballore and Jeanne de Wikerslovth. They are returning from a long journey to the East and are passing through. Mme de Souza accompanied them. She is the elder and looks younger than her sister Mme Gaillard.
Naturally my successes were discussed, and Maman is truly insufferable. People pay compliments, and she amplifies, inflates, adds to them, so that those who thought they had said something kind find they have said almost nothing at all. It is already quite tiresome enough to respond to the compliments of strangers — and when your mother flings praises enough to overwhelm Michelangelo himself at your head... it is I am dreadfully embarrassing.
Mme de Ballore still does not age. Still travelling, with Jeanne who reads Horace in Latin, speaks every language, takes an interest in everything — filling her life thus, as a resigned philosopher. She neither sees nor loves her children, so odious has the husband been...