FRIDAY, 1 MARCH
Maman has been so very ill since I last wrote anything. The doctor thinks she has congestion of the lungs and he has been visiting her twice a day, yet says that the illness is following its natural course and that he finds Maman somewhat better today. She is terribly weak, can scarcely speak, takes only a little milk, but her temperature isn’t very high. She has a very sore throat, which prevents her from swallowing. She took a turn for the worse yesterday evening and then again today at about 4 o’clock. Tante Edma spent last night at her bedside and is doing the same tonight. Paule stays all day, Blanche takes me out, and lots of people come round for news of Maman.
I am surrounded by affectionate people who are taking good care of Maman and we are pleased with the doctor. I would do absolutely anything to get Maman better quickly, it gives me so much pain to see her ill like this. It’s so hard not to cry. And if only I could do something useful – I don’t know how to nurse anyone and everyone seems to want me to sleep at night. How incredibly bleak! Dear God, please make Maman better.
Oh, what sorrow! Since I last wrote in my diary, I lost Maman. She died at half past ten on Saturday, 2 March. I cannot even describe my grief, the depth of my sadness. In the space of three years, both my parents have left me and now I am an orphan.
Poor Maman, she was so devastated to have to leave me; she saw the end coming and didn’t want me to go into her room, so as not to leave me with such a sad last vision of her. Her illness was short but painful; the sore throat was frightful and she could no longer breathe. Oh! Never, never would I have believed that such a terrible thing could happen. On Saturday morning she was still laughing; she was able to see my cousin Gabriel; how beautiful she was then; she seemed her usual self; she was coming round.
At 3 o’clock I spoke to Maman for the last time. At seven, Dr Ganne came, I went into Maman’s room, but it was impossible for me to remain – I couldn’t bear to see her suffering like that, unable to breathe. I could see her dying and I had thought she would be cured. I thought we had already had enough misfortune. At about 10 o’clock, Dr Ganne came back accompanied by a short doctor in a frock coat, whom I only saw for a second and who will remain forever in my mind as a figure from a nightmare. (Oh! If only it were just a nightmare.) But, no, alas, it’s real life.
Oh God! Help me to bear this loss, sustain me, you alone can help us in our adversity, and, if I’ve lived thus far, it’s only by your grace. Yes, dear God, you are infinitely good; make sure Maman is happy at your side.
There was a profound silence in the room, then voices; I was listening from the dining room. I was taken up the staircase to the landing, where I waited with Blanche and Jeannie, trembling. I heard a scream: it was Marie, her maid, who had fainted from the awful thing that had just happened.
The doctors come out. Someone takes me to my room. Blanche tells me that things are going badly and I cannot see Maman. Blanche comes back, puts me to bed, sits beside me. Oh dear! If she can stay in my room, does that mean that it’s all over? I fall asleep having understood and yet not believing it all the same. I hope for an awakening when I will find Maman better. When I look back over all the agonies of this day, I feel as if my heart is going to break.
Oh! My dearest Maman – she left me a letter, a letter which is so precious; and she also wrote to Jeannie: ‘I leave Julie in your care.’ Her last living word was Julie. How much she suffered for me. The night of Friday to Saturday was dreadful, but Maman said she wanted to stay alive until the morning so she could see me again. During the night Marie went to find a homeopath, who came in the morning. Maman wanted one. Oh, misery!, never did I think I would be without Maman.
This is what she wrote to me:
My dearest little Julie, I love you as I die; I shall still love you even when I am dead; I beg of you, do not cry; this parting was inevitable. I hoped to be with you until you married … Work hard and be good as you have always been; you have never caused me one single sorrow in your little life. You have beauty, money; make good use of them. I think the best thing would be for you to live with your cousins in the rue de Villejust, but I do not wish to force you to do anything. Give your Tante Edma a souvenir of me, and your cousins too; and give Monet’s Bateaux en réparation131 to your cousin Gabriel. Tell Monsieur Degas that if he founds a museum he is to choose a Manet. A keepsake for Monet; one for Renoir; and one of my drawings for Bartholomé. Give something to the two concierges. Do not cry. I love you more than I can tell you. Jeannie, take care of Julie.
A few weeks after her mother’s death Julie went back to live at 40 rue de Villejust,132 where she shared an apartment with her cousins, Jeannie and Paule Gobillard. That summer Julie spent a holiday in Brittany with Monsieur and Madame Renoir.
SATURDAY, 20 JULY
We are off back to Brittany where we had such a nice holiday with Maman and now will be without her. I am going to have to contemplate the immense sea all alone, and every time I see a beautiful landscape I will think to myself: ‘How well Maman would have painted that!’
This evening, we are staying at Saint-Enogat near Dinard with Madame Renault, who knows my feelings, and Berthe, who is so much more than just a casual friend to me.
MONDAY, 22 JULY
We went for a lovely walk with Berthe today. The sea was wonderfully blue beyond the cornfields and through the trees with Saint-Malo in the distance. A few cows stood out against the sea, in a most exquisite harmony of colours. We changed our first bad opinion of Dinard. The harbour was busy and very friendly.
TUESDAY, 23 JULY
We went back to Saint-Malo with a young friend of Berthe’s, a Mademoiselle de Joinville.133 We found nothing particularly extraordinary about Chateaubriand’s tomb but perhaps it’s more impressive when the tide is high; we then walked on the ramparts from which we had a lovely view.
This evening, Jeannie is going to play a duet with Mademoiselle de Joinville. Berthe and I couldn’t stop giggling because Madame de Joinville’s wig kept on slipping off. Apparently, Madame de Joinville is a divorcée but she looks more like an old maid with the pinched, snooty expression of someone who thinks she is very ‘arty’.
WEDNESDAY, 24 JULY
Today, the Angoulvents arrived. This afternoon, we sat on the beach and watched the bathers, those women I particularly hate who only think of showing off. Berthe met an American friend of hers, very funny but frightfully ugly and looked like a boy.
The group of friends visits Dinan, Saint-Servan, Cancale over the next few days, and finally the Mont-Saint-Michel.
SATURDAY, 3 AUGUST
After a long and very bumpy carriage ride in the pouring rain, we arrived on this children’s plaything, this baby’s toy that is the Mont-Saint-Michel! Grey sand everywhere and no sign of sea. We had an indifferent lunch of Mère Poulard’s134 yellow omelette, then we visited the Abbey like a herd of sheep. Everything has been restored and the only thing I liked was the refectory and a few other rooms. By the time we set off for home, there was no sea at all, only mud around this cardboard-cut-out lump of rock! To everyone’s surprise, we found the Mont-Saint-Michel hideous!
THURSDAY, 8 AUGUST
We135 left Dinard this morning. We are planning to meet Monsieur Renoir at Châteaulin. We changed trains first at Dinan, then at Lamballe, and again at Saint-Brieuc. Next we took a train to Landerneau. There, after having changed for the last time, we heard a man shouting his head off. He was being forcibly carried into the next compartment by some Breton men. Then a man with a very red nose and a gruff voice got into ours, and declared that a madman was being mistreated, that those detaining him had an enormous barrel of fine wine with them, which they were drinking, but not giving any to the madman, and so on and so forth.
After the train left, the red-nosed traveller opened his suitcase, from which a strong smell of alcohol escaped; and we saw one full bottle, another broken, and the wine started running all over the carriage. He then plied us with pears and plums, adding: ‘Please accept these presents from an old sea-wolf.’ We were all rather frightened, although a military man, also present, attempted to reassure us. But then he himself pulled out a bottle of spirits and started drinking, so at the very next station, where the train only stopped for one minute, we grabbed our things and jumped out of the second-class carriage and got into ‘first class’, relieved to have got rid of this other passenger who seemed to be pretty drunk too. By then we were anxious to find Monsieur Renoir. Thankfully, we saw him on the platform at Châteaulin station, and he took us to a hotel where we spent the night.
SATURDAY, 10 AUGUST
We left at six in the morning for Douarnenez, where we were full of enthusiasm for the bay despite the frightful grey, harsh weather. A few trees and some thatched roofs had broken loose into the sea, and the enchanting coastline both surrounds and encloses the infinity of the ocean. A group of sailing boats, creating dark accents in the distance.
Douarnenez itself is grubby and the population has an unhealthy air. Monsieur Renoir remained in order to visit a house in the area while we went back to Quimper for lunch. We visited the cathedral, which we admired both inside and out. Then we walked about along the narrow streets with their half-timbered and slate-roofed houses – and above the roofs, one constantly catches a glimpse of the delicate, pointed towers of the magnificent cathedral, built in a style similar to Chartres (or so Monsieur Renoir tells us!).
In the middle of the afternoon, we met up with Monsieur Renoir at the station; he had found a very nice little house at Tréboul, near Douarnenez. We headed in the direction of Pont-Aven, got off at Bannalec, and there took the bus for Pont-Aven. Pierre had come to meet us and we found Madame Renoir with Jean and his nursemaid at the entrance to the Hôtel des Voyageurs. The neighbourhood seems quite pretty.
We were served at table by delightful waitresses in be-ribboned bonnets under their elaborate Pont-Aven coiffes and big pleated muslin collars.
SUNDAY, 11 AUGUST
At Mass, all the women in their bonnets looked immaculate; and the men, standing against the pillars, were handsome in their stiff embroidered collars. The person who took the collection had long grey hair combed forward over his forehead.
THURSDAY, 15 AUGUST
For this feast day of the Assumption, the Breton women wore their most beautiful costumes. Our dresses seemed pretty pathetic beside their silk aprons of every colour, their embroidered velvets, their pink, blue, violet, green etc. ribbons, beneath their white coiffes and their lace collars. Julia, one of the maids from the hotel, a ravishing brunette with a lovely face, a bit of a flirt but so sweet, was wearing a beautiful collar edged with huge daisies all embroidered by hand.
In the afternoon, we watched the procession which was forming on the quay, as well as the varnishing of the boats. Some of the little girls had white dresses and one woman wore a dress completely covered in gold embroidery.
The procession over, we went off for a walk with Monsieur Renoir. He took us to the Château de Rustéphan, which is in ruins and where one can see ghosts, or so it’s said – a monk and a lady in white, who appear on a certain night each month. Then we went on to Nizon, which was quite pretty, and had a pretty church and a calvary.
FRIDAY, 16 AUGUST
Paule didn’t feel well, so Jeannie stayed with her and I went with Monsieur and Madame Renoir to the beach at Saint-Nicolas, which is at the estuary of the Aven. We went there by boat in the morning and came back only just in time for dinner, past two châteaux, and Rosbras,136 where Maman, Tante Yves and Tante Edma once lived. I could see their house, which is now surrounded by fir trees. We are looking at this landscape, which our mothers told us about so often, but sadly without them.
We had a swim before lunch. In this primitive part of the country, one has to undress outdoors behind a rock, and eat on the ground as best one can. Monsieur Renoir did a delightful study under the trees; one could see in it all the richness of the colours of the shadowy undergrowth on a very hot day and in the background the intensely blue glittering sea. Jean had lots of fun in the water – he’s very sweet with his golden hair.
SATURDAY, 17 AUGUST
We went back to the beach with Paule and Jeannie. Two little girls are playing between the rocks; you can’t imagine how prettily their blond and dark hair contrasted with the transparent sea. We left late, waiting for high tide but even then got stuck several times in the sand.
This morning, we painted in the woods below Pont-Aven. We then took a carriage to Quimperlé, arriving in the town via a square planted with trees and surrounded by water, from where one had a view of the houses crowded around the circular church with its square belfry. First of all, we visited the round church built on the model of the great mosque at Constantinople. It was curious; there were many altars at different levels; one of them seemed to be in a cellar, two others were at ground level, and another was above, to which one climbed up, like getting on to a bridge.
Next we searched in the rue du Château, where there is a ruined church, for Monsieur de Lassalle’s house. He is a rela-tive and neighbour of my Tante Chevalier; in the end, we found it and Monsieur de Lassalle, whom I didn’t know, opened the door himself, looked at us with an air of complete astonishment, then cried: ‘Goodness gracious! It’s the young Morisot ladies!’ He beckoned us into a small parlour where two old Quimperlé ladies, mother and daughter, were sitting, dressed in the style of 50 years ago. They talked to us about our mothers, who once stayed in this town. Tante Yves lived here, and as we took our leave, our old cousin showed us the house where Paule was born, in the square, a lovely riverside house, with roses around the door.
Later, on our way out of the town, we walked along some little lanes with medieval half-timbered houses on one side and climbed up to the old church with a fine porch situated in the market square. Inside, beneath some old gilded statues (including quite a funny one of the Virgin Mary) and the Stations of the Cross in beautiful colours. In front of the altar, a man who was rather the worst for drink, which seems to happen rather a lot in this neck of the woods, was asleep, a staff by his side. After we had looked around Quimperlé, which we liked very much, Monsieur de Lassalle gave us such a big tea that when we got back to the hotel in Pont-Aven we could only manage a cup of hot tea. There ensued a discussion about Oncle Edouard between Monsieur Renoir and a really boring and bad ‘Sunday’ painter, Monsieur Hérart, who declared pretentiously that he didn’t admire everything in Manet’s œuvre. Renoir replied that, in that case Monsieur Hérart didn’t really like Manet at all; that when one admired the work of a Master, there was nothing one could dislike. Monsieur Hérart kept on about Delaunay,137 whose painting he liked so much. He had painted his mother’s portrait so beautifully although it was all cracked. ‘That proves that it’s a bad picture’, said Monsieur Renoir. ‘Painting is a craft which must be learnt; a good picture has to be well painted.’
Monsieur Hérart joked that the answer must be to be just a house-painter, but Monsieur Renoir answered that he was still learning his craft, that he wanted always to learn more and never be content with what he was doing. ‘I have a great deal of ambition’, he said. ‘I would rather not paint at all than be a mediocre painter.’ A very aggravated Monsieur Hérart started saying that Olympia was just horrible and he repeated this endlessly, until Monsieur Renoir almost lost his temper, and this argument just went on and on.
It always angers when someone attacks my uncle’s work like this, and, even though I tell myself that only an imbecile would call his paintings frightful, I still want to answer back, and to lose my temper.
SATURDAY, 24 AUGUST
I woke up with a crick in my neck and spent the day in our bedroom. In the evening Monsieur Renoir showed us what he had been doing at Pont-Aven. Then he told us a funny story about the time he didn’t know if Catulle Mendès138 lived in the rue de Trévise or in the cité de Trévise.139 Monsieur Renoir was only able to recognize Mendès’ house because of the Japanese curtains at the windows of the second floor. On one occasion, wearing evening dress, Monsieur Renoir, glimpsing such curtains at the windows of a house in the rue de Trévise, went up the stairs and rang the bell. A maid opened the door, but he was astonished to see it wasn’t Mendès’ apartment at all. When he heard voices that sounded as though they were getting up and putting on their boots to pursue him, he rushed out of the door and down the stairs two by two, with the maid screaming after him ‘Monsieur! Monsieur!’ He was overjoyed to find himself safely back in the street, and knew then, once and for all, that Catulle Mendès must live in the Cité de Trévise! However, such an adventure being quite enough for an evening, he went straight home, flabbergasted that there could be two identical houses both with Japanese curtains on the second floor.
SUNDAY, 25 AUGUST
We didn’t go out all day. In the evening Monsieur Renoir got involved in an argument about the war; he took exception to a young man who said he would never take up arms unless it were to defend a personal ideal. What an astonishing concept, and to say so in front complete strangers, too. I suppose that a lot of people must agree if he dares to voice such a shocking opinion.
FRIDAY, 30 AUGUST
I took a photograph of the three maids Josephine, Julia and Anna; they are all three very pretty. Julia is the prettiest, then comes Julia. It seems to me that we are the common people and are served by princesses. I am fed up with this hotel and I can’t stand the communal table, all the jolly guests, who are are off to Tréboul near Douarnenez on Monday! so, so boring, that we encounter every day. Thank goodness we
In Douarnenez, we go to the food market with Monsieur Renoir: it’s such fun to see a great painter purchasing his groceries with his shopping bag on his arm!
The holiday is spent studiously painting with Renoir, with walks and an occasional swim.
SATURDAY, 14 SEPTEMBER
Jeannie and I went off to paint on the clifftop at Tréboul this morning. The sea was a soft blue, and the coastline all pink. ‘Île Tristan’ was clearly visible and Douarnenez was silhouetted against the clear sky and the sun, which whitened everything and was reflected in the water. The mountain [sic] behind was all blue, and over this delightful landscape with its beautiful colours floated the morning mist, softening the strong tones. A number of boats, with sails which had become grey with age, went by and formed a lilac mass against the light.
Coming back along the little path on the cliff, we noticed the delightful sound of the impact of the water in a miniature grotto. We saw a jellyfish floating in the water, in hues of yellow, green, pink and lilac.
At the end of the day we went to fetch Monsieur Renoir at the farm. We walked with him to the white rocks from where one can see the entrance to the bay. There, as we watched the sunset, the gorse-covered heaths turned first gold then russet; the sun, in its splendour, encircled by crimson and purple, made a great luminous trail in the water and a pink light spread everywhere. On the way back, we could see the coastline and the mountain plunged into a soft blue-grey.
THURSDAY, 19 SEPTEMBER
Madame Renoir140 told us about her trip to Italy just after her marriage. We found it quite funny to hear her telling us all this, because we’d so often heard Monsieur Renoir talk about it as though he had gone on his own, back in the days when we hadn’t yet met his wife.
She said she was twenty-two at the time and was very slim, which I find hard to believe! She also told us that the first time she saw Monsieur Renoir he was with Monsieur Monet and Monsieur Sisley; the three had long hair and they caused quite a stir when they walked along the rue Saint-Georges where she lived.
When he was young Monsieur Renoir spent his summers painting with Diaz141 in the Forest of Fontainebleau.142 He had found a place to stay at 50 sous a day, and Diaz and he used to paint and sell paintings pretending they were by Rousseau.143 He did about eight of them a day. The result is that now lots of Renoir paintings are thought to be by Rousseau. How I’d love to see them.
After a swim and a lovely walk around Tréboul we climbed up near the Moulins, from where the view over Douarnenez lit by the last rays of the sun was very attractive.
SUNDAY, 22 SEPTEMBER
I’ve been bathing all week – we are absolutely mad on swimming. I can float on my back now and turn over in the water, but I would like to be able to dive and really swim properly.
It’s extremely pleasant to take a dip, surrounded by this beautiful coastline after having had the sun on one’s back all morning, painting. It’s an arduous trade, being a landscape painter, but there are other harder ones, I guess, such as being a fisherman.
Before dinner we went to see them preparing for their departure, because on Sundays they have the day off. The boats are in harbour and the crew goes drinking; in the evening they go back to their boats, a little unsteady on their feet, with their duffel bags on their backs. The women dress properly and bring the children to see them off on the quay.
This evening the sky, which was all pink with light lilac clouds, was reflected in the water and the boats stood out in black beneath.
We came back by a road which runs along the cliff and stopped to watch night falling, the trees in the cemetery, and the crosses on the tombs etched against the silver sea where two black sails, made larger by their own reflections, were passing by.
TUESDAY, 24 SEPTEMBER
Jeannie and I went for a nice walk with Monsieur Renoir and Pierre. The weather was dull. It was the sort of morning when one has a rest from painting in order to get to know the area, carrying an umbrella instead of a paintbox. We went across country on the tiny Audierne railway. We had intended to go as far as Poulan but stopped at a superb pine forest where the sound of the wind played us an enchanting symphony.
From the road, bordered with excellent and delicious black-berry bushes, gorse and heather, one could see the heathland above and a few pine trees behind immersed in a light mist; Douarnenez on its ‘mountain’ looked so imposing.
Then, through an empty space in the flowering furze, I could see a patch of sea with the coastline like a firm blue line forming the horizon. The whole effect is at once grandiose, desolate and yet cheerful – there is something of the South here. The landscape made Monsieur Renoir think of Italy and the studies by ‘the old man’ Corot144 as he nicknames him. (He often speaks of him as being the greatest landscape painter of all time and it is true; there are some simply marvellous things by him.) Here, in this land of Finistère which I love, this wild countryside, I feel as though I am at the end of the earth, but not in a sad sort of way – it’s just wonderful!
Worked morning and evening on the cliffs above Tréboul. Monsieur Renoir came to fetch us. He said that I knew how to get the houses just right. Such a compliment from a great master gave me pleasure but perhaps it’s just vanity on my part? However, it does seem to me that one should be able to be pleased when someone who really knows tells you, after you have worked very hard, that the result is not completely wanting.
Certainly, I know I have many faults – I want to work hard at everything this year. Unfortunately after the holidays I always feel disposed to do great things; then, little by little, when it gets cold, I get up late, go skating in the middle of the day, have cups of tea, and the day goes by without my having achieved much at all. I don’t want it to be like this anymore.
MONDAY, 30 SEPTEMBER
Jean has been ill since yesterday. Monsieur Renoir went for the doctor. He says he has a bad tummy ache. The poor little mite cries all day – it’s sad to hear.
Quite impossible to work above Tréboul at the end of the day – the little boys here are unbearable and pester us.
At the beginning of October, Julie travels back to Paris.
FRIDAY, 4 OCTOBER
At four in the morning, we had to wait two hours at Tours station and didn’t arrive in Paris until half past eleven. The journey was really too long…
Monsieur Renoir has been so kind and so charming all summer; the more one sees of him, the more one realizes he is a true artist, witty and extraordinarily intelligent, but also genuinely kind and sincere.
Paris seemed grey and ugly to us, just a deserted and tasteless place. I was seized by a profound sadness on entering the apartment, which looked so desolate, where every object reminds me of Maman but just stresses the fact that she is no longer here. While I was away, I could make-believe I was living in a dream, but here I am certain of not seeing her ever again. It’s over, how sad! Not to see you again, Maman, what grief! These beautiful paintings, which I look at with such pleasure, just make me cry.
SATURDAY, 26 OCTOBER
We spent a day with Berthe Renault, and we three friends bewailed the fact that the end of the world may be in 1900 and France will be destroyed next year, at least according to Hachette’s Almanach!145 We think it extremely tedious to witness the end of the world, and horrid to see France divided – in other words, just war and destruction. We obviously hope it won’t happen. Somehow, we do feel the end of the world might really be nigh because everybody seems to be completed crazy. Berthe said: ‘In the olden days, girls liked the spring and the sun; now all they like is autumn, winter, and the moon.’
SUNDAY, 27 OCTOBER
Monsieur Renoir has coined the phrase ‘little brats’, which he uses constantly… Since this summer, we have nicknamed him ‘the little brat’ because he told us that his trip to Brittany was a long one for ‘a little brat like me’! He has decided we should all ride a bicycle made for three with him.
TUESDAY, 29 OCTOBER
It was sleeting this morning when we went shopping. Monsieur Mallarmé and Geneviève came to see us. Geneviève brought her black cat Lilith and another white stray, which, trapped in a basket, thought she was about to die. When she was released from it, she literally flew into the cellar as if bound for hell!
UNDATED
Monsieur Degas can think of nothing but photography.146 He has invited us all to have dinner with him next week and he’ll take our photograph by artificial light: the only thing is you have to pose for three minutes. He wanted to see if we would make good models and made Monsieur Renoir pose, but he started laughing. Paule mentioned Monsieur Mauclair’s article, and Monsieur Degas flew into a rage, saying: ‘Oh, critics! They’re the ones who rule the roost nowadays. They think painting is their field, just because they can describe a certain blue, etc.’ I’m not able to repeat his words exactly as they were spoken – and it would take all the fire out of them anyway. So I’ll stop.
Monsieur Mallarmé, listening to all this, seemed very un-happy; Monsieur Renoir, however, was beaming, for his opinion on critics is the same as Monsieur Degas’s.
It was decided that we would dine at Monsieur Degas’s on Wednesday. ‘You will see Zoë,147 my maid’, he told us, ‘who has put on a lot of weight.’
I don’t know why people say he’s bad-tempered, because in fact he is so affectionate to us and kisses us in such a fatherly manner. But then, artists in general are excellent people. Monsieur Renoir is quite touching in the way he looks after us and talks to us about Maman’s exhibition. He examined a portfolio of her watercolours, which he thought were ravishing, and then he took us through what needed to be done to What an absolutely charming mother I had: not to be able to say ‘have’ any more is truly hard! And how virtuous! She embodied both the artist and the tender mother. I want to cry every time I see these watercolours: for instance, a woman in frame these little gems, the majority of them almost unknown. a rowing boat on the lake, inscribed ‘lady-duck’ to teach me to read; a nursemaid, children playing hide-and-seek, and lots of others – Marcel, Nini and Bibi having a meal. Maman had intended to make a whole album like this to teach children how to read, but she never got round to it. I regret it very much as it would have been charming.
We agree with Monsieur Renoir that Monsieur Mallarmé will write a very good preface to the catalogue because he, more than anyone else, is able to speak about the life of the magnificent woman who was my Maman.
Still on the subject of the Mauclair article, Monsieur Renoir told us that he didn’t like Puvis de Chavannes’148 paintings much; that they seemed to him like works to which you could add or subtract at will: ‘You want an extra yard of Puvis? No problem, I can unroll it for you!’, he joked; he added he couldn’t tell his men from his women, but I actually agree. After dinner, Monsieur Renoir told us he had quarrelled with Monsieur Zandomeneghi149 because, although he visited him constantly, as they lived in the same building, the Italian never bothered to visit him in return. Monsieur Renoir did a marvellous imitation of him, with his funny Italian accent, showing him his paintings. Monsieur Renoir, who found them pretty frightful, remarked politely about one of them: ‘It’s very nice, but there’s a blue in the background that I find a bit bright.’
‘It’s precisely because of that blue’, replied Monsieur Zandomeneghi, ‘that I bothered to do that picture at all’, and promptly took it to Durand-Ruel’s.150 There, all the staff made fun of his brash, bright blue and he was obliged to go home and cover it up. Monsieur Renoir told us lots of other stories about him, but they wouldn’t have the same charm without Monsieur Renoir’s imitation of the painter’s nasal Italian accent.
THURSDAY, 14 NOVEMBER
I’m 17 today. Paule made me a Breton cake decorated with flowers and invited Geneviève to lunch; we had dinner at Berthe’s, like last year. I recalled that day when we went to the ‘Français’ with Maman. Every year, I get more and more unhappy as more sad occasions accumulate in my memories. A year ago, I was relatively happy (if indeed one can be happy after having seen one’s father and part of one’s family die), but I still had a mother who was always near me and whose side I never left.
SUNDAY, 17 NOVEMBER
Had lunch at Monsieur Renoir’s, where we spent a very pleasant day. He showed us the portrait of a model in a ravishing hat of white chiffon with rose on it (which he had made himself!) and a white dress with a green belt.151 The picture is extremely beautiful, the clothes light and delicate, and the brown hair simply wonderful. And we saw the portraits of Jean with Gabrielle,152 which is charming.
Arrived quite late at Monsieur Degas’s house. We met Zoë on the stairs and she let us in – Monsieur Mallarmé, Monsieur Renoir and Monsieur Bartholomé were already there, and Monsieur Degas was very busy arranging a lamp he had just bought, which gave off a brilliant light. I admired the portrait of my Oncle Edouard by him, which I hadn’t seen before.153
This portrait was the cause of a serious argument. Monsieur Degas had painted Tante Suzanne at the piano with Oncle Edouard lying on a sofa listening to her playing. Finding that his wife looked too ugly, my uncle simply cut her out of the image. Monsieur Degas quite reasonably was terribly angry about this and took back the canvas, which he now has in his drawing room. He also has a pastel of Tante Suzanne on a blue sofa154 and Oncle Edouard’s study of a ham.155
In his house, the paintings hang haphazardly all over the place or are simply left on the floor. His dining-room walls are covered in a yellow handkerchief fabric on which he has hung some Ingres drawings. And he always serves the same dinner to all his guests – potted chicken or rillettes de pays, chicken, salad and preserves, all prepared by Zoë, who serves at table while chatting away and seems to be a very good soul. ‘Zoë, you should have made more crust’, Monsieur Degas says to her; ‘Next time I’ll put more on’, etc.
The conversation turned to Zandomeneghi. Monsieur Degas is doing his portrait but Z. only wants to sit for about two hours each week because he is such a busy man! Everyone then remarked on his really grumpy personality and start telling funny stories about him. The day after he had taken a long bicycle trip with Bartholomé, Degas happened to remark: ‘I heard you didn’t have to walk too far yesterday.’ Zandomeneghi snapped ‘Are you spying on me?’ Renoir remembered Z. had told him the French were a very aggressive nation and also noted how very punctilious he is about table manners. While posing for Monsieur Degas, he mentioned that he was going on a bicycle ride the following Sunday afternoon, so just to aggravate him Degas fixed an appointment for a sitting the next Sunday at half past one. Zandomeneghi was on time but, as Monsieur Degas added, in an extremely bad mood.
Talking about Glatigny,156 Monsieur Mallarmé recounted that he had once met him in Versailles and that he was an absolutely astonishing man to whom one could give a couple of rhyming words and he could compose two different poems with them at the same time. Anyway, Mallarmé suggested taking him for a drink at a nearby café, but Glatigny replied that he would rather have a pair of socks instead; so Monsieur Mallarmé took him to buy some. He took off his old ones there and then, put on the new ones, and left the shop, much to the astonishment of the shop assistants.
Carolus-Duran157 and Zacharie Astruc158 were also discussed. They lived together and used to constantly make fun of each other in mock flattery: ‘How handsome you are, Shakespeare! How handsome you are, Velásquez!’ At one of the salons, each thought they had won a prize and loudly praised their own work to all and sundry. But it was Carolus-Duran who ended up winning the medal.
Astruc was in the habit of never paying his models, and, while walking past his own front door with someone one day, he saw a message written in chalk: ‘I came for my money, Calire or whatever your name is.’ He pretended not to see it, but rubbed off the words ‘for my money’ with his thumb. Monsieur Degas told us the story with his usual wit.
We sat for ages around the table and what a pleasure it was to listen to these four great artists chatting; and yet all I could think about with great sadness were our charming Thursday dinners – it seems so extraordinary not to see Papa and Maman among them all.
WEDNESDAY, 27 NOVEMBER
We went to see Tante Suzanne, who now lives in a very nice apartment at Asnières. She is much better off there than in that damp house at Gennevilliers.
FRIDAY, 29 NOVEMBER
Left to see Monsieur Renoir, whom we met near his studio. ‘Why don’t we go and see Monsieur Degas?’ he asked; so off we went to Monsieur Degas’s studio, where this time he opened the door himself. ‘Hello my dear, how are you?’ he said to me at once, adding ‘I’m so sorry but the photographs last time were all failures, I haven’t dared get in touch with you since.’
His studio is really extremely cluttered. He’s doing a lot of work on a sculpture of a nude. A model was just leaving as we arrived and Degas shouted: ‘Hey Renoir, how would you like to try my nice little model?’ ‘Why yes, of course, I wouldn’t mind at all but I am going away’, and he added to the girl ‘I know you already, don’t I? So I will write to you when I get back.’ The doorbell went, so Degas went down to let in an old friend who had just lost his wife, a tall rather large man, who, once he had been introduced, added ‘Beg your pardon, dear young ladies for my lack of hair!’, then ‘Sophie has died.’ Degas exclaimed: ‘You see, my pretty young friends, all my acquaintances seem to be dying on me: I guess I am next on the list! I hardly bother to remove the black crêpe from my hat nowadays!!’
Taking the dust sheets from a bust159 of Monsieur Zandomeneghi, who never comes to sit anymore, is becoming more and more unpleasant and even complained: ‘That swine Degas, everyone does what he bids; Bartholomé takes orders from him, but not me – I’ll never give in to him!’
The big, slightly crooked nose of Zandomeneghi was just beginning to appear, followed by the entire head – it’s an absolute marvel.
‘What a really fine head he has’, commented Monsieur Renoir.
Indeed, there really is something quite superb in the movement of the mouth and the moustache. It has an extraordinary life of its own. Monsieur Degas seemed quite pleased with the likeness, which is understandable; his friend leant over the bust and observed it closely, ‘By Jove, I wish I had a stupid face like that because then I would have posed instead of him!’ Monsieur Degas covered all his clay sculptures with damp cloths, then took off his cap and his white smock, put his shoes on, a jacket and his cape-coat, picked up his hat, and everyone went downstairs – Monsieur Degas and his elderly friend shoulder to shoulder, while Monsieur Degas told him about the death of his sister.
Then we went to Vollard’s160 with Monsieur Degas and Monsieur Renoir to view the Cézanne exhibition.161 The still-life paintings appealed to me less than those I have seen so far but there were some apples and a decorated pot in lovely colours. The nudes enveloped in blue hues are shielded by trees with light, soft foliage. Monsieur Degas and Monsieur Renoir drew lots for a magnificent still-life watercolour of pears and a small one depicting an assassination in the Midi,162 which isn’t in the least bit horrifying – the figures stand out in exactly the right tones, red, blue and violet in a landscape like those of Brittany or the Midi with round trees, areas of land against a blue sea, and, in the background, some islands. Monsieur Renoir liked this one very much too, so I bought it thinking it would be a sensible thing to do.
‘Well, take a look at this little art collector!’ cried Monsieur Degas, patting me affectionately under the chin. He gave me a kiss as we left and Monsieur Renoir, whom I always think as our protector, saw us to the tram. He now has to go to his wife’s part of the country to buy a house that he doesn’t want to buy.
TUESDAY, 3 DECEMBER
Paule is 28 today. I find this age pretty young actually, and even younger to be at the head of a household. Poor Paule – perhaps it’s even harder for her than for us.
Pierre and Jean have both got chickenpox and now I’ve got it; Monsieur Renoir must have given it to me. I don’t really feel ill but I’m not allowed to see anybody in case I give it to them.
I started copying a three-quarter-profile head and shoulders of Maman in black, with a hat and a bouquet of violets on her bodice by Oncle Edouard.163 Maman bought it at the Duret sale. It’s hanging in my bedroom and I can see it from my bed; it’s marvellous and magnificently executed. I can hardly believe that he did it in one or two sittings at the most. Maman told me she had sat for it the day before one of the Thursday dinners at Bonne-Maman’s.164 And that was when Oncle Edouard told Maman that she ought to marry Papa and they talked about it for a very long time.
Additional notes written by Madame Ernest Rouart (i.e. Julie Manet) following a visit from Jean Renoir to Le Mesnil in August 1961.
Jean Renoir and Dido165 came to spend the late afternoon and dine with us, as they did on 5 July. Still as affectionate as ever, Jean spoke of the memoirs about his father which he is publishing.166
We are unstoppable on this subject; I told him about the months of August and September spent at Pont-Aven and Tréboul where we celebrated his first birthday with his parents in 1895; all his father’s kindness to my cousins and me, treating a crick in my neck with massage, giving up his painting umbrella so that we could change on the beach, taking the trouble to come all the way to Châteaulin ahead of us so that we would not have to spend a night alone at the hotel.
He forced himself to bathe so he could teach Pierre to swim and dive but became colder and colder in the water, whereas Madame Renoir would perspire after doing a few strokes, serving as a buoy for all of us to hang on to and Pierre would laugh, ‘Maman, when I see you underwater, you’re even fatter’! He was a delightful child, and used to trot off behind his father carrying a little panel, saying ‘I’m just going to do a tiny little sketch.’
Jean told me that his father was painting alongside Cézanne in that March when Renoir heard the news of Maman’s death. He closed his paintbox and took the next train back to Paris. I have never forgotten the way he arrived in my room in the rue Weber and held me close to him; I can still see his white cravat with its little red polka dots.