UNDATED, PROBABLY 30 JANUARY
This month of January is already nearly at an end and that terribly sad day, New Year’s day, is thankfully behind us. I go for walks in the Bois, I paint and have my violin lessons.
An article on top hats came out in Figaro where some of our friends were interviewed. Puvis de Chavannes made me laugh saying he is too old to worry about the subject because soon he won’t even need to get dressed anymore, Régnier was more interested in wigs (he is bald!), and Monsieur Mallarmé declared: ‘The world may come to an end but the top hat … never!’ and mentioned an advertisement for hats that he had seen two days before. Monsieur Renoir added that this article on top hats has made Mallarmé more famous than any of his books!
MONDAY, 1 FEBRUARY
Paule took me into Paris today by carriage to see Monsieur Renoir at his studio. He is working on some ravishing studies of a guitar: a woman in a white chiffon dress with pink bows leaning gracefully over the big yellow guitar, with her feet on a yellow cushion;284 another canvas is of a man in Spanish costume285 strumming lively tunes on the instrument. The whole effect is colourful, mellow, delicious. Monsieur Renoir is always so charming and affectionate, as a woman just could never be.
We stopped at Mademoiselle Baudot’s studio. She is working with a rather nice model and showed us several things loosely painted, very well drawn – it’s quite astonishing for someone of her age to paint as well.
WEDNESDAY, 10 FEBRUARY
I went to a concert with Paule and then to see Monsieur Degas, who seemed to be in low spirits because of his health: he has something wrong with his lungs and must be very careful.
There are some lovely things in his studio. He spoke of Monsieur Mallarmé’s delightful way with words, then said that these days everyone seems to think they are poets: if he meets young people at a reception and asks one of them what he does, ‘poet’ is invariably the answer, and the next will also be a ‘poet’; they are all ‘poets’. ‘Remember’, he added, that marvellous quote from Léon Paul Fargue:286 ‘“Once upon a time there was a young man, so handsome, so very handsome, that women only wanted him to write”?’
When Paule ventured to say that Monsieur Mallarmé looked down on women, ‘But women always think they’re disdained when, on the contrary, they’re our only concern; they’re our chief danger, women’, he replied.
WEDNESDAY, 28 JULY
Having had no reply from the de Vaissière family,287 to whom I had written to say we were on our way to see them, we decided to go for a short trip to Touraine anyway. Then, just before leaving this morning, I received a letter from Tante de V. saying that she is only expecting us on Tuesday, so we have a week to travel round in this dreadful heat.
Julie and her cousins visit Orléans, then Blois, Chambord before arriving in Tours to stay with her aunt at Vassé,288 where they all go for excursions to Azay-le-Rideau. She enjoys ‘la vie de château’ with suppers, outings and musical evenings organized by her aunt and uncle.
Julie Manet in the grounds of her cousins’ château at Vassé in 1898
Still at Vassé. Our stay here has been just perfect, so beautifully and lavishly entertained and yet left free. That is until today, when things went all wrong, all because of a silly book. It’s jolly unlucky because we read only rarely, especially Paule, who doesn’t enjoy books much.
This year the idea occurred to me to bring a stack of books with me. Among which À Rebours by Huysmans.289 Attracted by the title, I brought it so that Paule could take a look at it before I read it. My cousin Marie was also fascinated by the title, and, seeing it in our case, took it; then thought nothing more of it until this morning when my aunt returned the book to me while we were walking in the park, saying it was quite horrible, that she didn’t even want Georges to see it, etc.
Naturally, Paule is quite embarrassed and annoyed because, although I explained that it was my book, she, being the eldest, will have to take the blame. What rotten luck!
Julie and her cousins return to Paris via Poitiers and Angoulême. Then Limoges, where she stays with family friends the Havilands;290 then home at last on 27 August.
Julie goes to stay near Renoir and his family for over a month at Essoyes, where she takes lessons from the Master every day.
UNDATED, PROBABLY 15 SEPTEMBER
Essoyes291
I read a few pages of Marie Bashkirtseff’s diary292 this morning, as I didn’t have time to finish it on the journey. It’s really very interesting to read the diary of an intelligent young woman with an open mind; she is curious, not at all snooty as I had believed from what I had heard others say of her. Underneath it all, she isn’t really big-headed, though she does tend to put on airs and graces a bit, and for this she undoubtedly has plenty of imagination. If she repeats over and over again that her painting is so good, it’s to persuade herself that it is because she must be aware that she paints badly. She evidently had a natural aptitude for many things, perhaps too many talents, because, if she had been taught well, she would probably have done better.
But among bad painters, from a family who understood nothing about art, what could she do? What a sad life, without misfortune it is true, but sad because she had the sort of personality which created problems for herself; she was far too precocious – at 12 she was already talking like an 18-year-old.
What particularly infuriates me about her is that, living at a time when Manet and all the Impressionists were painting, she never mentions them at all. Her need to succeed young and her devouring ambition must be a sign she knew that her life was going to be short. What an interesting person; and so funny, too. Her correspondence with the famous A. in Rome when she was 15 is both very charming and terribly amusing.
THURSDAY, 16 SEPTEMBER
After painting all day in the countryside, Monsieur Renoir came to fetch us before supper. We showed him what we had been doing. He told me that my dahlias were good – I am really pleased he thinks so; then he said that my ‘Dina holding a basket’ was badly drawn, that I should start again. I had indeed noticed that she was too short, but was simply niggling away at the same canvas. I’m glad Monsieur Renoir has given me this advice – it helps me so much. Monsieur Renoir went on to say that it was absolutely ridiculous not to be able to distinguish what is good from what is bad. Apparently, my dahlias are splendid; then he told me I should leave them turned to the wall for a week or so and then I would be able to judge for myself. I seem to need more and more time to find out how I’m doing, and just to realize in the end that I have done badly. What I really need is for Monsieur Renoir to advise me regularly.
Until now, I have been very ambitious – I wanted to have real talent. Now I want only to be a bit more accomplished than a silly young lady who paints fans and lampshades, and perhaps in due course I won’t even have that meagre ambition. Isn’t virtue the greatest glory? We should just do what we can and, doing that well, we will be satisfied. Pleasing God is really the only true happiness.
FRIDAY, 17 SEPTEMBER
I painted over Dina and have started another smaller composition of her.
When Monsieur Renoir took off the bandages on his arm this evening, I was appalled at the sight of all that hair: men are just so ugly, aren’t they?! An animal at least has thick fur to hide the skin below, but the skin shows through man’s hair; it’s quite revolting! I would certainly need plenty of courage to marry one of them.
SUNDAY, 19 SEPTEMBER
Spent part of the day writing an interminable letter in English to Miss Vos.293
MONDAY, 20 SEPTEMBER
Monsieur Renoir told us that just after the war, as a soldier, he spent two months in a château294 where he was treated like a prince, giving painting lessons to the young lady of the family and riding about on horseback all day. The family didn’t want him to leave, fearing he would be killed during the Commune.
‘In life, it’s the same as in art’, says Monsieur Renoir, ‘everything is a matter of comparison.’ He is putting up with his broken arm very well, declaring that he’d rather have a bandaged arm than something worse.
TUESDAY, 28 SEPTEMBER
Monsieur Renoir is against all the latest mechanical contraptions, saying that we are living in an age of decadence where people think of nothing but travelling at least a dozen kilometres an hour; that it serves no useful purpose; that the automobile is an idiotic invention; that there is absolutely no need to go so fast; that the whole thing is just for amusement; but that for work and business there must be some sort of compromise.
‘The government is more autocratic than ever with mechanization, which does everything. The working man is no longer capable of thought, of bettering himself; those without the means will always stay at the same level. Whatever is the point of going so fast? The gentleman who has a factory making 100,000 pairs of socks a day can’t always find an outlet for them, and in time the factory cannot keep going, so we have to sell socks to the savages, and persuade them that they have to wear socks in order to keep some gentleman’s factory going in France. We want to conquer the world in order to sell our products. Slavery has been abolished but this is worse than slavery; the worker who knows he cannot improve his lot knows that he will always remain the same and probably be more unhappy than the slave.’
Isn’t Monsieur Renoir always right? What a sound mind, always saying such sensible things! This mechanization which is invading the entire world is overwhelming. The arrival of the automobile fills me with horror. Although I think there are far too many bicycles everywhere, I find them less awful than cars. However, I can’t really comment further because I am learning to ride one at the moment. Monsieur Renoir, who broke his arm going downhill on one, has a right to hate them.
MONDAY, 11 OCTOBER
It’s just so lovely to go for a walk with a talented, witty man who talks to you as though he doesn’t find you too stupid (and, anyway, intelligent men are more lenient towards young people). I went for a walk alone with Monsieur Renoir, from Essoyes to Verpillière, and back. It’s a pretty route to take in this weather. Today, the grey of autumn, on a blue background with lilac and grey trees, everything mellow, like something by Corot or Renoir.
Monsieur Renoir was filled with admiration. ‘Oh dear! I don’t know if you’re like me’, he said, ‘every time I go for a walk without my paintbox, I find a lot of places to paint, whereas I only have to take it with me, to not be able to find a suitable spot.’
Coming back by the main road, we met a woman with a grape basket strapped to her back. ‘How beautifully Corot painted those figures!’ cried Monsieur Renoir. ‘How well he understood the highlighting of a little white bonnet! How well the people from the last century portrayed landscape – it’s certainly not done like that anymore. Watteau painted his backgrounds so well – What a lot of blue in the atmosphere today, it’s just like velvet.’
Monsieur Renoir added: ‘If you were never ill, you wouldn’t enjoy good health; if it didn’t rain, you wouldn’t enjoy fine weather. We have to experience things that are less attractive from time to time; the pleasure in life is the element of surprise. When I was young, I used to go to Fontainebleau with Sisley295 with just my paintbox and a shirt. We would walk until we found a village, and sometimes only come back a week later when we had run out of money.’
Monsieur Renoir also told me that it was at Fontainebleau that he first met Pissarro,296 who at that time was so swarthy that he mistook him for a Gypsy accordion player.
We also talked about the Natansons.297 Monsieur Renoir said it was very dangerous to support anarchists such as Fénéon,298 who tinker with literature while awaiting an opportunity to launch themselves into politics and who will end up by doing some really bad things. He must be right. I think writers support too many bad causes, whereas painters are of sounder mind. Pissarro, though, is an anarchist, isn’t he?
I have just read a hilarious description of Carolus-Duran in Marie Bashkirtseff’s memoirs: you can just visualize that show-off son of a wine merchant who became such a dauber. I was told he used to visit Bonne-Maman Morisot with the ambition of marrying Maman but, although our family can’t really be considered very snobbish, his family background was just not good enough for her.
THURSDAY, 14 OCTOBER
Before leaving, Monsieur Renoir told me that my new ‘Dina’ is well proportioned but, curiously, I found this less encouraging than when he told me it was out of proportion.
At the moment, I can’t think of anything except painting. I have heaps of other things to do, but instead I’m starting a picture of three lovely fish from the Ource. I’m completely obsessed with painting, and am working hard at it these days. I am upset to think that in Paris I won’t have the benefit of Monsieur Renoir’s advice as I do here. I think that, generally speaking, I lack direction; but I can’t imagine that Monsieur Renoir would ever be interested in me.
Quite suddenly autumn is upon us and the trees have turned to gold; and how lovely the sunset was once the rain had stopped. It was truly like a Degas landscape – with his great sweeping hills, his way with the green meadows and the yellow trees. Madame Renoir and Jean had lunch with us; Jean is so sweet with his red hair set against the russet trees.
SUNDAY, 17 OCTOBER
Magnificent weather today. Jeannie decided to go out in the carriage; we got as comfortable as we could, and went as far as Grancey. The wild cherry trees were scarlet against the blue sky. Going home, the Côte d’Or certainly deserved its name! At Grancey, the river was spun with gold against the ravishing blue of the sky. It was all quite exquisite. I would love to be able to record these colours but will be leaving on Tuesday, so no more time to do anything.
Last dinner at Essoyes with Madame Renoir.
Julie returns to Paris on 19 October, changing trains at Troyes.
FRIDAY, 22 OCTOBER
For some time now, I have been feeling quite different. I seem to be self-searching a little less often. Faivre’s299 teasing did me a lot of good – it bucked me up no end. I think one definitely needs men in life, they give one a wider outlook. I do think it’s better to marry than to remain a spinster – anyway, didn’t God create the world to grow from generation to generation?
Jeannie always says it’s our duty to marry and have children; but does this duty go as far as marrying someone you don’t like just to populate France? If this is the case, it’s a very harsh requirement. It has always struck me that arranged marriages must be odious, but to love and be loved in return must be wonderful. I don’t think I will ever taste this true happiness; it is too much for me to bear. I am not expecting any great joys in my life, yet I still hope there might be a few all the same…
MONDAY, 25 OCTOBER
A visit to my Tante Chevalier who at 84 is in tip-top health. She suddenly turned to Paule and shouted: ‘You are really getting on my nerves! When, in heaven’s name, are you going to get married?’ Of course, we would all like to see her happy and married: she has so many qualities!
THURSDAY, 28 OCTOBER
Reading the diary of Marie Bashkirtseff, it always astonishes me to think that she died only recently. She describes the death of Gambetta, which I remember so well. I was four then and was taken on 4 January to the Palais Bourbon to see his body lying in state. I can remember the masses of black crêpe and all the wreaths – it made a great impression on me.
The second volume of Marie Bashkirtseff’s diary is really sad; she obviously felt that her end was nigh. But there are some very interesting things in it. If only the atelier gossip and her admiration for bad painters didn’t annoy me so much! I remember Papa and Maman reading this diary at Mézy; they had numerous discussions on the subject. Far from thinking, like Monsieur Degas, that Marie Bashkirtseff was a woman who ought to be flogged in public, Papa admired her. How Maman would tease him: ‘I can just see you living with a woman like that! – you would soon find her unbearable.’ And indeed what a difference between her and Maman, who was so talented, straightforward and charming and yet so unselfconscious. However, she must have found Marie Bashkirtseff rather extraordinary too. But I do not think Marie should always be judged by what she says: surely, she couldn’t have been as conceited as she sometimes seems?
After spending a summer in Monsieur Renoir’s company, I am sure that in life everyone should know how to do a little of everything, and especially be skilful at whatever they undertake. Monsieur Renoir repeats this idea constantly and eventually it sinks in. He has a great deal of influence over the young people who admire him, and says such philosophical things, so charmingly, that I automatically believe them. If only all men of his age could have as good an influence over the young …
Monsieur Mallarmé doesn’t give enough advice. He could lecture us in the most amusing and exquisite manner, because he has such a healthy lifestyle and an honesty which Monsieur Renoir greatly admires. He should give guidance to young people, instead of spoiling them rotten. It has been said that the young don’t take any notice of their elders’ advice but I think this is simply wrong. Even if they appear not to benefit from it, at least it makes them think – wise men should always lead the young.
On 7 November, Julie visits the Mallarmés, who are back from Essoyes. With Jeanne Baudot, she applies for her permit to make copies at the Louvre: she asks to copy the Holy Family by Veronese.300
TUESDAY, 16 NOVEMBER
Spent the whole day at the Louvre. Jeanne301 was doing a very nice loose sketch of a Veronese. We saw lots of acquaintances there, including Carolus-Duran, such a giant with his large stomach sticking out, really very vulgar. As he went past, the guards asked us if we were acquainted with this ‘great painter’.
Monsieur Mallarmé, who arrived shortly afterwards with Whistler,302 joked: ‘He’s decided to honour the Louvre with a visit during his own lifetime.’ Whistler, fiddling with his umbrella, either heard nothing, or pretended not to hear, but concentrated instead on the steel buttons on the sleeves of my dress.
We also saw Zandomeneghi go by before sticking his huge Italian nose right up against the Primitives.
When Monsieur Renoir arrived I told him I had seen his friend Z. He laughed: ‘Quick, warn the guards that he’s about to steal a painting to take back to Venice!’ Then, putting on his best Italian accent, he imitated Z, proclaiming that the Italian paintings in the Louvre lived among people who understood nothing at all about them.
Monsieur Renoir said not a word to Jeanne about her copy although she had worked so hard on it, thinking she would probably see him. For some reason, he gave me far more attention, saying mine was good and that Veronese was a good choice to copy, and joked that if I didn’t get it right he’d write to Monsieur Caliari303 himself. Then he asked me if it bothered me to work in the Louvre.
Indeed, one would have thought I was his pupil rather than Jeanne, and I couldn’t understand it because her work was quite obviously far better than mine. And yet Monsieur Renoir said nothing to her, which disappointed her greatly. I had somehow imagined him to be far more of a teacher to her; but now I see that he doesn’t really have a teacher’s attitude towards her.
WEDNESDAY, 17 NOVEMBER
I began painting yesterday but made no progress this morning. We went to Monsieur Renoir’s studio, where he had just finished the little red-headed model from Essoyes in a green dress playing the guitar.304 Her hands were beautifully painted, in a luscious pink. There was also a painting of a dark-haired woman in a pale pink dress with a guitar at her side, a table with a blue vase and a carpet; then, on a small upright canvas, the same figure dancing. The dress had a hazy, floaty look which I loved. He has also finished his two decorative panels of nude women supporting vases of fruit.305 They are magnificent, but I find ‘decorative painting’ quite impossible to understand.
Monsieur Renoir told us he thought Jeanne’s copy was good, but was wondering how she planned to finish it. He said it was better to start with a simple sketch to give oneself an idea of the overall effect and then only paint in the figures. We visited Madame Renoir, who is leaving for Essoyes again. She was very nice to us, and Jean is sweet. She was curious about the medical student whom Jeannie was visiting that very day. Paule thinks he could perhaps marry Jeannie and approves. I must say Paule thinks a lot about Jeannie’s marriage and, of course, Jeannie thinks about Paule’s.
By the way, Faivre, who should have come to see us at the Louvre, didn’t appear after all. It seems he has forgotten us. Monsieur Renoir teased me, saying he would only come once I had nearly finished my copy, just to tell me it was awful, so that I could start the whole thing again.
Monsieur Renoir has been very merry since his return and jokes all the time – this proves he must be pleased with what he is doing. When Jeannie mentioned that Mallarmé would only ever go to the Concerts Lamoureux,306 he laughed: ‘Heavens! Is he still going there? Good old Mallarmé is such a creature of habit that he always goes to the same place at the same time to do the same thing.’ It was just a friendly little dig because deep down Monsieur Renoir has the greatest admiration for Monsieur Mallarmé; but painters always seem to have to make fun of writers.
Julie goes to the Louvre every day to continue her work copying old masters.
One doesn’t only meet painters at the Louvre. Of course, there are painters – Helleu, for example – but also writers. We have a second visit from Monsieur Mallarmé, and a first from Arsène Alexandre.
Paule has at last started working on La Vierge au lapin.307 I am working on my huge canvas, but it feels as though I will never be finished, especially if I make it larger every two weeks. I am filled with admiration for Jeanne’s La Vierge et l’enfant, which I thought was quite bad a few days ago.
We spent the evening at the Odéon308 in Monsieur Mallarmé’s box. They were giving a reading of his prose poem ‘Le Phénomène Futur’, really so witty and fine, and for which Monsieur Renoir had made a lovely etching. They also read other wonderful things. Whenever I hear Mallarmé’s work, I find it beautiful and I always wonder why it’s supposed to be ‘incomprehensible’: I’m probably dreaming it, or just can’t fathom literature at all, but I really believe I understand it! I, who know nothing about anything at all. I think writing must be one of the most difficult things to do. I wonder how on earth anyone writes verse.
SUNDAY, 28 NOVEMBER
It’s upsetting, when not really in the mood at all, to have to wallow in stupidity such as we saw and heard at the Folies Bergère309 with Madame Renault and Berthe. We thought we’d find it very amusing, but really it was too silly. Unhealthy in every sense of the word, to spend three hours in a smoky atmosphere looking at idiotic clowns, stupid ballets, and atrocious women in pantaloons.
And, to cap it all, parents take dozens of children along to see all this, children to whom they would probably not show paintings of naked women. Well, I find it much more extraordinary to show them frightful women with plunging necklines, tightly laced waists, and skimpy knickers.
In any case, I am never ever going back to the Folies Bergère. And as for Loïe Fuller,310 which is why we were there in the first place, I thought she was rather a disappointment. Even at the beginning, I thought the colours were harsh; the suns, the stars and moons were very ugly, though at the end there were a few pretty things.
FRIDAY, 3 DECEMBER
Monsieur Renoir came to see us at the Louvre. He gave Jeanne an excellent lesson and told her to choose a section and to finish it in one go. He said that Ingres always painted a torso in one go, even if he had to do it again the following day. He thought Paule had begun her copy very well and skilfully, but told me there were some mistakes in mine and that I should avoid doing something too big, although it was quite good. I was rather pleased, as I had no idea how I was getting on.
We spent a long time looking at Delacroix’s Femmes d’Alger311 with Monsieur Renoir. He remarked that when someone has painted anything as good as that, he could certainly rest on his laurels. We went on to see all the lovely things from Pompeii and Egypt. How attractive Egyptian art is.
SUNDAY, 5 DECEMBER
Sermon this morning at St Philippe du Roule312 on the Immaculate Conception. Monsieur Renoir came to dinner. As Jeannie was playing ballet melody on the piano, Monsieur Renoir came in doing a little dance. He said good things about Wyzewa;313 how well he writes and how talented he is. And he was terribly enthusiastic about Alexandre Dumas, who will be read, he said, far longer than Zola, who of course despises Dumas. One of Monsieur Renoir’s principles is that art must be entertaining and understandable.
WEDNESDAY, 8 DECEMBER
Met Monsieur Degas at the Louvre, who spent an hour and a half chatting to us about painting. ‘You’ve just been listening to a pedantic old fool!’ he joked.
He gave a great deal of advice to Paule about the copy she’s doing, which he thought had started off very well. The only thing that shocked him was a section of white canvas, which he wished to see covered immediately. He also said that one shouldn’t use too many colours; that in the Vierge au lapin the fabrics and the mountains should be done with the same blue as the sky; the flesh passages and the orange fabric with the same colour. ‘That’s what gives a painting harmony’, he said. He spoke about grounds: all the old masters always painted on a dark ground; Titian with varnishes and glazes.
He looked at Jeanne’s copy, which he thought was nicely coloured but somewhat spoiled. In front of mine, he added: ‘She has quite a knack, young Julie; the armour is skilfully done, it’s stylish; but still, those bits of white canvas, dearie me, one could say it runs in the family.’ ‘Skilful and stylish’ pleased me. I’m always afraid that I lack these qualities, which I think are absolutely essential in a woman. Everything that has been said to me about my copy gives me encouragement.
Monsieur Degas showed a great deal of interest in a Miss Bauard, who has been copying the same painting for the last ten years. ‘She has the effect on me of a nun in mufti’, he said. ‘With her great veil she looks like a Philippe de Champaigne.314 I once told Arsène Alexandre that I had never heard her utter a single syllable, so I made a point of commenting on a painting; but she replied so discreetly that I couldn’t hear a word.’
Monsieur Degas led us into the gallery where the Primitives are hung, to see how his pupil Monsieur Rouart,315 whom he advised to prime a canvas with green to copy a Mantegna, was getting on. Unfortunately, he had done it in a really bright green.
While telling us that such and such a canvas must be primed in such and such a way, and showing us how often the same colour can be found in a painting, Monsieur Degas kept repeating: ‘What a pedantic old fool I am! Oh, dear me, just a pedantic old fool!’
THURSDAY, 16 DECEMBER
The dinner with Mallarmé and Renoir was very enjoyable: conversation between these two witty men is always charming. Monsieur Renoir recounted, in a very droll way, how he had been invited to a wedding at Vincennes, but couldn’t find the exact venue, and so instead tagged along at another ceremony which was also taking place in the huge main space, as vast as a concert hall. Lots of other weddings were being held in adjoining very chic private rooms with painted ceilings and plaster angels, but the guests at those seemed so bored that they soon joined the main event and mingled, so much so that some of the newly married couples couldn’t find each other at the end of the evening.
SATURDAY, 18 DECEMBER
Today, my Tante Chevalier was buried, which made me think of sad things. All the family was gathered together; even Oncle Octave316 came. We didn’t weep much for our poor old aunt. I suppose that when one dies at the age of 84, death seems practically natural. I had thought I was suitably attired for a funeral, but at the Louvre I attracted a certain amount of attention, and a gentleman came up to me and said: ‘Mademoiselle, Monsieur Henner317 has just admired your outfit.’
Julie in the smart velvet suit so admired by the painter Henner in December 1897
‘That’s because it’s artistic’, said the man in charge of the easels, who is a real dear.
THURSDAY, 23 DECEMBER
We went to the Renoirs for dinner, where we were to have met Wyzewa, though only Arsène Alexandre and Abel Faivre, who was not as merry as usual, were there. Monsieur Renoir was charming and Madame Renoir as pleasant as could be. She has really taken to us since we spent so much time chatting to her about her part of the country. She was coughing a great deal, and now drinks only milk, and said she was starving. She’s getting thinner – or, should I say, less fat.
At dinner we discussed the Dreyfus Affair,318 which is back in the news and is quite extraordinary. How horrible it would be to have condemned this man if he isn’t guilty – but surely it couldn’t be possible. Arsène Alexandre criticized Roday319 for not having gone far enough and said the Affair was far from being over and could bring about serious consequences. He appears to find the situation critical.
We all ended up laughing a great deal with Faivre, who, though really rather coarse at times, is nevertheless very funny. We treat him as a chum, and are not afraid to say silly things when he is around.
SUNDAY, 26 DECEMBER
I must admit I feel like having fun this coming year; I feel I deserve to enjoy myself and take pleasure in silly things and life in general.
