Thursday, 31 May 1877

It was to give me this letter that I was disturbed in the middle of some fervent painting. The new Melissano has come off better than the first; I have begun Grand-maman’s portrait from a pastel smaller than life, which I shall enlarge, and I am going on with my own, which is improving little by little. Marcuard’s letter contained a nasty little photograph of Alexandre, in which he was all smiles and commonplace.
After loud cries and bursts of laughter, in which I joined only for form’s sake and because such a letter from a serious man flattered me, I went off to write the reply, and here it is, on a sheet headed with a large PAX VOBIS, set out in the antique manner:
I choose this motto on account of your terrible temper.
After what you say of my wit, I write even more point-blank, because if I began to think I should say things either too fine or too ugly.
You have just received a useless letter from me, since here is the portrait; but listen, I am sending it back to you: it faces the wrong way, and if I placed it beside the prince it would turn its back on him. So then be very kind and send quickly, quickly a picture in costume, which I shall of course return to you, heaping blessings upon you. Maman certainly accepts the offer of a picture for herself. Does the visit stir me, you ask? I have been so stirred for nearly seventeen years and six months now (I am hiding a year) that I need not go to the trouble of getting beside myself. You speak of speech and of song, seeming unaware that plumage is the chief ornament of birds of this species.
If you fell at the Skating rink as happily as at Sorrento before the siren’s door, I congratulate you, and rest assured that I shall keep in the depths of my heart the memory of how you spun round like an india-rubber ball of the finest quality.
Send the portrait and hinder no longer the completion of the painting that is to make me famous; I shall send you back the model, so do not trouble yourself. Was it to pass himself off as a cashier that A. de Larderel went to Belgium?
My address is still Nice; I await yours.
All greetings from one and all.
Marie Bashkirtseff
P. J. What you say of the Duke of San Cesario is dreadful; how did he die? Poor Campomarino, that is why he has not yet sent the group we posed for at Caserta. That is what comes of always keeping one’s meter running!
Enclosed with this is a square piece of paper with a charming rosebud and these words: The young harpist sends you a kiss, and so does He. Do not be surprised; she is very sensitive.
So the Duke of San Cesario is dead; long live the Duke of San Cesario. There is no more Campomarino.
I was perfectly calm, but Mme Anitchkoff, Maman and everyone else found me agitated after Alexandre’s photograph.
I am busying myself with other things; it is the moving of the books and of all these things that worries me. I am beginning to be all at sixes and sevens, not knowing which way to turn.
I cherish a secret hope that my beloved mother knows something of my letters to the Swiss. I say beloved mother without the least irony, and with tenderness. Her kindly ways towards me have left me with deep gratitude and much affection for this woman, a stranger to me, who must be so good. For her sake I should like to go and live in Florence; she encourages me and makes me see sympathy everywhere, and hands held out to me.
I do not think it is because she is Alexandre’s mother, for I do not believe I feel any love for him. What sort of love is it that leaves me so tranquil, and of which, having no reasonable hope of any kind, one does not die? I shall believe myself possessed by that demon only when I can neither eat, nor walk, nor dress, when I lie on my bed delirious, dying, in my last agony. Until one comes to that, one has felt only preferences, which, unreturned, are as violent as love returned.
I dream, as before, but with infinitely more calm, of meeting him one day and perhaps living over again the novel Eugene Onegin (by Pushkin!). So far it is exactly our story. Read it, if you know Russian; it is a charming book.
It seems to me that so much time has passed since Naples!

Notes

In Italian in the original: Tutti saluti di tutti quanti. ↩