Wednesday, 25 July 1877

I twisted my foot jumping down from the train at Enghien station. I am limping like Gaston last year.

My aunt is beset by Georges’s creditors. I thought I was rid of all those horrors — but no, they pursue me everywhere. I have wept with grief and rage.

I am very unhappy; it seems to me I have not enough air to breathe.

I want to go to Rome.

I replied to Marcuard with the execrable letter that follows — but to make it comprehensible I must explain that it is written on a large sheet which, instead of initials, bears a drawing by me representing Alexandre, Marcuard, and Melissano dressed in Moroccan shirts, French cloaks, etc. as William Tell, with the little cape, the sword, and the felt hat with a sprig of I know not what; the hat is fastened on the back, giving them quite a pleasing shepherd-like air.

“The Horatii, the Oath of Rütli¹ — or the reconciliation you are called upon to effect. By the way, why are these great friends on cold terms? I thought the cord binding them in my picture was solid. My cure [One line crossed out] at Enghien, where they take me every day from eight o’clock until one, exhausts me horribly, and besides I detest Paris. This gaming-den, this bazaar, this café — where one cannot breathe except when one has been installed for a month in a mansion between courtyard and garden. With the window shut one stifles; open it and you are deafened by the clatter of carriages. My mandolin yields only plaintive notes — but then all stringed instruments recall a host of touching things. So Manara says nothing ill of me — you see what an excellent young man — well, I shall do him justice in future. As for your place in the other world: you might perhaps go to heaven, thanks to your regular character, but your commerce with the damned relegates you elsewhere.

... Among those who are suspended²!”

Ah! Monsieur, you take an interest in Euterpe³ — I am not surprised in a man of distinction, and since you implore me I am willing to give you the harrowing details of Monsieur de Larderel’s visit and its consequences for Her.

Your friend was as Œil-de-bœuf,⁴ as red-heeled⁵ as you know, always followed by his lackey like My Lord and his manservant. Very prudent of him. I accordingly showed him to the young person in question — but she let out a great cry and fainted, fleeing at full speed, so that not one of the velocipedes dispatched in pursuit was able to catch her, and I have no idea what became of her.

Instead of being moved to pity by this disaster, your friend continued to go to Monaco occasionally with our ladies — but invariably accompanied by his friend Torlonia and followed by a page.

After which My-Lord-and-his-manservant lunched with us — unfortunately, as we were on the point of departure, the only thing we could offer against his formidable equipage was a house in disorder, which I shall never cease to regret.

Let me not forget to heap you with blessings according to my promise, in returning to you the image somewhat deteriorated by the ravages of time.

As for the question about which you promise me so touching a discretion, I shall answer you only this: do you by any chance take me for the young harpist?!

We are staying another ten days in Paris, waiting for the people from Nice; after which we shall go to A I do not know what we shall do until September, and in September we shall go to Biarritz perhaps — they say it will be very fashionable.

Do you still break horses? Believe me, they are worth more than men — at least when a horse kicks you, you can be sure it is not the donkey’s kick.⁶

Au revoir. Ah! I was about to forget to tell you that I find your letters charming and beg you not to be lazy.

Marie Bashkirtseff

P.S. I am informed that a harp has been found on a highroad, with a note worded thus: “Tell him that in Switzerland there are dangerous mountains.”

To this piece of nonsense I add Alexandre’s photograph, and seal the whole in an immense yellow envelope with five seals of red wax, addressed as follows: Switzerland, Berne. Value three thousand francs. To Monsieur the Commandeur F. de Marcuard. Care of Marcuard and Company, Bankers.

It cost me seven francs in all, but I am greatly amused at the thought of the effect those declared values will produce.

If I let myself go I should be more comfortable,⁷ but I have a horror of wilful despair, and I do everything in the world to keep my spirits up and not to think of it.

Fauvel sent me a masseur who, it appears... cures sprains and so on; he massaged my poor foot, and I laughed and shrieked while the baron, his wife, his niece and my aunt stood round me laughing or... urging me to be patient. It did hurt, you know!

Anyway, it is not a sprain — and when I think that poor Gaston had a sprain! True, he had the consolation of being supported on the right by Alexandre and on the left by his Silène...

When I think of all that... how it has been spoilt since.

But no, it is that Alexandre who made fun of me with his letters; he led me on, and then... and then all that foolishness you know of.

I have had enough of these portraits; the one I sent back to Marcuard annoyed me thoroughly, with his Gil costume. I think I know why I detest these portraits: it is because they remind me of the vile antics with Antonelli’s. Fie, how horrid! Even if there were no other reasons, one would prefer Alexandre simply because his influence has been entirely clean and charming.

Yes, it is Antonelli who keeps me from looking at Alexandre. That little cur, that dirty wretch from Rome! He would have been quite all right if I had not taken it into my head to make a hero of him! Was it...

Well, it was a lesson that has done me good and will do me good; only one cannot help being vexed about it.