Monday, 15 April 1878

Schaeppi will come only in the afternoons — consequently this torment will last two weeks.
When I draw I no longer live the life of ordinary people — I am at my work. But when I sit for my portrait...
This morning, vexed at having missed the atelier owing to that wretched Swiss girl's letter arriving too late, I went to the Louvre with Rosalie, and on the way sent Fortuné to tell Multedo that as I was to be at the Louvre where Mlle Schaeppi — of whom I had spoken to him — is working at present, it is a good opportunity for me to introduce her to him since he wishes to have his portrait done. He replies that at half past twelve he will be happy to meet me at the Louvre. But on the way I form the plan of leaving at noon sharp and leaving him to fret alone — then I relent and decide to wait for him after all; but Multedo is evidently doomed to misfortune, for the museums are always closed on Mondays. So I return home and send him the following note as late as possible:
Dear Monsieur,
I wished to introduce you to Mlle Schaeppi but had forgotten that the Louvre is closed on Mondays. So please do not go there.
Marie Bashkirtseff.
And here is his reply — equally in the Italian tenor manner, equally florid, and equally... the devil take him...
^6^ Monday [15 April 1878]. Mademoiselle,
I thank you for having been so kind as to remember me and the charming plan you proposed.
I found your note on returning from the Louvre. I myself, absorbed entirely by the joy I felt, had forgotten that Monday is a day of rest for our museums.
I experienced, before the closed doors of the palace, a cruel disappointment.
One never tires, indeed, of contemplating masterpieces.
When I have had the delight of admiring a marvel on Saturday and Sunday, I am only the more enraptured to see it again on Monday.
Respectful homage.
A. Multedo
Dina has said that Paul de Cassagnac would be quite different if I had been with him half as agreeable as I am with Multedo. This notion — absurd perhaps — is nonetheless not of a kind to delight me.
The feet that Schaeppi paints are worthless. Maman and Dina
- Ibid, p. 256-257
return and say they have met Cassagnac with a friend, in a young man's carriage, in the Bois, on the Champs-Élysées. This almost makes me angry; I slip my bare feet into white mules, put on a hat, a veil, a coat, and go out with Dina. But this walk, these courtesans, these bankers, these dandies — all of it disgusts me! I shall never go out again in this Paris that sickens me!
So Paul de Cassagnac is to become like everyone else!
One may marry the woman one loves — but do not say cynically: I am thoroughly bored of this, I am fading; let us marry! Fie! The horror! And it is Cassagnac who promenades on the Champs-Élysées with his friend who drives!!
My God, how foolish I am — why not? I knew perfectly well that he went into society, into the Faubourg Saint-Germain, and it had already made me angry; and it made me weep because I go nowhere — I!! It is the same old story... my old aspirations.
The air is heavy, it is hot, the streets are full of carriages towards evening — I hate France, the French, and Paris!
Paris is necessary for anyone who wishes to be known... but I hate it!!
Balzac said, in La Recherche de l'Absolu, something that would please the Imperialists and that pleases me because it justifies them!! ... "She felt criminal in the manner of great men who violate liberties to save the fatherland."
Schaeppi paints dreadful feet that are more those of the Swedish woman than mine. I am wasting my time for nothing.
One suffocates in this city — it is already too warm.
I am bored.
I am unsettled... It is idleness — it is because I am not drawing.
I must have feet, however — I shall have them cast... but that would require money, which I do not have — that is to say, we do not have.
That monster Multedo who thinks he pleases me!! This morning's business will confirm his belief. I told him several times, laughing: "Keep that conviction as long as you can, dear Monsieur," when he had the air of believing himself the favourite. Fie! The horror.
Why is it not Paul de Cassagnac! Let us say it outright. Because it is always like this!!
If I ever pleased Blanc, he has rid himself of the idea, as the policeman he is. Besides, a double-faced man who stands absolutely between us and Cassagnac, who was already
none too gentle.