Thursday, 18 July 1878

Madame de Hohenlohe has departed — only the two young men remain, who dined beside me at the table d’hôte today. They occupy the ground floor of the right pavilion, we the first floor. Their balcony is below ours. I sing and they play the piano. According to the servants’ gossip, they find me pretty and well made. They always fling my behind in my face! I who know so many things cannot understand why this particular wealth is so prized.
In Germany one sees many that are broad and flat — I have never seen one so prominent as mine, which is a perfection... of its kind. After painting I dressed and joined the company... (apropos of Madame Abaza... there is in Frankfurt a certain Monsieur Kirchenstein) before setting off we stood chatting in front of the house, so that the two princes had time to take a good look at me... They must think me very pedantic, without my noticing it. At table I spoke with Dr Tomachewsky of scientific matters; then Madame Antonsky and the others spoke of professors, of Madame Abaza who sings; they asked what lessons cost, and it was said that my anatomy professor was paid so much and another so much, etc.
There is nothing I do not do — and this must produce a bewildering effect on men who do not expect it. By dint of being a universal woman I shall become frightful... unless I manage to appear divine... It would be amusing to play at sentiment with this German who spends his summer in a nest of greenery with a brother and a piano.
Multedo writes to Maman... she sends me the letter, in which he does nothing but talk of his failed duel and ask after me.
This sentence is incomparable — judge for yourselves: “I was assisted by two political men who handled the affair admirably.” Is it not stupendous — this fine young man assisted by those two political men who handled the affair so admirably! Tell me whom you keep company with... etc.
I regret that the poor boy writes such grotesque things.
As for little Dourassoff, he talks to me quite freely now. Everyone mocks his shyness; I mock him no more than I do the others, and I speak to him kindly because he longs to speak to me.
Florence Lacon writes to me from London.
I have made myself a garnet velvet bonnet like the black one I had in Paris. I wear it only indoors; it is difficult to go out walking in a red hat, although it suits me to perfection; I look like a child, and it is a superb colour. I should like to have my portrait done in it, but that is impossible... I may often be merely passable or pretty, but there are moments, days, when this bonnet, a hat, a veil, hair waving and escaping in disordered curls... knotted on top of the head, livelier eyes, a happier smile... in this way I sometimes manage to call myself ravishing; but to believe it one must live with me and observe me close at hand. The bourgeois who admire me do not suspect what I myself admire; they see only features, a complexion, a figure. My features drive the whole atelier mad, Julian at the head. It seems my features are capricious and picturesque... Greuze. Well, there are poses in which I become absolutely classical if a band is put across my forehead. It seems incredible, but it is the truth; I have made sure of it with mirrors and with sketches done at the atelier. I am speaking for future generations; forgive me if this is read sooner. Inquire of those who have known me otherwise than from seeing me on the promenade or at a ball. I repeat, the head is for the fanciful, who will find endless things to admire in it: the colouring, the mobility; it is fifty heads in one.
The upper body for artists and the lower for the bourgeois.