Monday, 22 July 1878

Mademoiselle, I bless my letter for having irresistibly provoked your counsel. Would that I were as irresistible as my letter. Among your counsels there are some that I accept. There are others that I regard as jests. First, I cannot admit that your guitar arrived in bad condition. It left completely healed of its wound. How can it have come to grief on the way? Next, I cannot believe your precept to be serious; you have too much good sense to think that one ought to fight before having been offended, or even when the offence, being insignificant, has been amply made good. Your ideal Cassagnac himself accepts written reparations. I, who am no swashbuckler but simply a serious man who commands respect coolly and without fuss, may content myself with them too. If you love bravoes and seekers of quarrels, I shall never suit you, for I am accustomed always to act honourably in every circumstance of my life. I shall try to write to you without hope of a reply. However, the verses I sent you the day before yesterday are so bad that I cannot believe you will resist the urge to mock them and send me a scathing letter. One piece of counsel calls for another. Always paying generously, I am going to give you several which, unlike yours, will all be good. I strongly urge you to set them down indelibly and to put them into practice:
I° — The country you choose, the customs you find. Since you wish to live in France, learn, however great your repugnance at resembling French young ladies, to be like them in your habits. Content yourself with differing from them by surpassing them, as you do, in charm, wit and beauty! As long as you were in Florence, in Nice, in towns smaller than Paris, you could with impunity appear to act as you pleased. There you set the fashion. In Paris no one dominates absolutely. In seeking to dominate, one cuts oneself off. Besides, it does not become a young lady to stand out from everyone: a young lady without modesty is a monster. Content yourself with being more beautiful and wittier than anyone. That is advantage enough. You are beautiful; you have no need to dress always in white, which in Paris seems too showy, that is to say, hardly proper. To be witty you need only let the bird of your wit sing, without forever uttering paradoxes, harsh things, mockeries. Prefer the gold of things natural and true to the tinsel of things far-fetched and exaggerated. Wishing to live in Paris, you have the choice between your eternally white costumes, your drives in the carriage all alone, your atelier, your death’s head with which you play incessantly, although that dead man deserves respect, a few elderly women accompanied by their dogs, like two or three young men whom I have seen at your house and who looked such strange figures, a few young men whom you put to flight with your mockery, candied lemon slices, your interminable memoirs, the Opéra ball — or else less showy costumes, less original habits, such as not going out alone, a little more time at home and less at the atelier, and good French society, which it is so easy for you to enter and in which you could take first place. Try to acquire more modesty of appearance, more kindness towards devoted friends such as myself, more tenderness towards those around you, for instance towards Madame your mother. I fear your anger. I shall stop. Enough for today; show me that you have a heart and wit; tell me that you see I am profoundly devoted to you and that all I have said is just. One more addendum. Why do you call yourself Mlle de Bashkirtzsff? The De does not exist in Russia. Besides, even in France it does not indicate that one is noble. There are people with this particle who are commoners, and others without it who are noble. If in Russia your name is preceded by a particle meaning De, why do you not take it untranslated? One says Prince Gortchakoff, Prince Schouvaloff. One does not say, so far as I know, the Princes de Gortchakoff and de Schouvaloff. That would be originality of the right sort — to take my sermon in this way and profit by such good counsel! I have so high an opinion of you that I almost count on it. For the rest, you cannot doubt the feelings you inspire in me. I lay them at your feet as a respectful homage. A. Multedo
I detest old women accompanied by little dogs — I wage war on my own family over every such matter — but the moment an outsider presumes to find fault, family quarrels vanish; the moment my own are attacked I am there to defend them... just as I shall always be there to defend the weaker and defy the strong. If I have copied this gentleman’s letter in extenso rather than pinning the original itself to one of these pages, it is because the original has already been returned to Mont-de-Marsan without a stroke of my pen.
I am not Monsieur Multedo’s intended, and were I so I should find exceedingly improper everything he permits himself to say to me — revealing thus his petty character, his mean-spirited nature that takes its revenge through stupid impertinences upon a witty joke.
You know what to think of all the things he dares to reproach me with, except one: my drives in the carriage all alone. That is a lie. Once only did I go out alone in our carriage, with our liveries, from the house to the Yorkes’, a dozen houses away; it was to call for Yorke and take a drive with her. I had the misfortune to meet the gentleman who is no swashbuckler and to speak to him at the foot of the stairs, after which I got into the carriage and drove on to Madame Yorke’s.
I trembled with anger while copying that letter — I hope he will tremble with humiliation upon receiving it. If Paul de Cassagnac said all those things to me, I would never forgive him — not even him.
As for writing de Bashkirtseff, I never do so, for the very reasons Multedo gives.
He takes me very seriously, all the same; when I was rattling off my nonsense and writing jokes, I never thought I should strike so hard.
Harsh things and mockeries, indeed! But, poor man, I say them only to you. With the others I am proud but polite.
We make the acquaintance of Madame Outine — a woman already thirty-two or thirty-four, but ravishingly beautiful and distinguished, though not elegant. Monsieur Multedo denies Art! He is still at the stage of heads of Romulus for young ladies and Chaplin portraits for exhibitions. But I have taken more trouble over him than he deserves. Too strong a criticism is a kind of homage. And he has a right to nothing. I used to mock him; I shall not even do that any more.
As for the society we receive... I shall take my revenge this winter, not on Multedo’s account in particular, but for all the others.
This Multedo, for all his good upbringing, has at the very least shown a total want of tact.

Notes

In Italian in the original: Paese che vuoi, essi che trovi. (evidently for the proverb Paese che vai, usanza che trovi, approximately “When in Rome, do as the Romans do”). ↩
In French in the original: comme il faut. ↩
Charles Chaplin (1825-1891), a fashionable French painter of sentimental portraits of pretty women; considered by serious artists a purveyor of decorative prettiness rather than genuine art. ↩