Saturday, 15 March 1879

If Robert-Fleury — known as Tony in his absence — scolds me today, I give up painting! You know how much envy, and above all how much disparagement, my progress has brought me. Every time something goes wrong, they seem to cry: I told you so, it could not last. My first canvases brought me compliments, and then I entered a difficult phase, and I sensed too much gloating around me not to suffer from it keenly. This morning I awaited this lesson as something dreadful, and while that brute Tony corrected the others and came little by little nearer my place, I recited prayers with a fervour that heaven appreciated — for he was pleased with me. Great heavens, what a weight fell from my heart! Perhaps you have no idea of such emotions? Picture that silence in which I felt the joy they would have had in seeing me crushed again — and this time for good — for friends and enemies are the same in such things.
Well, it is over; next week I can bear any savaging they please.
There is something that is beginning to worry me, and I think I shall go and see Dr Blanche, the alienist. I am not afraid of madness, but I should like to rid myself of an obsession that is becoming unbearable. It dates from the famous paragraph in the Figaro, the Nice races. You do not know what a torment it is.
It seems to me that everywhere I am taken for a cocotte. And my aunt — an aunt — who is so indifferent, so passive, who looks so much as though she were only accompanying me! And I, who am decided and lively. In shops this idea makes me utterly wretched.
This evening we dine at the Karageorgevitches’. The prince served in the Guard after renouncing the throne of Serbia for himself and his family; he is a sickly, ordinary man. The princess is simple too; she will never understand that one can be bored at evenings like this one. Two very simple American women, the two sons of the house and two French friends, the Comtes de Deuil (?). It all smelt of the baccalauréat or the Law Faculty, and so we talked of philosophy and a heap of schoolroom things.
During the evening a Madame Mavrocordato arrived with her two daughters of fifteen to seventeen, and naturally I thought they would shrink from me, but happily nothing of the sort happened. I shall address prayers to God instead of going to Dr Blanche.
Lancaster writes to me that Berthe has been “safely delivered of a pretty little boy”. So much the better; men are happier when they are unhappy than women are.
I am bored! It cannot go on! And that good princess who was saying: “Was I not right to urge you to come? You must shake yourself up a little, even for your art’s sake. One grows gloomy in solitude.”
As if I needed telling, great heavens!
All I can do is close my eyes, clench my fists and stop breathing for a minute; that keeps back the tears.
All the same, I wrote to Bashkirtseff père:
I congratulate you warmly on having, in the space of three years, made your son the coarsest person in the world. Your efforts are crowned with success, and from Poltava to Gravronzi there will never bloom a more accomplished boor and lout.
Marie Bashkirtseff....