Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Monday, 26 April 1880

I have no place at the atelier. A ravishing American is going to pose for me on the condition that I give her the finished work.
But her little face seizes me, and it will be almost a painting. I dream of a revised arrangement, and the little one is kind enough to tell me she will pose and be content with a small portrait that I shall do after this one. If I did not have a painting at the Salon, students would never have enough confidence in me to pose.
Yesterday Anna came to see me and we went together to the Simonides'. They have returned from Spain, and Madame reiterates her compliments — compliments that please me. I believe her to be truthful; she said nothing when it was bad, and she frankly admits that when, ten days before the 20th of March, she saw my work of genius with only the head begun — and very badly — she thought I would abandon it, having understood that the undertaking was beyond my powers.
Besides, Julian thinks Tony worked on it, and Tony — you know well what he did: it was in too dark a key, he put pallid tones everywhere, and I conscientiously repainted everything except a bit of the muslin sleeve. As for the hand, he had drawn it while painting, but on the second-to-last day I shortened the fingers, which led me to redo everything — so there is not even any drawing of his; he only showed me how to do it. All in all, I did it honestly, and besides, it is not that remarkable.
This evening at Mme Reille's, but her nephew has broken his leg, everyone has left, and we got off with simply leaving our cards [words blacked out: just below] those of Mme and Mademoiselle de Tanlay, the mother and sister of M. de Tanlay, the lover of Mme Basilevitch. And then to Mme de Pascalis (an invitation via Mouzay) — former magistrates, I believe, who have rented the Hotel d'Alcantara, which has that long, narrow gallery giving onto the Champs-Elysees through a single window. The house is curiously arranged thanks to this tongue of land running to the Champs-Elysees, and lends itself to parties despite the narrow gallery. Decent, amiable people, but a bizarre crowd, outfits from another era, no one of any acquaintance, no society. I am drowsy and cross. And dear Maman gets up to present me to the Chilean or the Mexican "who laughs."
He has a dreadful grimace that makes him leer sinisterly at all times — it is a tic — and along with that, a broad, beaming face. He has twenty-seven million, and Maman believes I am capable of anything for twenty-seven million.
To marry this man is almost like marrying a man without a nose — ugh, how horrible! I would take an ugly man, an old man — they are all the same to me — but a monster, never!
What good would millions be with such a millstone of ridicule!
Several acquaintances, but it is all so soporific: Mme Cremieux, the Mouzays, her mother. Amateurs who set your teeth on edge with their music, a violinist one cannot hear, and a handsome man who sings Schubert's Serenade after leaning one hand on the piano and casting triumphant glances and poses at the audience. So ridiculous! I cannot understand why a gentleman would come and ham it up at a grand soiree.
The women looked as though they had slept in their coiffures. And that white powder, so dirty-looking in the hair. They looked as though they had styled themselves with mattress stuffing and rolled in straw. How ugly!
How stupid! And Maman thinks she is taking me into society.