Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Wednesday, 8 September 1880

I take lessons from the Black woman, who is excessively funny with her Spanish-French pidgin.
Together we make a tableau; my library has been embellished. I placed the desk against the wall so as to free the bookshelves, the divan facing the desk, near the divan an immense armchair in embroidery and blue plush, placed a little to form a circle with the divan; between these two is a nightstand artistically draped with an Indian shawl and old green plush that serves as pedestal for a mediocre terracotta that nonetheless appears graceful in the shadow of the immense palm that extends its branches above the armchair; it is a ravishing corner when one glimpses it arriving from the drawing room; and from the divan one sees the desk, beside the desk the fireplace covered with greenery, an easel, etc. Near the palm, the harp, and opposite, near the fireplace, the tea table with the gleaming silver on a dark background; it is infinitely better now. Near the desk an old-style armchair, so that when one enters I have only to make a small movement with this chair to find myself facing people (the door and desk on the same wall) near the pedantic desk, with books as background, among paintings and plants, and legs and feet in view instead of being cut in two as before by that black wood. Above the divan hang the two mandolins and the guitar.
Put in the midst of all this a blonde, fair young girl with very small, fine hands veined with blue, and this tall Black she-devil showing her teeth and singing.
Unexpected visit. Lise Kondareff, who is here for a few days with a governess, no doubt to settle some debt of Maman's. She used to employ her for that four years ago in Nice. She is already eighteen.
Monsieur Georges came to the atelier to ask for M. Julian, for whom I had charged him with a commission when leaving for Biarritz. But Amelie knew very well that I knew Julian was absent; besides, she knows all her dirty stories from the atelier maid, who knows them from Rosalie.
What to say and what to do? Who then informs her of everything, even our plans! Of this poor Biarritz that I may not see, my dear Maman hurrying to return. If my daughter wrote me a quarter of what I have written (not insolence, but complaints), I would have left at once...
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