Friday, 15 October 1880

I receive a letter from Maman in which she tells me that she wept so much at not having been able to take me to Biarritz that she has become almost blind and cannot read. As for what detained her, here it is: it is the lawsuit; she is perforce obliged to stay there until it is judged. M. Bashkirtseff stood as guarantor for her and posted bond for the sum of two hundred thousand roubles. I mangle the legal terms, but no matter. Alexandre has gone to Petersburg to have lifted this sort of injunction that the Zamiatines were delighted to have imposed — it is a nasty trick indeed, and they must be pleased. She sent, she says, Woldemar to Paris to explain this to us, but — "he told you nothing, it seems" — I should think not; they talked with my aunt and I knew nothing, but you will recall that I suspected something. "Hoping," she says, "from one day to the next to settle this annoyance, I did not want to tell you anything about it."
So at last there is an explanation for her conduct. Well yes, she is very unhappy, but instead of grieving me this suits me; she would have been abominable to me if there were not these excuses. Besides, if there were not all these reasons her conduct would be incomprehensible. As for M. Bashkirtseff's chivalrous act, do not exaggerate it; it is not as fine as it looks — if he ran any risk of paying the sum for which he stood guarantor he would have done absolutely nothing. But it sounds good. I cannot quite explain it to you; in short it is this: if the person for whom one signs this bond does not appear at the appointed hour at the disposal of the court, the guarantor must pay.
Now God knows what a muddle this will be. If Alexandre does not manage to have this thing lifted, Maman will stay until the lawsuit is judged, or she will leave, and in that case M. Bashkirtseff will pay. But how likely is it that her husband will let her leave, and how likely is it that she will want to leave? Besides, they will find forty-eight thousand excellent reasons to make her be patient, with that atrocious system of theirs. They know, for example, that the matter will be in two months, but they will take good care not to say so, and instead will lead you on saying every day: it is tomorrow or in a few days. But it is likely that Alexandre will arrange the matter, and then the bond becomes useless. Either way M. Bashkirtseff will have all the honor, and it will have cost him nothing. He is a lucky fellow.
Now, if one admits that Alexandre obtains nothing, then the stay in Russia can drag on dreadfully, for I believe that for the lawsuit to be judged all the accused, or interested parties, must be present. So my aunt would be needed, and even the vile drunkard you know of — just imagine how likely it is that they will bring him there...
Ugh! The ugly business — I have occupied myself too much with it.
And as I am selfish (there is a word that is abused and rarely means what one intends) I shall drop the subject, hoping that Alexandre will have arranged everything and that, as Maman says, she will be here next month. But why not have told me everything at once! Why irritated me, driven me mad with rage by lying to me in every letter?
Ah! That is it, that is their system. If they had told me everything I would have adjusted, but no, that would have been too simple. They had to lie, to tease me, and provoke abominable letters which I was entitled to write knowing nothing... Well.
[Written across: for weeping]
I have resumed the portrait I made before this summer, of a student from Julian's. Not the one with the yellow hair — no; another, a ravishing creature. Hair [crossed out: dark chestnut] brown with red highlights. Such freshness and life! A ravishing complexion (though prone to broken capillaries), adorable brown eyes, a divine mouth. But something a little ordinary in the face seen from the front; I paint her in profile. And a neck and arms splendid in color and form. She is twenty-five and a widow with a little boy of five and a half. If that woman were a model I would hire her by the year. And she has admirable hands with all that, and admirable skin too. No, it is impossible to convey the extraordinary radiance of her face. I already have my idea for the Salon with her. I shall give her the portrait, and she has certainly earned it, for she poses like an angel.
I have dressed her in the style of Greuze — a bodice of cream damask and a fichu of Indian muslin. I shall never dare ask her to pose for the Salon; it would be the work of a month. If I could discover a way to pay her, but it is impossible... I have already asked her to pose, jokingly but seriously... Ah! What a model — one could make something splendid of her.
Just as I set the fashion for white three or four years ago, now they are copying my crossed drapery and my pointed sash. It is most irritating. For nearly two years I have worn my sash this way, and now Doucet and others have seized upon it — there is nothing so pretty and graceful, and it is going to become disgusting from being worn by everyone. You know, one takes the ribbon, the sash, and ties it in front very low, in a point. It is casual and ravishing. And now I am obliged to find something else.

Notes

Jean-Baptiste Greuze (1725-1805), French painter known for sentimental genre scenes featuring young women in period costume.