Wednesday, 6 July 1881 – 24 June

Yesterday a domestic storm: Father was rather sheepish when, in front of him, I repeated to Maman yesterday’s conversation.

The Princess is indignant in her customary paternal way — heaven has given me everything, she says, and I am not happy.

For some months now I have been going grey. Going grey at my age is fairly rare — one finds it is my deafness, I know, that has done this.

M. Patchenko and his daughter arrived at noon. I thought worse of him than he turns out to be, and it is astonishing that a man so seemingly respectable should behave so detestably toward Paul, and above all toward his wife, whom he leaves without a penny in a household not her own.

In any case they are comfortable here, and he comes on visits as though he had been blameless — and now that he has been well received he will have no desire to act otherwise, assuming he ever had such a desire.

I have finished my painting, which is better than anything I have done before — the head especially, which I redid entirely three times. But not having drawn with sufficient care it turns out that the arm is a little short and there is awkwardness in the pose — and those faults are not forgivable in me, since I have what is needed to avoid them. I should have abandoned it more than once, for this painting... well, it would have been as good to make several studies rather than finish it with that arm too short. But I had always hoped that my father would buy it from me, having given me no present and I having come here... but it does not appear to be forthcoming.

There is a fair in the village; we go and amuse ourselves throwing all the sweets we can find to the crowd — it is like carnival confetti. It makes a fine collective movement: all the hands reach out at once, everyone rushes to the ground — it is like a human wave. A crowd is beautiful.

in the margin Mme Gavini writes to me, Brimont, the little one, Wolff too But now Paul points out the appearance of the Frenchwoman¹ at my father’s — to whom he has made a gift of a small estate nearby (a hundred arpents²) — and who cannot be prevented from appearing in public. I am immediately wounded; had nothing been said I should have passed over it in silence, but it is insupportable that one speaks of this in my presence. I leave the place, covering myself with my parasol and veil so that this creature does not see my face — and also the illegitimate daughter of M. Bashkirtseff, whom he fathered by a peasant woman, and whom Maman, on her last stay, admitted into her presence, even lodging her on the same floor as Maman... It is — it is charming. One can still accept a child from the man one loves, a married man — but a child born after marriage is so outrageous, so horrible, that I cannot say. I am wounded by the mere thought that this... girl is nearby and might by chance catch sight of me when I go out...

The gentleman³ had made himself scarce. But you must admit it is detestable to be exposed to such encounters.