Saturday, 18 November 1882

Mme Gavini came; Papa is very unwell; and I saw Tony and the portrait.
I find the portrait poor. It is not me — not my expression, not my mouth, not my complexion. I am not so pale; my eyes are far more vivid and my mouth infinitely more childlike. As for the nose, he has given it ridges and a hardness between the eyes that I do not have. My whole face, in short, is too washed out — despite that misplaced hardness of the nose — and the pose is not mine; I am never so stiff as that, and I have never had such puffed cheeks, nor such carefully combed hair.
Well — provided my family finds it good; for it is four thousand francs... to be paid.
I say nothing of what I think; on the contrary I try to admire — but this evening, standing before the portrait, it was impossible. Very well — it may not be a likeness; it may be flattering or unflattering; but it might at least have been a pretty thing, a painting worth looking at, in short an agreeable work of art (by agreeable I do not mean sweet, affected and bourgeois, but all that is agreeable to the eyes of intelligent people — in short, a good thing). And it is not that.
Everything is worked to exhaustion; everything is insipid...
Bojidar arrives during dinner. He has adopted the airs of a man and is joking about Sarah.

Notes

Sarah Bernhardt (1844–1923), the great actress. Three days earlier Marie wrote that Bojidar used to believe in “la virginité de Sarah Bernhardt dont le fils a été à l’école avec lui” (097.0073); now, putting on “the airs of a man”, he jokes about her private life, which was the subject of endless gossip. ↩