Wednesday, 6 June 1883

My family will not understand that neither Étincelle, nor Le Sport, nor Saint-Amand, nor anyone can go on singing my praises; I do not go out, and besides, people mock those who constantly write about someone who has no established position in society. Were it a question of launching me as a little actress, it would be another matter, but as a young lady of society it is impossible to be in fashion without being reasonably well known in the salons.

And my family, who understand none of this, is furious because Mademoiselle Martinoff is mentioned everywhere.

She is a tall, handsome girl with an irregular and not pretty face, but who makes a strong impression with a little rouge. She goes everywhere.

As for me, I have never been to a proper ball, except the Fitz-James one — and then without preparation, in an evening dress, tired, and in a bad humour. I do not count the Continental balls and two official balls where one does nothing but appear and stroll, especially at the Continental ones. That makes me foolishly doubt whether it is possible to have any success in society. Yet at the very rare dancing evenings... One at the Kanchines’ — I believe that is the only dancing evening I have attended. The fancy-dress ball at the Foleyeffs’, where I went as one goes to a village wedding.

A fancy-dress ball two or three years ago at the Pascalis’ — a shoddy set. One at M. de Dalmas’s, also in fancy dress, but there were only rather fast married women and elderly Imperialists, and I made a very good impression there. And that is all. It sounds like a caricature, but those are all my dancing outings. Good Lord, by inclination I might perhaps not have gone dancing more often than that... But to say that even if I had been mad for it I should not have gone more — that is infuriating. People of true society and that Duchess Martinoff probably think that, elegant as I am, I dance every evening at balls where rather they they do not attend; I do not mean that one suspects me of going to improper gatherings, but there are so many receptions that are respectable enough without being of the true world. There it is — I am considered very well launched... in the wrong circles. Charming.

This morning there is a ceremony rather tedious. We have for nearly a year now a Black servant named Louis¹, about fifteen years old, very intelligent, who reminds me of the old Chocolat-Fortuné Saïd². So this Black boy was on the eve of making his First Communion; the priest has doubts about the authenticity of his baptism and, unwilling to administer the sacrament to a pagan, takes the precaution of re-baptising him. The whole household found it very amusing — this pagan — and I want to be his godmother... we only learned of all this yesterday; last night I wrote to Saint-Amand and to Bojidar. At eleven o’clock no one has come, and everything is waiting at the church; the poor child is very anxious, for I believe he has taken the whole thing seriously, and I approve — it moralises the masses; without religion there would be no way to get along... There may perhaps be a way, but in a very long time, when everyone is very well educated; in the meantime, priests are a necessary and beneficial scourge.

I understood that from this little boy’s manner. So at half past eleven, no one; I send a letter to Saint-Marceaux, as the nearest, with hasty explanations that I write in all seriousness and that produce such a comic effect that I am doubled over with laughter by myself.

Godmother, Black servant, suddenly — fortunately he is not at home and has not seen the letter. Then a dispatch to the architect — a violent measure: if you want to make peace with me, come at once. He is not at home either... So we end with the simplest solution: the priest gives us a church employee to represent M. Bashkirtseff, and I have him pompously entered in the register — Marshal of the Nobility and Actual State Councillor (he has just been appointed). There happens to be a rich wedding passing by, and all those idiots watch us in the little chapel. I christen him Louis-Jules-René-Marie.

And the monster, hearing us joking at table, laughs on hearing those names.

I am his spiritual mother — a fifteen-year-old Black boy. It is amusing; I shall reform him.

So I settle down to paint when the architect arrives. I thought he would be furious and distressed by my last letter; he does not appear so, declares himself very busy, and seems very content. That vexes me. I tell him I despise him — there is dignity — I add other elegant phrases, such as: I have nothing but annoyances and miseries; the world is vile; the jury members are dirty animals; disgusting cretins!! The whole conversation is in this exquisite style. Moreover I am not pleased to have sent for this subordinate who does not even seem submissive to me — he has the air of a man delighted to have freed himself. I put myself in the wrong toward the humblest people.

Witness the little American, and then this idea of having spoken at the ball the other evening to this vile architect about his brother’s dissipations. It is unspeakable... I understood today that he wanted to give me to understand that he too might not be entirely without sin. That is grotesque, and it is my fault. Shall I never be reasonable!!!!!!!!!!

It is too much, really! What! After everything I have been telling myself for years, I still do not know what I am saying in company!! It is hopeless. Such effusiveness and expansiveness are tolerable at twelve but unbearable later!

I must always tell everything, and the rest with it — what I do and especially what I should like to do, and childishness which in a grown girl is sheer folly.

I could only be this way before Balzac-like men who were mad about me, but before anyone at all! Ah, I am a fine Machiavelli and a pretty strategist.

Go on, people are right to say anything about me — I do my best to make them believe it. Wretched creature!

He has seen my painting, the false Bastien, and finds it much better than the Salon piece. I am displeased with the bearing of this subordinate; I tell you he looks emancipated. Oh — very respectful, of course, that goes without saying, only he looks very content, and that vexes me as if it ought to.

In short, whatever repugnance I may have to speaking of these things in connection with a mere brother of a man of talent, I will say that I had grown accustomed to counting on this attachment, and now that it seems to be failing me it is almost a disappointment. It may even be more humiliating to be dethroned in Monaco than in Paris — what do you think? But that is not the question. Princess Massalsky, the embassy — but you will perhaps gather the state of my mind... No, that is impossible.

To begin with, I am laid low by my ears (a fine image, that). You will understand my sufferings when I tell you that days when I hear well are like happy events. Can you grasp the horror of such a preoccupation!

And nerves over-excited to an absolutely extraordinary degree. My work suffers — I paint while devoured by imaginary anxieties. I imagine all manner of horrors; imagination runs, runs, runs; I suffer every infamy; I invent disgraces, dreading to see them happen. On entering the church it seemed to me that people were looking at me as though I were a woman of ill fame; someone would come and strike me, and I should not be surprised. I always believe that everywhere people take me for a kept woman... and this has been so since that famous article in Le Figaro six years ago. I believe it struck me like an illness... Yes, it must be a kind of madness on one point. I sit painting and think about what people must be saying about me, and I invent such horrors that I sometimes leap up and rush to the far end of the garden like a madwoman, uttering indignant exclamations.

Ah, that must produce beautiful painting. I should have cold showers. And this evening I shall write to Maman so that she may think about the embassy, or I shall go mad — it has already begun.