Monday, 24 December 1883

Tony comes this morning. He is pleased also — cooler than Julian about the statue, but pleased. I reminded him of the letter I wrote asking him to judge me as a stranger at the Salon. He replies that he stands by the word "good" even so. He would like the urchins to have more atmosphere... more... I agree and shall do it. He is a good man — but he believes me incapable of doing the Holy Women because I have not studied draperies at school and have not drawn inspiration from Michelangelesque attitudes. Nature is greater than Michelangelo. Poor little man. That stupid old Engelhardt woman caused us a dreadful moment this evening. She arrives towards five o'clock (not for dinner) — and to arrive like that something must have stirred in that milieu of mustiness. "Is this the Monceau quarter?" asks this old dotard. "Yes — why?" "Because Gil Blas¹ has printed that there is in this quarter a foreign young woman who occupies herself exclusively with painting and who is with child by a married man." She doubtless expected us to take the thing as aimed at us — which would provide an occasion to bewail the immorality and infamy of the newspaper which knows only how to invent, etc. I confined myself to asking: "And who is this young woman — do they say?" "No, I don't know — it was Mme Tomansky (another old fool) who told me; she had read it." And we spoke of other things. It is not that she... and it was even with a well-intentioned sense of indignation that she came to speak of it — but you must admit it is impertinent and stupid... And stupid... This imbecile imagined we would exclaim in protest and it would make for stories to tell. No — the Russians... even well-bred Russians have the stupidities and grossnesses of concierges. I took the thing with a kind of joy. An attack too monstrous to be credible, and by displaying a crude parti pris, strips all previous slanders of their value. Maman and Dina went to buy the newspaper; I opened it with the fear of fainting, and read the following lines: "The excessive embonpoint of a young foreigner very highly placed in the Parisian gentry² is the subject of comment in the salons of the Spanish-American colony. The young woman in question, who adores the arts, has for some months been attending the classes of a painter who lives near the Parc Monceau and who is the guilty party. This alone would be nothing and the harm could be repaired — but this heartbreaker is married." Would you have recognised me? I would not. And it must have been read by concierges who understood it backwards and retained only "with child," "foreign," and "painting." Painting! Who can it be? It must be Mlle Bashkirtseff. No — it is too idiotic. On my word of honour. The great, the immortal Gogol³ rendered these characters in his descriptions of small Russian towns in a miraculous fashion. It is not that this newspaper would scruple to print the most atrocious infamies, and if it has not done so this time, it will come to it — and I shall not be surprised; it lives by it. But to go and look for... It is purely stupid. And to think this horrible idiot put us through two hours of agitation. And yet I had taken it very well... Well — these old women will have repeated it everywhere... Fortunately the first thought of each one will be to procure the article for herself — but it is all rather tiresome. "Is it of her they meant to speak?" "No?" "Do you think?" "And yet." Well then... The priest and Bagnitsky to dinner. Tuesday, 25 December 1883 — Christmas Nothing done, except a sketch of myself in the mirror.