Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Friday, 7 March 1884

Since the portrait is done for, I want to know — that is, whether the painting needs some serious retouching; I send for the architect, who comes at eight o'clock, and his first words inform us that Jules has been in Paris for two days, very ill, his mother with him; he sends his warmest regrets at being unable to come and see the painting.

# Vendredi 7 mars 1884

He leaves in three or four days for Algiers. I do not know what it is about his illness that makes me laugh, but I laugh — and the architect is grieved. In short, it is the background that needs reworking, and I set to it at once.

Il part dans trois ou quatre jours pour Alger. Je ne sais pas ce qu'il y a dans sa maladie qui me faire rire mais j'en ris et l'architecte est chagriné. En somme c'est le fond qu'il faut que je remanie et je m'y mets aussitôt.

Jules is ill... how strange! He has nothing for the Salon. Poor Jules. In bed, apparently. Let us hope Algeria will restore him.

Jules est malade... est-ce drôle ! Il n'a rien pour le Salon. Pauvre Jules. Il est au lit paraît-il. Espérons que l'Algérie le remettra.

Well, poor dear! Thrown over by Mackay! Thrown over by that dreadful woman. They say a wealthy Englishman has set her up in a hôtel particulier. And she abandons Jules. So it is lovesickness? Or is it he who is leaving her? No — if that were so, he would not be ill!...

Enfin, pauvre petit !

But he may simply be ill — actually ill. I always hunt for a thousand reasons, just as I once imagined he claimed illness while secretly preparing a great painting.

Mais il est peut-être malade de maladie. Je vais toujours chercher mille raisons, comme je m'imaginais qu'il se disait malade et préparait un grand tableau.

Well, all this cheers me up somewhat, and I make a pen sketch: the architect, a rope wrapped round his chest, pulling vigorously toward a post labelled rue Ampère; at the end of the rope Jules, lying flat on his stomach and clinging with both hands to the post labelled rue Legendre. I send it to him.

Enfin tout cela me remet un peu et je fais un croquis à la plume; l'architecte une corde passée autour de son torse tire vigoureusement vers un poteau avec l'écriteau : rue Ampère. Au bout de la corde se trouve Jules couché à plat ventre et se cramponnant des deux mains au poteau: rue Legendre. Je lui envoie le tableau.

Only seven days remain, and I begin to hope again that the portrait will be finished — nothing is done except the background and one arm... It is madness!

Il ne reste que sept jours et je me reprends à espérer que le portrait sera fini, il n'y a rien de fait sauf le fond et un bras... C'est une folie !

Thrown over by Mackay, He went and got drunk at the publican's.1

Alors lâché par la Mackay

If she has thrown him over, he must love her to distraction. I have made a caricature to give to the architect: Jules in evening dress, hands in his pockets, with a wretched expression and the caption: Jules, devoured by melancholy.

Si elle le lâche il doit l'aimer à la folie. J'ai fait une charge donnée à l'architecte. Jules en habit les mains dans ses poches, l'air pitoyable avec la légende : Jules dévoré de mélancolie.

It was so funny. We never pronounce the word Mackay, nor make any allusion to her. Well, if she has thrown him over... What does it matter to me.

C'était si drôle. Jamais nous ne prononçons le mot Mackay, ni aucune allusion. Enfin si elle le lâche... Qu'est-ce que ça me fait.

[In the margin: He has his palette hanging from a string attached to his back.]

[Dans la marge: Il a sa palette au bout d'une ficelle attachée dans le dos.]

Notes

L'mastroquet: popular slang for a cheap tavern or its keeper; used here in Marie's mockingly rustic doggerel about Jules's supposed heartbreak. ↩