Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Monday, 7 July 1884

A trait that perfectly paints my family.
Listen, it is very curious. These ladies are going to the Louvre department store; I ask them to bring me back thirty metres of white muslin.
— At once, dear, at once.
But in the shop they reflect that thirty metres is quite a lot, and that ten will cost less — Marie said thirty like that, with ten she will have enough. So they buy ten and come home.
— Well, have you bought my muslin?
— Certainly.
— How many metres? (I know them so well.)
— Twenty-five metres.
— I asked for thirty.
— It was Dina who said twenty-five would be enough.
— Let us see.
I open the package.
— But this seems very thin — how much is there, let us see?
— It is double width, there are ten metres because...
— Ten metres?!!
— Well you see, it's to find out first if it suits you, and we can buy as much as we like, there is plenty more, and...
And it is always like this, for everything, in everything!!! These inanities drive me to the point of fury. Lies and yes-buts over orange peels! And they say it is because they are afraid of me!!
Well, if you were truly afraid of me, you would not do this, my poor children.
It is depressing. You are idiots.
And I am consumptive.
Monsieur Grancher promises to cure me in two years of vigorous and rigorous treatment. It is young Béclère who took me there; I was waiting for him in a cab at the door — what mysteries over such simple matters, but I hide it from my family, who would pester me too much and tell all their friends how I cough. Fi.
Now I am more at peace.
As for the odious artist of Damvillers — is he even touched by our attentions? He looks so calm, so resigned, accepting everything; very weary, like a poor child accustomed to being coddled. Yes, he gives me the impression of a child one might seize by the scruff of the neck without ceremony.
I encountered Cassagnac in a cab. He is hideous. And he is in the process of making a fool of this idiot Prince Victor, who emerged from his barracks having been addressed as "Sire" by three clever fellows, Popaul at their head, and who [words blacked out: illegible] believed it quite genuinely. (Wax, for the Bonapartists.) What wit! Take me away!

Notes

A pun: Sire (Your Majesty) sounds like cire (wax) — a mocking play on Bonapartist pretensions. ↩