Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Monday, 7 July 1884

A trait that perfectly paints my family.

# Lundi 7 juillet 1884

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.

Ecoutez, c'est très curieux...

— At once, dear, at once.

— A l'instant chère amie, à l'instant même.

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.

Mais dans le magasin elles réfléchissent...

— Well, have you bought my muslin?

— Eh bien avez-vous acheté ma mousseline ?

— Certainly.

— Certainement.

— How many metres? (I know them so well.)

— Combien de mètres (je les connais si bien)

— Twenty-five metres.

— Vingt-cinq mètres.

— I asked for thirty.

— J'en avais demandé trente.

— It was Dina who said twenty-five would be enough.

— C'est Dina qui a dit que vingt-cinq suffiraient.

— Let us see.

— Voyons.

I open the package.

J'ouvre le paquet.

— But this seems very thin — how much is there, let us see?

— Mais ça me paraît bien mince, combien y en a-t-il voyons ?

— It is double width, there are ten metres because...

— C'est en double largeur, il y a dix mètres parce que...

— Ten metres?!!

— Dix mètres ?!!

— 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...

— C'est que tu vois, c'est pour savoir d'abord si ça te convient...

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!!

Et c'est toujours, c'est pour tout, c'est en tout comme ça !!!

Well, if you were truly afraid of me, you would not do this, my poor children.

Eh bien si vous me craigniez, vous ne feriez pas cela mes pauvres enfants.

It is depressing. You are idiots.

C'est attristant. Vous êtes idiots.

And I am consumptive.

Et moi poitrinaire.

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.

Monsieur Grancher me promet de me guérir en deux années...

Now I am more at peace.

Maintenant je suis plus tranquille.

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.

Quant à l'odieux artiste de Damvillers...

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.cire) What wit! Take me away!

J'ai rencontré le Cassagnac en fiacre...

Notes

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