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MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF
THE JovKNAZ of A YouNG ARTIST
1860–1884
TRAAVSLA TED B Pº
MARY J. SERRANO
AUTHOR OF “DESTINY AND OTHER POEMs,”
TRANSLATOR OF “DRAGON's teeth,” “PEPITA XIMENEz,” Etc.
ILL US TRA TED
• * * *
CASSELL & COMPANY, LIMITED
Io.4–106 FourTH Avenue, NEw York
CopyRIGHT,
1889,
By O. M. DUNHAM.
All rights reserved.
Press of w"L. Mershon & Cº.,
Rahway, N , J.
TO
JOSEPHINE LAZARUS
THIS TRANSLATION IS DEDICATED, IN ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF HER APPRECIATION
of THE AUTHOR OF THIS Journal, AND HER GENEROUS CRITICISM
OF THE WORK OF THE TRANSLATOR. -
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TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE.
HERE is the record of an extraordinary life—“ a book
without a parallel,” as Gladstone has called it. In these
pages, science, art, literature, social questions, love, are
treated with all the cynicism of a Machiavelli and the naiveté
of an ardent and enthusiastic girl. On a background solemn
and somber as the steppes of her native land are traced
pictures that reflect the vivid hues, the luminous atmosphere,
the life, the movement, the variety, of France, Spain, Italy.
With a nature that was profoundly religious, and a spirit
that was essentially skeptical, with ambition to conquer the
universe, and a heart that yearned with a passionate longing
for affection, demanding all things for herself, yet capable
of the most utter self-abnegation, “hoping all things,” and
fearing all things alternately, clinging to life with an eager-
ness that is pathetic in its intensity, wishing for death with
an eagerness no less pathetic, regarding herself by turns as
the superior of kings, and as less than the least of created
beings, Marie Bashkirtseff has left us as her contribution to
the literature of humanity these confessions, which no one
who has a mind to think or a heart to feel can read un-
moved. Certain portions of the Journal, which in its
entirety might seem diffuse to American readers, have been
omitted in the translation.
M. J. S.
AUTHOR'S PREFACE.
Of what use were pretense or affectation ? Yes, it is evi-
dent that I have the desire, if not the hope, of living upon this
earth by any means in my power. If I do not die young I hope
to live as a great artist; but if I die young, I intend to have my
journal, which cannot fail to be interesting, published. Per-
haps this idea of publication has already detracted from, if not
destroyed, the chief merit that such a work may be said to
possess 2 But, no ! for in the first place I had written for a
long time without any thought of being read, and then it is pre-
cisely because I hope to be read that I am altogether sincere.
If this book is not the exact, the absolute, the strict truth, it
has no raison d'étre. Not only do I always write what I
think, but I have not even dreamed, for a single instant, of
disguising anything that was to my disadvantage, or that
might make me appear ridiculous. Besides, I think myself
too admirable for censure. You may be very certain, then,
charitable readers, that I exhibit myself in these pages just
as I am. As a subject of interest for you / may appear to
you of little consequence ; but forget that it is /; think
simply that a fellow-being is recounting to you her impres-
sions from her infancy. Such a document is very interest-
ing from a human standpoint. Ask M. Zola if this be not so,
or even M. de Goncourt, or Maupassant himself My jour-
nal commences at my twelfth year, but begins to possess some
value only from after my fifteenth or sixteenth year. There
is in it, therefore, a blank to be filled up ; so that I shall
iii
iv. A U 7//OA’’S /?A2EFA CE.
write a sort of preface in order to render this monument of
human and literary interest intelligible.
Assume, then, that I am of noble birth, and let us begin :
I was born on the 11th of November, 1860. Only to
write it down is frightful. But then I console myself by
thinking that I shall be of no age at all when you read my
journal. -
My father was the son of General Paul Gregorievitch
Bashkirtseff, a provincial nobleman who was of a brave,
obstinate, severe, and even ferocious nature. My grand-
father was raised to the grade of General after the Crimean
war, I think. He married a young girl—the adopted daugh-
ter of a grand seigneur; she died at the age of thirty-eight,
leaving five children—my father and four daughters.
Mamma was married at the age of twenty-one, after having
rejected several very good partis. She was a Babanine.
On the side of the Babanines we belong to an old noble
family of the provinces ; and grandpapa has always boasted
of being of Tartar origin (his ancestors having come to
Russia at the time of the first invasion). Baba Nina are
two Tartar words—for my part I laugh at all this. Grand-
papa was the contemporary of Lermontoff, Poushkine, etc.
He was an admirer of Byron, a poet, a soldier, and a man
of letters. He married, while quite young, Mademoiselle
Julie Cornélius, a girl of fifteen, very sweet and very pretty.
They had nine children—if you will pardon the smallness
of the number 1
After two years of marriage mamma went, with her two
children, to live with her parents. I was always with grand-
mamma, who idolized me. Besides grandmama to adore
me, there was my aunt, when mamma did not carry her off
with her—my aunt, who was younger than mamma, but not
so pretty; who sacrificed herself to and was sacrificed by
everybody.
In May, 1870, we set out to travel. The dream so long
A U THO/C 'S AA’A2/7.4 CE. V
cherished by mamma was realized. We remained a month
in Vienna, making ourselves dizzy with novelties of every
description—fine shops, theaters, etc. We arrived at Baden-
Baden in June, at the height of the season, and found our-
selves in the midst of a luxury truly Parisian. Our party
consisted of grandpapa, mamma, my aunt Romanoff, Dina
(my cousin-german) my brother Paul, and myself; and we
had with us a doctor, the angelic, the incomparable Walit-
sky. He was a Pole, but without any exaggerated patriot-
ism, of a sweet nature, and very winning manners. He
spent all his income on his profession. At Achtirka he was
the physician of the district. He attended the University
with mamma's brother, and was always treated as one of the
family at our house. At the time of our setting out on our
travels a physician was needed for grandpapa, and for that
reason we took Walitsky with us. It was at Baden that I
first became acquainted with the world, and with the re-
finements of polite society, and that I suffered the tortures
of vanity.
But I have not said enough about Russia, and about my-
self, which is the principal thing. I had two governesses,
one a Russian, the other a French woman. The former,
whom I remember very well, was a certain Madame Melni-
koff, a woman of elegant manners, well educated, romantic,
and who was separated from her husband. She became a
governess on a sudden impulse, after reading a great many
romances. She was regarded by the family as a friend, and
treated by them as an equal. All the men paid court to
her, and one fine morning, after a certain romantic adven-
ture, she disappeared. She might have bade us good-by and
gone away quite naturally, but the Slav nature, with French
civilization grafted on to it and influenced by romantic
reading, is a curious compound. In her character of un-
happy wife this lady had at once set herself to adore the
little girl confided to her care, I had returned her adora-
vi A UTA/OA’’.S. A/C/º A.4 CE.
tion through an instinctive feeling of dramatic fitness, and
my family, poseuse and simple-minded, thought her departure
ought to make me ill ; they all regarded me with compas-
sionate looks that day, and I remember that grandmanma
ordered a certain soup—a soup for invalids—to be made
expressly for me. I felt myself grow quite pale before this
exhibition of sensibility. I was, indeed, sickly looking,
fragile, and not at all pretty—all which did not prevent
every one's regarding me as a being destined to become
one day beautiful, brilliant, and magnificent. Mamma once
went to a Jew who told fortunes.
“You have two children,” he said to her; “ your son will
be like everybody else, but your daughter will be a star !”
One evening at the theater a gentleman said to me,
laughingly :
“Show me your hand, mademoiselle. Ah, by the style
in which you are gloved, there is not the slightest doubt but
that you will one day be a terrible coquette.”
I was for a long time very proud of this. Since I have
been able to think, since I was three years old (I was not
weaned until I was three and a half), I have always had
aspirations toward greatness of some kind. My dolls were
always kings or queens; all my thoughts, everything I heard
from those who surrounded mamma, always bore some refer-
ence to this greatness which must one day inevitably come
to ille.
When I was about five years old I dressed myself one
day in mamma's laces, put flowers in my hair, and went to
the drawing-room, to dance. I was the great danseuse.
Petipa, and all the household were there to look at me.
Paul was nobody beside me, and Dina, although the daughter
of the dearly beloved Georges, did not put me in the shade.
One more incident : When Dina was born, grandmamma
took her from her mother, and kept her from that time forth
with herself. This was before I was born.
A UTHOR'S PREFACE. vii
After Mme. Melnikoff I had for a governess Mdlle.
Sophie Dolgikoff, a girl of sixteen—blessed Russia 1—and
another, a Frenchwoman called Mme. Brenne, who wore
her hair in the style of the Restoration, had pale blue eyes,
and was a sorrowful looking creature with her fifty years,
and her consumption. I was very fond of her. She taught
me how to draw. I drew a little church under her instruc-
tions. I drew at other times also. While the grown-up
people played cards I would often draw on the green cloth.
All this brings us back to Baden in 1870. War having
been declared, we had betaken ourselves to Geneva, I with
my heart filled with bitterness, and cherishing projects of
revenge. Every evening on going to bed I recited in my
own mind the following supplementary prayer :
“My God, grant that I may never have the small-pox ;
that I may grow up pretty ; that I may have a beautiful
voice ; that I may be happily married ; and that mamma
may live for a long time to come ! -
At Geneva we put up at the Hôtel de la Couronne on the
borders of the lake. There I had a professor of drawing
who brought designs with him for me to copy—little chalets
in which the windows were like trunks of trees, and did not
at all resemble the windows of real chalets, so I refused to
draw them. The good man then told me to copy them
from nature, just as they appeared to me. Just then we
left the hotel to live in a family boarding-house, with Mont
Blanc in front of us. I therefore copied scrupulously all
that was visible of Geneva and the lake.
When I am dead, my life, which appears to me a remark-
able one, will be read. (The only thing wanting is that it
should have been different.) But I detest prefaces (they
have kept me from reading a great many excellent books),
as well as the notices of editors. For this reason I write my
own preface. It might have been omitted if I had pub-
lished the whole of my journal, but I limited myself to be-
viii A UTAHO/8 'S PACA3 FA CE.
ginning at my twelfth year; to give what precedes would
render the book too long. Besides, I give you glimpses
enough into it in the course of the journal. I go back to
the past very often, apropos of anything or nothing.
What if, seized without warning by a fatal illness, I should
happen to die suddenly . I should not know, perhaps, of
my danger ; my family would hide it from me; and after
my death they would rummage among my papers ; they
would find my journal, and destroy it after having read it,
and soon nothing would be left of me—nothing—nothing—
nothing ! This is the thought that has always terrified me.
To live, to have so much ambition, to suffer, to weep, to
struggle, and in the end to be forgotten ;-as if I had never
existed. If I should not live long enough to become
famous, this journal will be interesting to the psychologist.
The record of a woman's life, written down day by day,
without any attempt at concealment, as if no one in the
world were ever to read it, yet with the purpose of being
read, is always interesting ; for Isam certain that I shall be
found sympathetic, and I write down everything, every-
thing, everything. Otherwise why should I write? Be-
sides, it will very soon be seen that I have concealed
nothing.
PARIS, May 1, 1884.
MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF :
THE /OURNAL OF A VOUAVG ARTIST
1873.
VILLA ACQUA-VIVA,
PROMENA DE DES ANGLAIS, NICE.
January (at the age of twelve years).-Aunt Sophie is
playing some of the national airs of Little Russia on the
piano, and this recalls our country to me. I am transported
in fancy, and what recollections can I have of that life
that are not associated with poor grandmamma 2 The tears
are coming to my eyes; they are there now, and in another
instant they will fall; they are falling already. Poor grand-
mamma How unfortunate I am to have you no longer
beside me ! How tenderly you loved me, and I you ! But
I was too young to love you as you deserved to be loved 1
I am deeply moved by these memories. The memory of
grandmamma is a respected, a sacred, a beloved one, but it
is not a living one. O my God grant me happiness in this
life, and I will be grateful But what am I saying It
appears to me that I have been placed in this world in
order to be happy ; make me happy, O my God |
Aunt Sophie is still playing. The sounds of the piano
reach me at intervals, and penetrate my soul. I have no
lessons to learn for to-morrow, for it is Aunt Sophie's fête-
day. God grant that the Duke of H may be mine !
I will love him and make him happy I will be happy too.
I
2 JOURNAL OF MAA'ZZ BASI/AIAE 7 SEAEF. [1873.
I will do good to the poor. It is a sin to think that one
can purchase the favor of God by good works, but I know
not how otherwise to express myself.
I love the Duke of H , but I cannot tell him that I
love him ; and even if I were to tell him so, he would pay
no attention to it. When he was here I had some object in
going out, in dressing myself, but now !— I used to go to
the terrace in the hope of seeing him for even a single
instant, at a distance. My God, assuage my grief I can
pray no more; hear my prayer. Thy grace is infinite; Thy
mercy great ' Thou hast granted me so many blessings
It grieves me to see him no longer on the promenade. His
face was easily distinguishable among the vulgar faces of
Nice.
Mrs. Howard invited us yesterday to spend the day with
her children. We were on the point of setting out, when
she returned to say that she had asked mamma's permission
to keep us till evening. We remained, and after dinner we
all went to the great drawing-room, which was dark, and
the girls begged me so much to sing ; they went on their
knees to me—the children as well ; we laughed a great
deal; I sang “Santa Lucia,” “The Sun is Risen,” and
some roulades. They were so delighted that they all em-
braced me frantically. If I could produce the same effect
upon the public I would go on the stage this very day.
It causes so profound an emotion to be admired for
something more than one's dress Truly, I am transported
by these words of praise from children. What would it be,
then, if I were admired by others ?
I was made for triumphs and emotions; the best thing I
can do, therefore, is to become a singer. If the good God
would only preserve, strengthen, and develop my voice, then I
should enjoy the triumph for which I long. Then I should
enjoy the happiness of being celebrated, and admired ; and
in that way the one I love might be mine. If I remain as I
1873.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHA'IRTSEFF. 3
am, I have but little hope of his loving me ; he is ignorant
even of my existence. But when he sees me surrounded by
glory, in the midst of triuſhphs Men are so ambitious !
And I shall be received in society, for I shall not be a
celebrity out of a tobacco-shop or a filthy street, I am of
noble birth ; I have no need to make use of my talents—my
fortune does not exact it—so that I shall have all the greater
glory for elevating myself, and it will be all the easier for
me to do so. In that way my life would be perfect. I
dream of glory, of fame, of being known throughout the
world!
To see thousands of persons, when you appear upon the
stage, await with beating hearts the moment when you shall
begin to sing; to know as you look at them that a single
note of your voice will bring them all to your feet; to look
at them with a haughty glance (for I can do anything)—that
is my dream, that is my life, that is my happiness, that is
my desire. And then, in the midst of all this, Monsignor le
Duc de H will come with the others to throw himself
at my feet, but he shall not meet with the same reception as
the others. Dear, you will be dazzled by my splendor, and
you will love me ! You will behold me in all my glory, it is
true—you deserve for a wife only such a woman as I hope
to become. I am not ugly ; I am even pretty—yes, rather
pretty than ugly. I am extremely well-formed, with all the
perfection of a statue ; I have tolerably fine hair; I have a
coquettish manner that is very becoming, and I know how to
conduct myself toward men.
I am a modest girl, and I would never give a kiss to any
other man than my husband ; I can boast of something that not
every girl of twelve or fourteen years can say, that is, of never
having been kissed, and of never having kissed anyone. Then,
to see a young girl at the highest point of glory to which a
woman can attain, who has loved him from her childhood
with a constant love, simple and modest—all this will aston-
4 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASI/ATA’TSEAEF. [1873.
ish him ; he will want to marry me at any cost, and he will
do so through pride. But what do I say? Why should I
not admit that he may love me * Ah, yes, with the help of
God ; God has made me discover the means by which I
may possess him I love. I thank Thee, O my God, I thank
Thee .
Friday, March 14.—This morning I heard a noise of car-
riages in the Rue de France; I looked out and saw the Duke
Of H driving with four horses on the Promenade. Ah,
iſ he is here, he will take part in the pigeon-shooting match
in April ; I will be there at any cost
To-day I saw the Duke of H again. No one bears
himself as he doës; he has the air of a king when he is
driving in his carriage.
I shall be happy with my husband, for I will not neglect
myself; I will adorn myself to please him, as I adorned my-
self when I wished to please him for the first time. Besides,
I cannot understand how a man and a woman can love each
other tenderly, and endeavor to please each other unceas-
ingly, and then neglect themselves after marriage. Why
believe that with the word marriage love must pass away,
and that only cold and reserved friendship remains; why
profane marriage by representing the wife in curl-papers and
a wrapper, with cold-cream on her nose, trying to get money
from her husband for dresses; why should a woman be
careless of her appearance before the man for whom she
should adorn herself the most 2 I do not see why one should
treat one's husband like a domestic animal, and yet so long
as one is not married, why one should wish to please this
man. Why not always retain something of coquetry with
one's husband, and treat him as a stranger whom one desires
to please ? Is it because one need not conceal one's love,
because it is not a crime to love, and because marriage has
received God’s benediction ? Is it because that which is
1873.] JOURNAL OF AZARIAE BASI/ATA’ TSEAF. 5
not forbidden possesses no value in our eyes, and that one
can find pleasure only in secret and forbidden things 2 This
ought not to be.
I have strained my voice in singing and injured it, so that
I have made a promise to God to sing no more (a resolution
that I have since broken a hundred times) until I take
lessons ; I have prayed to Him in the mean time to purify,
strengthen and develop it. And in order that I may not be
tempted to break my vow, I have even besought Him to
take it from me, should I do so. This is frightful, but I
will do all I can to keep my vow.
Aºriday, December 3o.—To-day I have on an antediluvian
dress, my little petticoat and black velvet coat, over it the
tunic and sleeveless jacket of Dina, and it all looks very
well. I think it is because I know how to wear the dress,
and carry myself well. (I looked like a little old woman.)
I was very much noticed. I should like to know why they
all look at me, and whether it is because I appear ridiculous,
or because I am pretty. I would reward well any one who
would tell me the truth. I have a mind to ask some one
(some young man) if I am pretty. I always like to believe
things that are good, and I should prefer to believe that it
is because I am pretty. Perhaps I deceive myself, but if it
be a delusion I would rather keep it, because it is a flatter-
ing one. What would you have 2 In this world it is neces-
sary to look at things in their best possible light. Life is so
beautiful and so short |
I have been thinking of what my brother Paul will do
when he is a man. What profession will he choose 2 For
he cannot spend his life as so many people spend theirs—
first saunter idly about, and then throw himself into the
world of gamblers and cocottes ; no | Besides, he has not
the means of doing this. I write sensible letters to him
every Sunday—not sermons, no but letters such as a com-
6 JOCAA’AZ OF MAAC/E BAS//ÅZA' 7"SAFF. [1873.
rade might write him. Well, I shall know what to do, and,
with God's help, I shall exert some influence over him, for
he must be a man.
I was so preoccupied that I had almost forgotten (what a
shame !) the absence of the Duke It seems as if so great
a gulf separate us, especially if we go to Russia in the
Summer. They are talking seriously of that. How can I
imagine that he should ever be mine 2 He no more thinks
of me than he does of last year's snow. I do not exist for
him. If we remain in Nice for the winter, I may still hope;
but it seems to me that with our departure for Russia all
my hopes will vanish ; everything that I had thought possi-
ble is disappearing from my gaze. I am passing through a
period of Supreme anguish—a change in my whole nature is
taking place. How strange it is
I am overwhelmed by my thoughts. O my God, at the
thought that he will never love me I am ready to die of
grief I have no longer any hope. I was mad to desire
things so impossible. I wished to possess what was too
beautiful. Ah, but no | I must not allow myself to be thus
carried away. What I dare despair thus ! Is there not
a God to whom all things are possible, who protects me 2
What I dare entertain these thoughts 2 Is He not every-
where always, watching over us? He can do all things;
He is all-powerful ; for Him there is neither time nor space.
I may be in Peru, and the Duke in Africa, and if He wishes
He can bring us together. How can I have entertained for
a single moment a despairing thought 2 How can I have
forgotten for an instant His divine goodness 2 Is it because
He does not give me everything that I desire at once that I
dare to deny Him? No, no, He is more merciful ; He will
not allow a soul as innocent as mine to be torn apart by
these sinful doubts.
This morning I pointed out a coal-vender to Mlle.
Colignon (my governess) saying: “See how much that man
f
1873.] JOURNAL OF MAA/E BASHKIRTSEAEF. 7
resembles the Duke of H .” She replied, smiling :
“What nonsense!” It gave me an indescribable pleasure to
pronounce his name. But I notice that if we never speak of
the man we love, our love grows stronger; but if we speak
continually of him, our love diminishes. It is like a vial of
Some essence ; if it be corked, the perfume remains strong,
while if it be open, the perfume evaporates. This is pre-
cisely the case with my love ; it remains strong because I
never hear him I love spoken of. I never speak of him, I
keep him entirely for myself.
I am very sad. I have no positive ideas regarding my
future ; that is to say, I know what I would like to have,
but not what I shall have. How gay I was last winter
Everything smiled on me; I had hope. I love a shadow
which perhaps I shall never possess. I am in despair about
my gowns; they have cost me many tears. I went with my
aunt to two dressmakers; but they were both unsatisfactory.
I shall write to Paris; I cannot bear the gowns here.
This evening we spent at church ; it is the first day of
our Holy Week, and I performed my devotions. I must
say that there are many things about our religion which I
do not like ; but it is not for me to reform them ; I believe
in God, in Christ, and in the Holy Virgin. I pray to God
every night, and I have no wish to trouble myself about a
few trifles that have nothing to do with true religion—with
true faith. I believe in God, and He is good to me; He
gives me more than I need. Oh, if He would only give me
what I desire so much ! The good God will have pity on
me, although I might do without what I ask. I should be
so happy if the Duke would only take notice of me, and I
would bless God.
I must write his name, for if I neither mentioned it to
any one nor even wrote it down here I could no longer
live. . . . It is some slight consolation only to write it.
On the Promenade I saw with joy a carriage containing a
8 JOURNAL OF AZAR/E BASHRMRTSEAEF. [1873.
young man,” tall, slender, and dark. I thought I recog-
nized some one. I gave a cry of surprise : “Oh, caro—!”
They asked me what was the matter ; I answered that Mlle.
Colignon had stepped on my foot. He resembles his brother
in nothing. Nevertheless, it makes me happy to see him.
Ah, if I could only make his acquaintance, at least ; for
through him I might come to know the Duke I love this
one as if he were my brother ; I love him because he is his
brother. At dinner Walitsky said suddenly, “H .” I
blushed ; I was confused, and I walked toward the cup-
board. Mamma reproved me for this, saying that it was
very wrong. I think she divines something, because every
time any one mentions the name H I blush or leave the
room abruptly. She does not scold me for it, however.
They are all sitting in the dining-room, chatting together
quietly, and thinking me occupied with my studies. They
are ignorant of what is passing within me, and they do not
know what my thoughts are now. I must be either the
Duchess of H--, and that is what I most desire (for God
knows how ardently I love him), or become famous on the
stage ; but this career does not attract me so much as the
other. It is doubtless flattering to receive the homage of
the entire world, from the lowest to the sovereigns of the
earth, but the other —Yes, I will have him I love ; that is
altogether another kind of happiness, and I prefer it. A
great lady—a duchess—I would rather be this in society,
than be the first among the celebrities of the world, for that
would not be my world.
May 6.—Mamma is up, and Mlle. C also, for she has
been ill. It was so delightful after the rain so fresh, and
the trees looked so beautiful with the sun shining on them,
that I could not study. I went into the garden and placed
my chair beside the fountain, and had before me a magnifi-
* The Duke's brother.
1873.] JOUR.VAZ OF ..]/AA'ZZ BASA/AIA 7'SA. F.A. 9
cent picture, for this fountain is surrounded by large trees,
that completely shut out the prospect. All that is to be
seen is a brook, and rocks covered with moss, and on every
side trees of different kinds, their foliage lighted up by the
sun. And the soft, green turf Truly I was tempted to roll
on it. All this made a sort of grove, so fresh, so soft, so green,
so beautiful that I should try in vain to give you an idea of
it ; I cannot. If the villa and the garden do not change, I
will bring him here to show him the spot where I have so
often thought of him. Yesterday evening I prayed to God,
and when I came to the part where I asked that I might
know the Duke, that God would grant me this happiness, I
shed tears. Three times already has God listened to me,
and granted my prayer : the first time I asked Him for a set
of croquet, and my aunt brought me one from Geneva ;
the second time I asked Him to help me to learn English.
I prayed and wept so much, and my imagination was so
excited, that I thought I beheld an image of the Virgin in
a corner of the room, who promised what I asked for. I
could even recognize the face, if I should see it again.
I don't want any one to think that, when I have done with
studying, I shall do nothing but dance and dress myself;
mo, having finished the studies of childhood, I shall devote
myself seriously to painting, music, and singing. I have
talent for all this, and a great deal of it ! What a consola-
tion it is to write this I am already calmer. Not only
do the annoyances I suffer injure my health, but they injure
my disposition and my appearance. This flush that over-
spreads my face makes my cheeks burn as with fire, and
when calmness returns they are no longer either fresh or
rosy. This color which I am condemned to have always in
my face will make me pale and faded, and that is Mlle.
C 's fault, for the agitation she causes me produces it.
I even have slight headaches after my face has burned
like this. Mamma scolds me; she says it is my fault
IO JOUAEAVAL OF AZAR/E BASI/KIA. TSEFF. [1873.
that I do not speak English. How indignant that makes
me !
I think, if he should ever read this journal, that he will
find it stupid, above all, my confessions of love. I have
repeated them so often that they have lost all their force.
Ah, when one thinks what a miserable creature man is
Every other animal can, at his will, wear on his face the
expression he pleases. He is not obliged to smile if he
has a mind to weep. When he does not wish to see his
fellows he does not see them. While man is the slave of
everything and everybody And yet I draw this very fate
upon myself. I love to visit, and I love to see visitors.
Last night I had a horrible dream. We were in a house
that I had never seen before, when suddenly I, or some one,
I do not remember who, looked out of the window. The
sun had increased in size until it covered almost half of the
sky, but it did not shine, and it gave forth no heat. Then
it separated into parts, and a quarter of it disappeared ; the
remainder separated again into parts, changing color as it
did so, and casting a glow all around ; then a cloud over-
spread one half of the sun, and everybody cried out,
“The sun has stopped moving.” It remained for some
moments immovable, but pallid; then something strange
happened to the earth ; it was not that it trembled ; I can-
not describe what it was. There are no words to express
what we do not comprehend. Then the sun began to move
again, like two wheels, one within the other; that is to say,
that part of the sun which remained shining was covered
at intervals by a cloud round like itself. Every one was
troubled. Mamma was not with us; she came afterward
in a kind of omnibus, and seemed to be not at all frightened.
Everything was strange ; this omnibus was not like other
omnibuses. Then I began to examine my dresses; we
were packing our things into a little trunk. But at that
instant everything began over again. “It is the end of the
1873.] yOURNAL OF A/ARIE BASI/ATIRTSEAF. I I
world,” I thought, and I asked myself how it was that God
had not warned me of it, and how it was that I was thought
worthy to be present in the flesh, on this day. Every one
was afraid, and we got into the vehicle with mamma, and
returned, I know not where.
What is the meaning of this dream 2 Is it sent by God
to forewarn me of some great event 2 or is it simply the
result of nervousness 2
Mlle. C goes away to-morrow. All the same it is a
little sad. It is painful to part from even a dog with which
one has lived. It matters not whether the existing relations
were pleasant or not, I have a worm gnawing at my heart.
Time passes swift as an arrow. In the morning I study a
little—the piano for two hours. The Apollo Belvidere which
I am going to copy bears some slight resemblance to the
Duke. In the expression, especially, the likeness is very
strong—the same manner of carrying the head, and the
same shaped nose.
Manote, my music teacher, was very much pleased with
me this morning. I played a passage in Mendelssohn's con-
certo in G-minor without a single mistake. Then we went
to the Russian church—the Church of the Trinity. The
whole church was decorated with flowers and plants.
Prayers were offered up, in which the priest asked pardon
for sins, mentioning each one separately. Then he knelt
down and prayed again. Everything he said was so appli-
cable to me that I remained motionless, listening to and
echoing his prayer. This is the second time that I have
prayed with so much fervor in church. The first time was
on New Year's Day. The service has become so hackneyed,
and then the things spoken of are not those of everyday
life—things that concern every one. I go to mass, but I do
not pray. The prayers and the hymns they sing find no
response either in my heart or in my soul. They prevent
me from praying with freedom, while the Te Deum, in
I 2 JoCRAAZ OF AZAK/E BASHAVA 7SEFF. [1873.
which the priest prays for every one (where every one finds
something applicable to himself) penetrates my soul.
Paris—At last I have found what I longed for without
knowing what it was Life, that is Paris Paris, that is
life I tormented myself because I did not know what I
desired ; now I see before me—I know—what I desire. To
go from Nice to Paris; to have an apartment, to furnish
it ; to have horses, as we have at Nice; to have the entrée
to society through the medium of the Russian Ambassador—
this, this is what I desire. How happy it makes one to know
what one desires | But there is one thought that tortures
me—it is, that I am ugly This is horrible !
Nice—I regard Nice as an exile. I must, before every-
thing, make an order of exercises for each day, including the
hours of my different professors. On Monday I begin
again my studies, which were cut so diabolically short by
Mlle. Colignon. With the winter people will come to the
city, and with people, gayety. It will then be no longer
Nice, but a little Paris. And the races ! Nice has its good
side. All the same, the six or seven months we are to
spend here seem to me like a sea that is to be crossed
without once removing my eyes from the beacon that guides
me. I do not hope to stand upon its shore, I only hope to
see land, and the sight of it alone will endow me with
force of character, and give me strength to endure life until
next year. And then 2 And then | Upon my word I
know nothing about it, but I hope. I believe in God and in
His divine goodness—that is why I do not lose courage.
“He that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High
shall abide in the shadow of the Almighty. He shall cover
thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust;
his truth shall be thy shield and buckler. Thou shalt not
be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that
flieth by day.” I cannot express what I feel, nor my grati-
tude to God for his goodness toward me.
1873.] Jovºv-1/ OF MARIE BASI/A/ATS/AF. I 3
June 9.-I have begun to study drawing. I feel tired,
weak, unable to work. The summers in Nice are killing
me; no one is here ; I am ready to cry; in a word, I am
unhappy. We live only once. To spend a summer at Nice
is to lose half one's life. I am crying now, a tear has fallen
on the paper. Oh, if mamma and the others knew what it
costs me to remain here, they would not keep me in this
FRIGHTFUL desert | Nothing diverts my thoughts from
/him. It is so long since I have heard his name mentioned.
It seems to me as if he were dead. And then, I am envel-
oped in darkness ; the past I can scarcely recall, the present
is hideous ; I am completely changed ; my voice is hoarse;
I have grown ugly ; formerly on awaking in the morning I
was fresh and rosy. But what is it that tortures me thus 2
What has happened to me 2 What is going to happen 2
We have hired the Villa Bacchi. To tell the truth, it is
very distressing to have to live there ; for the bourgeois it is
well enough, but for us! As for me I am an aristocrat ; I
prefer a ruined gentleman to a rich bourgeois. I find a
greater charm in old satin, or in the gilding, blackened by
time, of old-fashioned columns and ornaments, than in rich
and tasteless furniture that obtrudes itself upon the eye. A
true gentleman will not base his pride on having shining
boots and well-fitting gloves. Not that one should be care-
less as to one's appearance, no ; but between the careless-
ness of the nobleman and the carelessness of the plebeian
there is such a difference
We are going to leave this lodging, and I am sorry for it;
not because it is convenient or handsome, but because it is
like an old friend, and I am accustomed to it. When I
think that I shall never again see my beloved study I
have thought so often of him here ! This table on which I
am leaning, and on which I have written day by day all
that was sweetest and most sacred in my soul ; those walls
over which my glances wander, seeking to pierce them and
I4 JOURNAL OF AZ.1/ø/Z BASI/AIA’ TSEAF. * [1873.
fly far, far away ! In each flower of the wall-paper I be-
hold him How many scenes have I pictured to myself in
this study, in each of which he played the principal rôle /
It seems to me there is not a single thing in the world of
which I have not thought in this little room, from the sim-
plest to the most fantastic. -
In the evening Paul, Dina, and I remained for a while
together; then they left me alone. The moon shone into
my chamber, and I did not light the candles. I went out
on the terrace, and listened to the distant sounds of a vio-
lin, guitar, and flute. I returned quickly to my room and
sat down by the window in order to listen more at my ease.
It was a charming trio. It is long since I have listened to
music with so much pleasure. In a concert one's attention
is engaged more by the audience than by the music, but
this evening, seated all alone by the light of the moon, I
devoured, if I may use the expression, this serenade, for
such it was, given us by the young men of Nice. They
could not be more gallant. Unfortunately the fashionable
young men do not like these amusements ; they prefer to
spend their time in the café's chanfants, but as for music—
What can be nobler than to take part in a serenade, as in
Spain in olden times | Upon my word, after riding, I
should choose to spend my time under my mistress's win-
dow, and afterward at her feet. -
I should so much like to have a horse ! Mamma has
promised that I shall have one, and my aunt also. This
evening, in mamma's room, I asked her to give me one, in
my airy, enthusiastic way, and she promised it to me seri-
ously. I shall go to bed quite happy to-night. Every one
tells me I am pretty, but in truth, in my own mind I don't
think so. My pen refuses to write the word ; I am grace-
ful only—and occasionally pretty. How happy I am
I am to have a horse ! Did any one ever see a little girl
like me with a race-horse 2 I shall make a furore. What
1873 ] JOUAEAVAZ OF AZARIAE BASF/AIA 7'SEFF. I5
colors shall my jockey wear 2 Gray and parti-colored 2
No, green and pale rose. A horse, for me ! How happy I
am ' What a creature I am Why not give something
from my overflowing cup to the poor, who have nothing 2
Mamma gives me money; I will give half of it to the
poor.
I have altered the arrangement of my room; it is prettier
without the table in the middle. I have put in it several
trifles—an inkstand, a pen, and two old traveling candle-
sticks which had lain hidden away for a long time in the
box in which things out of use are kept. The world, that is
my life; it calls me, it waits for me, I long to run to meet
it, but I am not old enough yet to go into society. But I
long to be old enough, not for the sake of marrying, but
because I want to see mamma and my aunt shake off their
laziness. Not the world of Nice, but the world of St.
Petersburg, of London, of Paris; there it is that I could
breathe freely, for the constraints of society are freedom
for me.
Paul has no taste, as yet; he understands nothing about
woman's beauty. I have heard him say: “Beauties, such
ugly creatures as those ! ” I must form his manners and
his tastes. So far, indeed, I do not exercise a great deal of
influence over him, but I hope to do so in time. For the
present, I try to communicate my own views of things to
him, but without his suspecting it; I convey sentiments of
the severest morality to him under a frivolous guise. -
Tuesday, July 29.-Here we are on our way to Vienna;
our departure was, on the whole, a cheerful one. I was, as
usual, the soul of the party.
September 2.-The drawing-master has come; I gave him
a list of subjects I wished to study, the other day, that he
might send me some professors from the Lyceum. At last
I6 JOUAEAVAZ OF AZ.4/C/AE A.1SA/AIA. TSEAF. i 1873.
I shall set to work On Mlle. Colignon's account I have
lost four months, which is monstrous. Binsa went to the
censor, who asked him for a day's time. Seeing my note
he inquired, “How old is the young girl who wants to
study all this ; and who makes out such a programme for
herself 2 ” The stupid Binsa answered, “Fifteen years
old.” I scolded him severely for doing so; I was furious,
enraged. Why should he say I am fifteen It is not true.
He excused himself by saying that, judging from my rea-
soning powers, I was twenty; that he thought he did very
well in saying that I was only two years older than I am,
etc. I exacted from him to-day at dinner a promise that he
should tell the censor how old I am ; I exacted it.
Friday, September 19.-I try to be cheerful under all cir-
cumstances; one ought not to sadden one's-self by griev-
ing. Life is so short, one should laugh while one can.
Tears will come of themselves, those at least we can avoid,
but there are sorrows which we cannot escape, such as death
and absence; yet even this last has its charms, so long as
one has the hope of being reunited to the absent one. But
to spoil one's life with petty worries is a shame. I pay no
heed to such trifles; I have a horror of trivial, every-day
annoyances, so I let them pass with a smile.
Monday, October 13.—I was looking up my lesson to-day
when little Heder, my English governess, said to me:
“Do you know that the Duke is going to marry the
Duchess M ?” I put the book closer to my face, for I
was as red as fire. I felt as if a sharp knife had pierced my
heart. I began to tremble so violently that I could
scarcely hold the volume. I was afraid I was going to
faint, but the book saved me. I pretended to be looking
for the place for a few moments, until I grew calmer. I
said my lesson in a voice that trembled with emotion. I
1873.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIR 7SEFF. 17
summoned all my courage—as I had done on a former
occasion, when I wished to throw myself over the bridge—
and told myself that I must control myself. I wrote a dic-
tation so as not to have to speak. I was rejoiced when I
went to the piano; I tried to play, but my fingers were cold
and stiff. The Princess came to ask me to teach her to
play croquet. “With pleasure,” I responded gayly; but my
voice still trembled. I ran to dress myself. In a green
gown—my hair is the color of gold, and my complexion
white and red—I looked as pretty as an angel or a woman.
I kept thinking continually, “He is going to marry ! Can
it be possible 2 How unhappy I am "-not unhappy, as
formerly, on account of the paper of one room, or the fur-
niture of another, but really unhappy
I did not know how to tell the Princess that he was going
to be married (for they will all know it some day), and it is
better I should tell it myself. I chose a moment when she
was seated in an arm-chair ; the light was behind me so
that she could not see my face. “Do you know the news,
Princess 2 " I said (we spoke in Russian), “the Duke of
H is going to be married.” At last ! I had said the
words. I did not grow red ; I was calm ; but what passed
within me, in the depths of my soul, no one shall ever
know !
We went out for a walk, but Nice is no longer Nice.
The only thing that bound me to Nice was he. I detest
Nice I can scarcely endure the thought of remaining here.
I am weary ! ah, how weary I am
My God, save me from despair My God, pardon me
my sins; do not punish me for them All is ended !—
ended ! * -
To-day I am happy; I am gay at the thought that per-
haps it is not true, for the terrible news has not been con-
firmed, and I prefer ignorance to the certainty of the crush-
ing truth.
18 JOURNAL OF MAA/E BASHAA PSEAF. [1873.
Friday, October 17–I was playing on the piano when the
newspapers were brought in. I took up Galigmami’s Messen-
ger, and the first words on which my eyes fell related to the
marriage of the Duke of H The paper did not fall
from my hands ; on the contrary it remained tight in my
grasp. I had not the strength to stand ; I sat down and re-
read the blighting lines a dozen times over to assure myself
that I was not dreaming. O Divine charity what have I
read My God, what have I read I could not write
in the evening, I threw myself on my knees and wept.
Mamma came into the room, and in order that she might
not see me in this state I pretended I was going to inquire
if tea was ready. And I have to take a Latin lesson Oh,
torture | Oh, anguish ! I can do nothing, I cannot remain
quiet. There are no words to express what I feel ; but
what makes me desperate, what enrages me, what kills me,
is jealousy—jealousy and envy ; they rend my soul apart,
they make me furious, mad ' If I could only let my feelings
be seen But I must hide them and seem calm, and that
makes me all the more miserable.
I shall learn to forget in time, no doubt. To say that my
grief will be eternal would be ridiculous—nothing is eternal.
But the fact is that, for the present, I can think of nothing
else. He does not marry ; they marry him. It is all owing
to the machinations of his mother. (188o.—All this on ac-
count of a man whom Y had seen a dozen times in the street,_
zwhom / did not know, and who did not know that I was in
existence.) Oh, I detest him I want to see them to-
gether. They are at Baden-Baden that I loved so much
Those walks where I used to see him, those kiosks, those
shops |
(All this re-read in 188o produces no effect on me whatever.)
To-day l will alter in my prayer all that relates to him.
I will no longer pray to God that I may become his wife
To give up this prayer seems to me impossible, killing ! I
1873.] /OURNAZ OF MAA/E BASA/KIAE 7 SEAF. 19
shed tears like a fool! Come, come, my child, let us be
reasonable. tº
It is ended ! yes, it is ended ! Ah, I see now that our
wishes are not always granted. Let me make ready for the
torture of altering the prayer. Ah, that is the cruelest of
all suffering—it is the end of everything. Amen.
Saturday, October 18.-I have altered my prayer. I have
omitted the prayer for him. I felt as if my heart were
being torn out—as if I saw them carrying away the coffin of
one dear to me. While the coffin is still there, one is un-
happy indeed, but not so unhappy as when one feels a void
on every side. I am a strange creature; no one suffers as
I do, yet I live, I sing, I write. How changed I am since
the thirteenth of October, that fatal day ! Suffering is
depicted on my countenance. His name is no longer the
source of a beneficent warmth. It is fire ; it is a reproach
to me, it awakens jealousy and grief within me. This is the
greatest misfortune that can happen to a woman ; and I
have experienced it ! Bitter mockery !
I begin to think seriously about my voice. I should so
much like to sing. To what end, now 2 He was as a lamp
within my soul, and now this lamp is extinguished. All
there is dark, gloomy, Sorrowful. I know not which way to
turn. Before, in my little troubles I had something to lean
upon—a light that guided and strengthened me. And now
I may seek in vain, I shall find nothing but a dark and
dreary void. It is horrible ! horrible ! when there is only a
void in the depths of the soul.
Saturday, October 25-Yesterday a knock came to my
door, and they told me that mamma was very ill. I went
down stairs, half asleep, and found her sitting in the dining-
room in a dreadful state. She wished to see me, she said,
before her death. I was seized with horror, but I did not
2O JOURNAL OF MARIE BASA KIRTSEAEF. [1873.
allow this feeling to appear. Every one was in despair. Dr.
Reberg and Dr. Macari were sent for. Servants were hur-
ried off in all directions for remedies. Never could I give
an idea of this terrible night. I spent it seated in an arm-
chair near the window. There were enough persons present
to do all that was necessary, and besides, I am not a good
nurse. Never have I suffered so much Yes, on the
thirteenth of October I suffered as much, but in a different
way.
Tuesday, October 28.-Poor mamma is no better ; those
brutes of doctors have blistered her, which has made her
suffer horribly. The best medicines are cold water or tea;
those are natural and simple. If a man is to die, he will die
even though he has the attendance of all the doctors in the
world ; if, on the contrary, he is not to die, then he will not
die, even if he have no assistance at all. Reasoning calmly,
it appears to me that it is better to dispense with all those
pharmaceutic horrors. -
Paul will do nothing; he does not study; he is not seri-
ous enough ; he does not understand that it is his duty to
study, and this grieves me. My God, inspire him with
wisdom ; make him understand that he ought to study ; in-
spire him with a little ambition—a little, just enough to
make him desire to be something. My God, hear my
prayer, direct him, guard him against all those miscreants
who seek to turn him from the right path ! -
Never could a man beneath me in station succeed in
pleasing me. Common people disgust me ; they sicken me.
A poor man loses half his manhood. He looks small, mis-
erable, and has the air of a beggar, while the rich and inde-
pendent man carries himself haughtily, and has a certain
comfortable air. Self-confidence gives one a victorious look.
And I love in H this self-confident, capricious, vain,
and cruel air. He has something of the Nero in him.
1873.] /O URNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 2 I
Saturday, Movember 8.—We should never give too much
of our society even to those who love us. It is well not to
stay too long in any company so as to leave regrets and illu-
sions behind us when we depart. One will thus appear to
better advantage, and seem to be worth more. People will
then desire to see you return ; but do not gratify that desire
immediately; make them wait for you, but not too long,
however. Anything that costs too much loses by the diffi-
culty with which it is obtained. Something better was an-
ticipated. Or, on the other hand, make them wait a very
long time for you—then you will be a queen.
I think I must have a fever; I suffer, and I try to disguise
my feelings by talking. No one would suspect it; I sing, I
laugh, I jest. The more unhappy I am the gayer I seem
to be.
All that I could write would never express what I feel ; I
am stupid, mad ; I feel myself deeply aggrieved. It seems
to me that in marrying the Duke they are robbing me of him.
It is, in truth, as if they had taken something from me that
was my own. What a wretched state I do not know how
to express myself, but I feel that I am too weak ; for a mere
nothing I make use of the strongest expressions, and when
I wish to speak seriously I find there is nothing left.
It is only now that looking at mamma as if she were a
stranger, I find that she is charming, beautiful as the day;
although she is worn out with all sorts of troubles and mala-
dies. When she speaks her voice is so sweet—not high, but
vibrating and sweet—and her manners, although natural and
simple, are agreeable.
Saturday, Movember 29.-I am tortured by jealousy, love,
envy, deceit, wounded vanity, by every hideous feeling in
the world. Above all, I feel his loss. I love him
One thing tortures me especially; it is that in a few
years I shall laugh at myself, that I shall have forgotten all
22 JOURA’.1/ OF MAA’ſ E BASI/ATA TSEAF. [1874.
this (1875. -/? is two years since that time, yet / do not laugh
at myself, and / ſave not forgotten.) All these sorrows will
seem to me childishness and affectation—but, no, I conjure
you, do not forget ! When you read these lines go back to the
past, think that you are again thirteen years old ; that you
are at Nice ; that all this is taking place now ! Think that
the past lives now ! You will understand | You will be
happy
Sunday, Movember 30.—I wish he would marry at once.
It is always thus with me ; when anything disagreeable is to
be done, instead of wanting to put it off, I wish to have it
over. When we left Paris, I made them hasten the hour of
our departure; I knew that pill must be swallowed. The
expectation of an unpleasantness is more terrible than the
thing itself.
1874.
Sunday, January 4.—How sweet it is to awaken naturally
from sleep ! My alarm has not yet sounded, and my eyes
have unclosed of themselves . It is as if one were gliding on
in a boat : one sinks into a revery, and when one wakens
out of it one has already arrived at one's destination.
Friday, January 9.-On returning from a walk to-day I
said to myself that I would not be like some girls, who are
comparatively serious and reserved. I do not understand
how this seriousness comes; how from childhood one passes
to the state of girlhood. I asked myself, “How does this
happen? Little by little, or in a single day ?” Love, or a
misfortune, is what develops, ripens, or alters the character.
If I were a bel esprit I should say they were synonymous
terms ; but I do not say so, for love is the most beautiful
thing in the whole world. I compare myself to a piece of
1874.] yOURNAL OF MARIE BASI/AIA TSZFF. 23
water that is frozen in its depths, and has motion only on
the surface, for nothing amuses or interests me in my
DEPTHS.
Zhursday, January 24.—All last winter I could not sing
a note. I was in despair ; I thought I had lost my voice,
and I blushed and remained silent when I was spoken to.
Now it has come back again, my voice, my treasure, my
fortune! I receive it with tears in my eyes, and I thank
God for it on my knees. I said nothing, but I was cruelly
grieved. I did not dare to speak of it. I prayed to God,
and He has heard me ! What happiness? What a pleasure
it is to sing well ! One feels as if one were all-powerful,
one thinks one’s-self a queen How happy one is happy
in one's own worth. It is not like the pride that springs
from the possession of wealth or a title. One is more than
woman ; one feels one's self immortal. One is freed fºom
earth ; one soars into heaven And all the people who
hang upon your notes, who listen to your song as to a
voice from heaven, who are electrified, carried away lºy
enthusiasm, ravished—you hold sway over them all. After
real sovereignty comes the sovereignty of song. The sove-
reignty of beauty comes after this, because its sway is not
a universal one ; but song lifts man above the earth ; his
soul soars above it in a cloud like that in which Venus
appeared to Æneas.
Tuesday, July 6.—Nothing in the world is lost. If we
cease to love one individual, this affection is immediately
transferred to another, even without our being conscious of
it ; and if we fancy we love no one, we deceive ourselves.
If one does not love a man, one loves a dog or a piece of
furniture ; and with the same ardor, only in a different
fashion. If I loved a man, I would want him to love me as
I loved him. I would allow nothing—not even a single
24 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHR/R7 SEAF. [1874.
word—for another. Such a love is not to be found ; there-
fore I will never love, for I should never be loved as I desire
to be loved.
July 14.—They have been talking of Latin, of the Lyceum,
of the examination ; all this has given me an intense desire
to study, and when Brunet came to-day, I did not keep him
waiting. I asked him about the examination ; the informa-
tion he gave me was such that I feel myself capable, after a
year's preparation, of presenting myself for the degree of
bachelor of arts and sciences. I will speak to him further
about it.
July 15–Last night I said to the moon, after leaving the
Sapogenikoff's : “Moon, O beautiful moon, show me the
person I shall marry before I die ' "
If you say these words to the moon, without speaking
afterward until you fall asleep, they say the person you
dream of is the one you are to marry.
It is all nonsense. I dreamed of S. and A.—two impos-
sibilities. I am in a bad humor; I fail in everything I
attempt ; nothing succeeds with me. I shall be punished
for my pride and my stupid arrogance. Read this, good
people, and profit by it ! This journal is the most useful
and the most instructive of all the books that ever were or
ever will be written. It is the transcript of a woman's
life—her thoughts and hopes, her deceptions, meannesses,
good qualities, sorrows and joys. I am not yet altogether a
woman, but I shall be. One may follow me here from
childhood to death. For the life of any one—one's entire
life, without any concealment or disguise—is always a grand
and interesting spectacle.
Friday, July 16.—In regard to the transference of love,
all I possess at present is concentrated on Victor, one of
my dogs. I breakfast with him sitting opposite to me, his
fine, large head resting on the table. Let us love dogs ; let
1874.] JOURNAL OF MARIAE BASA/AIRTSEFF. 25
us love only dogs. Men and cats are unworthy creatures.
And yet a dog is a filthy animal He looks at you with
hungry eyes while you eat ; he follows you about for the
sake of his dinner. Still I never feed my dogs and they
love me, and Prater, through jealousy of Victor, has left me
and gone over to mamma And men—do not they ask to
be fed 2 Are not they voracious and mercenary 2
We do not return to Russia. . . .
I am going to say once more to the moon : “Moon, O
beautiful moon, show me in my sleep the person I am to
marry before I die l’”
My hair, fastened in a Pysche knot, is redder than ever.
In a woolen gown of a peculiar white, well-fitting and grace-
ful, and a lace handkerchief around my neck, I look like
one of the portraits of the First Empire; in order to make
the picture complete I should be seated under a tree, hold-
ing a book in my hand. I love to be alone before a look-
ing-glass, and admire my hands, so fine and white, and
faintly rosy in the palms.
Perhaps it is stupid to praise one’s-self in this way, but
people who write always describe their heroine, and I am
my heroine. And it would be ridiculous for me to lower or
belittle myself through false modesty. One makes little of
one’s-self in conversation, because one is sure of being con-
tradicted, but if I were to do so in writing, every one would
believe I was speaking the truth, and that I was ugly and
stupid, and that would be absurd .
Fortunately or unfortunately, I esteem myself so great a
treasure that I think there is no one worthy of me, and those
who raise their eyes to this treasure are regarded by me as
hardly worthy of pity. I think myself a divinity, and I can-
not conceive how a man like S. should fancy he could please
me. I could scarcely treat a king as an equal. I think
that is as it should be. I look down on men from such a
height that they find me charming, for it is not becoming to
20 JOURA'.1/ OF J/.1/0/AE BASI/ATA 7'SZAF. [1874.
despise those who are so far beneath us. I regard them as
a hare would regard a mouse.
Monday, August 2.-After a day spent with seamstresses
and dressmakers, in shopping, promenading, and coqueting,
I put on my wrapper and sat down to read my good friend
Plutarch.
Tuesday, August 17–Last night I dreamed of the Fronde:
I had entered the service of Anne of Austria, I thought,
and she doubted my loyalty, so I led her into the midst of
the rebellious people, crying “Vive la Reine / " and the people
cried after me, “ Vive /a A'eine / "
Wednesday, August 18.--To-day has been spent in admir-
ing me. Mamma admired me, and the Princess S. admired
me. The Princess is always saying that I look either like
mamma or like her daughter ; and that is the greatest com-
pliment she could pay me. One never thinks better of
others than of one's own. The fact is, that I am really
pretty. The picture on the ceiling of the great saloon of
the Ducal Palace at Venice, by Paul Veronese, represents
Venus as a tall woman, blonde and fresh-colored. I resem-
ble that picture. My photographs are never like me. Color
is wanting in them, and the unequaled freshness and white-
ness of ny skin are my chief charm. But let any one put
me in a bad humor; let me be dissatisfied with anything ;
let me be tired,—and adieu to my beauty! There is nothing
more fragile than I. It is only when I am happy and tran-
quil that I am charming.
PARIs, Wednesday, August 24.—I begin now to live, and
to try to realize my dreams of becoming famous. I am
already known to many people. I look at myself in the
glass, and I find that I am beautiful. I am beautiful; what
1874.] JOUA’.V.1/ OF JAA/E B.15//AIA’ TSEAF. 27
more do I want 2 Can I not accomplish anything with that 2
My God, in giving me the little beauty I possess (I say little
through modesty) you have already given me too much. O
my God I feel myself to be beautiful; it seems to me that
I shall succeed in all that I undertake. Everything smiles
upon me, and I am happy, happy, happy
The noise of Paris, this hotel, as large as a city, with
people always walking, talking, reading, smoking, looking,
confuse me. I love Paris, and it makes my heart beat with
emotion to be here. I want to live faster, faster, faster |
(“I never saw such a fever of life,” D. says, looking at me.)
It is true ; I fear that this desire to live always at high pres-
sure is the presage of a short existence. Who knows 2
Come, I am growing melancholy. No, I will have nothing
to do with melancholy.
Sunday, September 6.-There were so many people from
Nice in the Bois that I thought for a moment I was at Nice.
Nice is so beautiful in September 1 I recall the morning
walks I took last year with my dogs, the sky so pure, the
sea so silvery. Here there is neither morning nor evening.
In the morning they are sweeping ; in the evening the in-
numerable lights irritate my nerves. I lose my bearings
here—I cannot distinguish the east from the west. While at
Nice one is comfortable ! It is as if one were in a nest sur-
rounded by mountains, not too high nor too bare. One is
sheltered on three sides as if by a graceful and easy mantle,
and in front there is a boundless horizon, always the same,
and always new. I love Nice. Nice is my country. Nice
has seen me grow up ; Nice has given me health and a fresh
color. It is so beautiful One rises with the dawn and sees
the sun appear yonder to the left, behind the mountains
which stand out boldly from a silvery blue sky, so soft and
vaporous that one can scarcely speak for joy. Toward
noon the sun faces me ; it is a warm day, but it does not
28 JOURNAL OF AIAA'IE B.4 SHAZA' TSEAEF. [1874.
seem warm ; there is that delightful breeze that always keeps
the atmosphere cool. Everything seems asleep. There is
not a soul to be seen on the promenade save two or three of the
town's-people dozing on the benches. Then I can breathe
freely ; then I can admire nature. In the evening the same
sea, the same sky, the same mountains. But at night all is
black or deep blue. And when the moon shines, leaving a
silvery track upon the waters that looks like an enormous fish
with diamond scales, and I am seated at my window, peace-
ful and alone, a mirror and two wax tapers in front, I ask for
nothing more, and I bow down in thankfulness before God.
Oh, no, what I desire to express will not be understood ; it
will not be understood because it has not been experienced.
No, it is not that It is that I grow desperate every time I
try to express what I feel ! It is as when one is in a night-
mare and has not the strength to cry out !
Besides, one can never give by words the least idea of
real life. How describe the freshness, the perfume of mem-
Ory 2 One may invent, one may create, but one cannot
copy. It is of no avail to feel what one writes; commonplace
words only are the result ; woods, mountains, sky, moon,
everybody uses these words. And then, why write all this?
What does it matter to others ? Others will never under-
stand it, since it is not they, but I, who have felt it. I alone
understand and remember. And then, men are not worth
the trouble of trying to make them understand. Every one
feels for himself, as I do. I should like to see others feel as
I feel, through my means; but that would be impossible; to
do so they must be Z. My child, my child, leave all this
alone; you lose yourself in subtleties of thought. You will
become crazy if you excite yourself about those things as
you did before about your DEPTHS. There are so many
people of intelligence—well, not that. I mean to say that
it is their part to understand you. Well, no ! They can
create, but understand—no, no, a hundred thousand times,
1874.] JOURNAL OF MAA'ſ E BASHAZRTSEAF. 29
no ! In all this what is very evident is, that I am homesick
for Nice.
Monday, September 6.-Though I am in a state of depres-
sion and constant suffering, I do not curse life; on the con-
trary, I love it, and I find it good. Will it be believed, I find
everything, even tears, even grief, good and pleasant. I love
to weep ; I love to give myself up to despair; I love to be
troubled and sorrowful. I regard these feelings as so many
diversions, and I love life, notwithstanding them all. I wish
to live. It would be cruel to make me die when I am so
accommodating. I weep, I complain, and I take pleasure
in doing so. No, not that ; I don't know how to express
myself. In a word, everything in life pleases me ; I find
everything agreeable; and while I ask for happiness I find
myself happy in being miserable ; my body suffers and
cries out, but something within me, above me, rejoices at
everything. It is not that I prefer tears to joy, but far
from cursing life in my moments of despair, I bless it ; I
say to myself that I am unhappy, I pity myself, but I find
life so beautiful that everything seems to me beautiful, and
I feel I must live Apparently this some one who is above
me, who rejoices at So much weeping, has gone out this
evening, for I feel very unhappy.
Thursday, September 9.—We are at Marseilles, and are to
leave this ill-smelling city at one o'clock.
At last I behold it, the Mediterranean, for which I have
sighed. How black the trees are And the moon casts a
track of silvery light across the waters.
The silence is complete ; there is not a sound, either of
carriage-wheels or footsteps, to be heard. I enter my dress-
ing-room and throw open the window to look out upon the
chateau, which is unchanged. And the clock strikes—what
hour I know not—and my heart is oppressed with sadness,
3o JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHAARTSEAF. [1874.
Ah, I might well call this year the year of sighs . I am
tired, but I love Nice —I love Nice
Friday, September 10 (Journey to Florence)—The mos-
quitoes awakened me a dozen times during the night, but,
notwithstanding this, I woke up in the morning with a sense
of well-being, though I was still a little fatigued.
Sunday, September 13.−We drove through the city en
toilette, in a landau. Ah, how I admire these somber edi-
fices, these porticos, these columns, this grand and massive
architecture | Blush for shame, ye architects of England,
France, and Russia Hide yourselves under the earth ;
sink into the ground, ye cardboard palaces of Paris | Not
the Louvre—that is above criticism—but all the others.
They will never bear comparison with the superb magnifi-
cence of the Italians. I was struck with amazement on
seeing the huge stones of the Palazzo Pitti. The city is dirty,
almost squalid, but how many beauties it possesses O
city of Dante, of the Medici, of Savonarola, how full of
splendid memorials for those who think, who feel, who
know ! What masterpieces ! What ruins ! O puppet-
king ! Ah, if I were only queen
I adore painting, sculpture, art, in short, wherever it is to
be found. I could spend entire days in those galleries, but
my aunt is not well; she has difficulty in keeping up with
me, and I sacrifice myself to her comfort. Besides, life is
all before me ; I shall have time enough to see all this after-
ward. º
At the Pitti Palace I did not find a single costume to
copy, but what beauty, what art 2 Must I say it? I dare
not. Every one will cry “Shame, shame !” Come then, in
confidence—Well, I don't like the Madonna del/a Sedia,
of Raphael. The countenance of the Virgin is pale, the
color is not natural, the expression is that of a waiting-maid
-- 1874.] JOUAEAVAZ OF A/AAC/E BASA/AIAE 7 SEAEF. 3 I
rather than that of a Madonna. Ah, but there is a Mag-
dalen of Titian that enchanted me. Only—there is always
an only—her wrists are too thick, and her hands are too
plump-beautiful hands they would be in a woman of fifty.
There are things of Rubens and Vandyke that are ravishing.
The “Mensonge,” of Salvator Rosa is very natural. I do
not speak as a connoisseur ; what most resembles nature
pleases me most. Is it not the aim of painting to copy
nature ? I like very much the full, fresh countenance of
the wife of Paul Veronese, painted by him. I like the style
of his faces. I adore Titian and Vandyke ; but that poor
Raphael ! Provided only no one knows what I write peo-
ple would take me for a fool. I do not criticise Raphael,
I don't understand him ; in time I shall no doubt learn to
appreciate his beauties. The portrait of Pope Leo—Tenth,
I think it is—is admirable, however. A “Virgin with the
Infant Jesus,” of Murillo, attracted my attention ; it is fresh
and natural. To my great satisfaction I found the picture
gallery smaller than I had thought it to be. Those galleries
without end—those labyrinths more intricate than that of
Crete—are killing.
I spent two hours in the palace without sitting down for
an instant, yet I am not tired. That is because the things
one loves do not tire one. So long as there are paintings,
and, better still, statues, to be seen, I am made of iron.
Ah, if I were compelled to walk through the shops of the
Louvre, or the Bon Marché, or even through the establish-
ment of Worth, I should be ready to cry at the end of three-
quarters of an hour. No journey ever pleased me so much
as this one has done. I find an endless number of things
that are worth being seen ; I adore those somber Strozzi
palaces. And I adore those immense doors, those superb
courts, those galleries, those colonnades. They are majes-
tic, grand, beautiful Ah, the world is degenerating ; one
would like to sink into the earth when one compares our
32 JOUAMAZ OF MAA'ZE BASE/KIA. TSEFF. [1875.
modern buildings with those structures of gigantic stones,
piled one upon another, and mounting up to the sky. One
passes under bridges that connect palaces at a prodigious
height. e
Oh, my child, be careful of your expressions ! What
then, will you say of Rome 2
1875.
Aºriday, October 1.-God has not done- what I asked Him
to do; I am resigned ; (not at all, I am only waiting). Oh,
how tiresome it is to wait, to do nothing but wait !
Disorder in the house is a source of great annoyance to
me. The swallow builds her nest, the lion makes his lair ;
why, then, should not man, so superior to the other animals,
follow this example.
When I say “so superior,” I do not mean that I
esteem man more than the other animals. No ; I despise
men profoundly and from conviction. I expect nothing
good from them. I should be satisfied after all my waiting
to find one good and perfect soul. Those who are good
are stupid, and those who are intelligent are either too false
or too self-conceited to be good. Besides, every human be-
ing is by nature selfish, and find goodness for me if you can
in an egotist Self-interest, deceit, intrigue, envy, rather.
Happy are they who possess ambition—that is a noble pas-
sion; through vanity or through ambition one seeks to ap-
pear well in the eyes of others sometimes, and that is better
than not at all. Well, my child, have you come to the end
of your philosophy 2 For the moment, yes. In this way,
at least, I shall suffer fewer disappointments. No mean-
ness will grieve me, no base action surprise me. The day
will doubtless come when I shall think I have found a
man,but, if so, I shall deceive myself wofully. I can very
1875.] /OURAWAZ OF MAA/E BASHAZR 7SAEAEA. 33
well foresee that day; I shall then be blind. I say this
now while I can see clearly. But in that case why live ;
since there is nothing but meanness and wickedness in
the world 2 Why P. Because I am reconciled to the knowl-
edge that this is so ; because, whatever people may say, life
is very beautiful. And because, if one does not analyze
too deeply, one may live happily. To count neither on
friendship nor gratitude, nor loyalty nor honesty ; to elevate
one's-Self courageously above the meannesses of humanity,
and take one's stand between them and God ; to get all one
can out of life, and that quickly ; to do no injury to one's
fellow-beings ; to make one's life luxurious and magnificent;
to be independent, so far as it be possible, of others ; to pos-
sess power —yes, power l—no matter by what means !—
this is to be feared and respected ; this is to be strong, and
that is the height of human felicity, because one’s fellow-
beings are then muzzled, and either through cowardice or
for other reasons will not seek to tear one to pieces.
Is it not strange to hear me reason in this way ? Yes,
but this manner of reasoning in a young creature like me is
but another proof of how bad the world is ; it must be
thoroughly saturated with wickedness to have so saddened
me in so short a time. I am only fifteen.
And this proves the divine mercy of God ; for, when I
shall be completely initiated into all the baseness of the
world, I shall see that there is only He above in the heav-
ens, and I here below on earth. This conviction will give
me greater strength ; I shall take note of vulgar things
only in order to elevate myself, and I shall be happy when
I am no longer disheartened by the meannesses around
which men's lives revolve, and which make them fight with
each other, devour each other, and tear each other to pieces,
like hungry dogs. & *
Here are words enough ! And to what am I going to
elevate myself 2 And how 2 Oh, dreams
&
34 JOURNAL OF MAA/E BASA KIAE 7 SEAA’. [1875.
I elevate myself intellectually for the present; my soul is
great, I am capable of great things; but of what use will all
that be to me, since I live in an obscure corner, unknown
to all 2
There, you see that I do set some store by my worthless
fellow-beings; that I have never disdained them ; on the
contrary, I seek them ; without them there is nothing in the
world. Only—only that I value them at their worth, and I
desire to make use of them.
The multitude, that is everything. What matter to me a
few superior beings 2 I need everybody—I need ec/at,
fame !
Why can one never speak without exaggeration ? .
There are peaceful souls, there are beautiful actions and
honest hearts, but they are so rarely to be met with that one
must not confound them with the rest of the world.
Saturday, October 9.—If I had been born Princess of
Bourbon, like Madame de Longueville ; if I had counts for
servitors, kings for relations and friends ; if, since my first
step in life, I had met only with bowed heads and courtiers
eager to please me ; if I had trodden only on heraldic
devices, and slept only under regal canopies, and had had
a succession of ancestors each one more glorious and
haughtier than all the rest, it seems to me I should be
neither prouder nor more arrogant than I am.
O my God, how I bless thee . These thoughts with
which you inspire me will keep me in the right path, and
will prevent me from turning away my gaze even for an in-
stant from the luminous star toward which I move. I
think that, at present, I do not move at all ; but I shall
move ; and for so slight a cause it is not worth while to
alter so fine a sentence. Ah, how weary I am of my ob-
scurity I am consumed by inaction ; I am growing moldy
in this darkness. Oh, for the light, the light, the light !
1875.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHA'IRTSEFF. 35
From what side will it come to me 2 When 2 Where 2
How 2 I desire to know nothing, provided only that it
come !
In my moments of wild longing for greatness common
objects appear to me unworthy of my attention ; my pen
refuses to write a commonplace word; I look with supreme
disdain on everything that surrounds me, and I say to my-
self with a sigh, “Come, courage this stage of existence is
but the passage to that in which I shall be happy.”
Monday, ZXecember 27.-All my life is contained in this
diary; my calmest moments are those in which I write ;
they are perhaps my only calm moments.
If I should die young, I will burn these pages; but if I
live to be old, this diary will be given to the public. I
believe there is no photograph yet, if I may so express my-
self, of the whole life of a woman—of all her thoughts, of
everything, everything. It will be curious.
If I die young, and it should chance that my journal is
not burned, people will say, “Poor child ; she has loved,
and all her despair comes from that l”
Let them say so, I shall not try to prove the contrary,
for the more I should try to do so the less would I be
believed. - º
What can there be more stupid, more cowardly, more vile,
than humanity ? Nothing. Humanity was created for the
perdition of—good I was going to say, of humanity.
It is three o'clock in the morning, and, as my aunt says,
I shall gain nothing by losing my sleep.
Oh, how impatient I am | I wish to believe that my time
will come, but something tells me that it will never come ;
that I shall spend my life in waiting—always waiting.
Tuesday, ZXecember 28.-I am so nervous that every
piece of music that is not a galop makes me shed tears.
36 yo URAVAZ OF MARIE BASHAVRTSEAF. [1875.
The most commonplace words of any opera I chance to
come across touch me to the heart.
Such a condition of things would do honor to a woman
of thirty. But to have nerves at fifteen, to cry like a fool
at every stupid, sentimental phrase I meet, is pitiable.
Just now I fell on my knees, sobbing, and praying to
God with outstretched arms, and eyes fixed straight before
me, just as if He were there in my room. It appears that
God does not hear me. Yet I cry to Him loudly enough.
Shall I ever find a dog on the streets, famished, and
beaten by boys; a horse that drags behind him from morn-
ing till night a load beyond his strength ; a miller's ass, a
church mouse, a professor of mathematics without pupils,
an unfrocked priest, a-poor devil of any kind sufficiently
crushed, sufficiently miserable, sufficiently sorrowful, suffi-
ciently humiliated, sufficiently depressed, to be compared to
me 2 The most dreadful thing with me is that humiliations,
when they are past, do not glide from my heart, but leave
there their hideous traces. To be compelled to lead a life
like mine, with a character such as mine ! I have not even
the pleasures proper to my age I have not even the re-
source that every American girl has, I do not even dance
Wednesday, December 29.-My God, if you will make my
life what I wish it to be, I make a vow, if you will but take
pity upon me, to go from Kharkoff to Kieff, on foot, like the
pilgrims. If, along with this, you will satisfy my ambition
and render me completely happy, I will take a vow to make
a journey to Jerusalem, and to go a tenth part of the way
on foot. Is it not a sin to say what I am saying 2 Saints
have made vows ; true, but I seem to be setting conditions.
No ; God sees that my intention is good, and if I am doing
wrong He will pardon me, for I desire to do right.
My God, pardon me and take pity on me ; ordain that
my vows may be fulfilled !
1876.1 /OURNAL OF MARIE BASHR/R7 SEFF. 37
Holy Mary, it is perhaps stupid of me, but it seems to me
that you, as a woman, are more merciful, more indulgent;
take me under your protection, and I will make a vow to
devote a tenth of my revenue to all manner of good works.
If I do wrong, it is without meaning it. Pardon |
g-mºmºmº
1876.
ROME, Saturday, January I.-Oh, Nice, Nice! Is there,
after Paris, a more beautiful city than Nice? Paris and
Nice, Nice and Paris. France, nothing but France. In
France only does one live. -
The question now is to study, since that is what I am in
Rome for. Rome does not produce on me the effect of
Rome. Is Rome an agreeable place? May I not deceive
myself? Is it possible to live in any other city than Nice?
To pass through other cities, to visit them, yes; but to live
in them, no!
Bah! I shall become accustomed to it.
I am here like a poor transplanted flower. I look out
of the window, and instead of the Mediterranean I see grimy
houses; I look out of the other window, and instead of the
chateau I see the corridor of the hotel.
It is a bad thing to acquire habits, and to hate change.
Wednesday, January 9.--I have seen the façade of St.
Peter's; it is superb. I was enchanted with it, especially-
with the colonnade to the left, because there no other
building intercepts the view, and these columns, with the
sky for a background, produce the most ravishing effect.
One might fancy one’s-self in ancient Greece. -
The bridge and fort of St. Angelo are also after my own
ideas.
38 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHRIA TSEFF. [1876.
*
And the Coliseum !
What remains for me to say of it, after Byron?
Friday, January 14.—At eleven o’clock my painting-
master, Katorbinsky, a young Pole, came, bringing with him
a model—a real Christ-face, if the lines and the shadows
were a little softened. Katorbinsky told me he always took
him for his model when he wished to paint a Christ.
I must confess that I was a little frightened when I was
told to draw from nature, all at once, in this way, without
any previous preparation. I took the charcoal and bravely
drew the outlines: “Very good,” said my master. “Now
do the same thing with the brush.” I took the brush and
did as he told me.
“Good,” said he once more; “now work it up.”
And I worked it up, and at the end of an hour and a half
it was all finished. -
My unhappy model had not budged, and, as for me, I
could not believe my eyes. With Binsa two or three lessons
were necessary to draw the outlines and copy a picture, and
here was the whole thing done at once, after nature—out-
line, coloring, and background. I am satisfied with myself,
and, if I say this it is because I deserve it. I am severe and
hard to please, especially where I myself am concerned.
Nothing is lost in the world. Where, then, does love go?
Every created being, every individual, is endowed with an
equal portion of this force or fluid at his birth; only that he
seems to have more or less of it according to his constitu-
tion, his character, and his circumstances. Every human
being loves always, but not always the same object; when
he seems to love no one, the force goes toward God, or
toward nature, in words, in writings, or simply in sighs or
thoughts.
Now there are persons who eat, drink, laugh, and do
nothing else: with these the force is either absorbed by the
1876.] /OURNAL OF MARIE BASHATR 7"SERA. 39
animal instinct, or dissipated among men and things in gen-
eral; and these are the persons who are called good-natured,
and who, generally speaking, are incapable of the passion of
love. There are persons who love no one, it is sometimes
said. This is not true; they always love some one, but in a
different manner from others—in a manner peculiarly their
own. But there are still other unhappy persons, who really
love no one, because they have loved, and love no longer?
Another error! They love no longer, it is said. Why, then,
do they suffer? Because they still love, and think they love
no longer, either because of disappointed affection, or the
loss of the beloved object.
Thursday, January 20.—To-day Facciotti made me sing
all my notes. He was struck with admiration. As for me,
I don't know what to do with myself for joy; my voice, my
treasure, my dream, that is to cover me with glory on the
stage! This is for me as great a destiny as to become a
princess.
Zºuesday, February 15.- . . . Rossi came to see us
to-day. My mother asked him who A was. “He is
Count A ,” replied Rossi; “a nephew of the Cardinal.”
5 y
“I asked you who he was,” said my mother, “because he
reminds me very much of my son.”
“He is a charming fellow,” returned Rossi; “he is a little
passarello; sprightly and full of intelligence, and he is very
handsome.’’
Friday, February 18.-There was a grand masked ball at
the Capitol to-night. Dina, my mother, and I went there
at eleven o’clock. I wore no domino: I was dressed in a
close-fitting gown of black silk, with a train, a tunic of
black gauze trimmed with silver lace, light gloves, a rose
and some lilies of the valley in my corsage. It was charm-
ing; consequently our entrance produced an immense effect.
4O JOURNAL OF MAA"/E BASHATR 7SEFF. [1876.
A has a perfectly beautiful countenance; he has a
pale complexion, black eyes, a long and regular nose, beau-
tiful ears, a small mouth, very passable teeth, and the mus-
tache of a young man of twenty-three. I treated him by
turns as a young fop, as a deceitful fellow, as unhappy, as
audacious; and he told me in return, in the most serious
manner in the world, how he had run away from home at
nineteen; how he had thrown himself head-foremost into
the pleasures of life; how blasé he is; how he has never
loved, etc.
“How many times have you been in love?” he asked me.
‘‘Twice.”
“Oh Oh!”
“Perhaps even oftener.”
‘‘I should like to be the oftener.”
“Presumptuous man Tell me, why has every one taken
me for that lady there in white?”
“Because you resemble her. That is why I am with you.
I am madly in love with her.”
“It is not very amiable of you to say so.”
“What would you have It is the truth.”
“You look at her enough. She is evidently pleased by it,
for she is posing.”
“Never ! She never poses; you may say anything else
of her but that " ''
“It is easily seen that you are in love.”
“I am—with you ; you resemble her.”
“Oh I have a much better figure.”
“No matter. Give me a flower.”
I gave him a flower, and he gave me a spray of ivy in
return. His accent and his languishing air irritated me.
“You have the air of a priest. It it true that you are
going to be ordained P” I said.
He laughed.
“I detest priests; I have been a soldier.”
1876.] JOUR-VAZ OF JAA/E BASAA IAE 7 SEAF. 4 I
“You ! you have never been anywhere but at the sem-
inary.”
“I hate the Jesuits; that is why I am always at odds
with my family.”
“My dear friend, you are ambitious, you would like to
have people kiss your slipper.”
“What an adorable little hand ' " he cried, kissing my
hand—an operation he repeated several times in the course
of the evening.
“Why did you begin so badly with me 2 ” I asked.
“Because I took you for a Roman, and I hate that kind
of woman.”
Wednesday, February 23.-Looking down from the bal-
cony, I saw A , who saluted me. Dina threw him a
bouquet, and a dozen arms were stretched out to seize it as
it fell. One man succeeded in catching it ; but A 5
with the utmost sang froza, caught him by the throat, and
held him in his strong grasp until the wretch let go his prey.
It was so beautifully done that A looked almost sub-
lime. I was carried away by my enthusiasm, and forgetting
my blushes, and blushing anew, I threw him a camellia; he
caught it, put it in his pocket, and disappeared.
You will laugh, perhaps, at what I am going to tell you,
but I will tell it to you all the same.
Well, then, by an action like this a man might make him-
self loved by a woman at once. His air was so calm while
he was strangling the villain that it took my breath away.
Monday, February 28.-On going out into the balcony on
the Corso I found all our neighbors at their posts, and the
Carnival going on with great animation. . . .
. . . “But what do you do with yourself?” said A y
with his calm, sweet air. “You do not go to the theater.”
“I was ill ; I have a sore finger.” &
42 JOURNAL OF AZAR/E BASI/AIRTSEFF. [1876.
“Where 2" (and he wanted to take my hand.) “Do you
know that I went every evening to the Apollo, and remained
only for five minutes or so 2 ”
“Why?”
“Why?” he repeated, looking me straight in the eyes.
“Yes, why 2"
“Because I went there to see you, and you were not
there.”
He said a great many other things of the same kind,
accompanied with tender glances, to my great amusement.
He has adorable eyes, especially where he does not open
them too wide. His eyelids, covering a quarter of the
pupil, give his eyes an expression that makes my heart
beat, and my head grow dizzy.
March.—At three o’clock we were at the Porta del Po-
polo. Debeck, Plowden, and A met us there, and A
helped me to mount my horse, and we set off.
My riding-habit is of black cloth, and made in a single
piece by Laferrière, so that it has nothing of the English
stiffness, nor of the scantiness of riding-habits in general.
It is a princesse robe, closely fitting—everywhere.
“How chic you are on horseback,” said A tº
Plowden annoyed me by wanting to be continually at my
side.
Once alone with the Cardinalino the conversation natur-"
ally turned on love.
“Eternal love is the tomb of love,” said he ; “one should
love for a day, then make a change.”
“A charming idea . It is from your uncle the Cardinal
you have learned it, I suppose.” -
“Yes,” he answered, laughing.
Tuesday, March 8.—I put on my riding-habit, and at five
o'clock we were at the Porta del Popolo, where the Cardi-
1876.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHA'IRTSEFF. 43
nalino was waiting for us with two horses. Mamma and
Dina followed in a carriage.
“Let us ride in this direction,” said my cavalier.
“Let us do so.”
And we entered a sort of field—a green and pretty place
called Za Farmesina. He began his declarations again,
saying:
“I am in despair.”
“What is despair P’’
“It is when a man desires a thing and cannot have it.”
“You desire the moon 2 " .
“No, the sun.”
“Where is it?” I said, looking around the horizon. “It
has set, I think.” -
“No, it is shining upon me now ; you are it.”
“Bah bah. ”
“I have never loved before, I hate women—”
“And as soon as you saw me you loved me 2 ”
“Yes, that very instant—the first evening I saw you, at
the theater.”
“You told me that had passed away.”
“I was jesting.”
“How can I tell when you are jesting, and when you are
in earnest ? "
“That is easy to be seen.”
“True ; one can almost always tell when a person is
speaking the truth, but you inspire me with no confidence,
and your fine ideas regarding love with still less.”
“What are my ideas? I love you and you will not believe
it. Ah,” said he, biting his lips, and giving me a side
glance, “then I am nothing, I can do nothing.”
“Yes, play the hypocrite,” said I, laughing.
“The hypocrite ' " he cried, growing furious. “Always
the hypocrite ; that is what you think of me !”
“How can one help admiring you ?” he said, looking at
44 JOCAA’AZ OF MAAC/E BASHR/RTSEFF, [1876.
me fixedly, a little further on ; “You are beautiful, only I
think you have no heart.”
“On the contrary, I assure you I have an excellent heart.”
“You have an excellent heart, and you don't want to fall
in love.”
“That depends.”
“You are a spoiled child ; am I not right?”
“Why should I not be spoiled 7 I am not ignorant; I
am good ; the only thing is I have a bad temper.”
“I have a bad temper, too : I am passionate ; I can get
furiously angry ; I want to correct these faults.—Shall we
jump that ditch 2"
66 NO.”
And I rode across the little bridge, while he jumped the
ditch.
“Let us canter toward the carriage,” he said, “we have
finished the descent.”
I put my horse into a trot, but a few paces from the car-
riage he began to gallop. I turned to the right. A
followed me, my horse galloping rapidly. I tried to hold
him in, but he dashed forward madly ; I had lost control of
him ; there was an open space in front ; my hair fell down
on my shoulders, my hat dropped on the ground. I could
hear A– behind me ; I felt what they must be suffering
in the carriage. I had a mind to jump to the ground, but
the horse flew on like an arrow. “It is stupid to be killed
in this way,” I thought—I had no longer any strength.
“They must save me !”
“Hold him in ” cried A.— who could not catch up
with me.
“I cannot,” I answered in a low voice.
My arms trembled ; an instant more and I should have
lost consciousness ; just then he came close to me and
gave my horse a blow across the head with his whip ; I
seized his arm, as much to touch him as to stop myself.
1876.] JOCR.VAL OF j/ARIE BASI/AIRTSEFF. 45
I looked at him ; he was pale as death ; never had I seen
a countenance so full of emotion
“God ' " he said, “how you have made me suffer . "
“Ah, yes, but for you I should have fallen ; I could hold
the reins no longer. Now it is over—well, that is good.”
I added, trying to laugh. “Let some one give me my hat l”
Dina had got out of the carriage, which we now approached.
Mamma was beside herself with terror, but she said nothing
to me. She knew that something was the matter, and did
not wish to annoy me.
“We will return slowly, step by step, to the Porta del
Popolo,” he said.
“Yes, yes | "
“How you frightened me ! And you—were you not
afraid P’’
“No, I assure you, no.”
“Oh, but you were—I could see it.”
“It was nothing—nothing at all.”
And in a second more we were declining the verb “to
love,” in all its moods and tenses; he told me everything,
from the first evening he had seen me at the opera, when,
observing Rossi leaving our box, he left his own to go meet
him.
When we returned home I took off my habit, threw on a
wrapper, and lay down on the Sofa, tired, charmed, con-
fused. I could remember nothing clearly at first, of all
that had taken place ; it took me a couple of hours to get
together what you have just read. I should be at the
height of joy if I believed him, but notwithstanding his air
of sincerity, of candor even, I doubt him. This is what it
is to be “canaille” one's-self. And besides it is better that it
should be so.
Tuesday, March 4.— . . . To-day we leave the Hôtel de
Londres; we have taken a large and handsome apartment
46 JOUAE.Y.1/ OF JAAA"/Z B.1s/ZAZA 7'SZZ.Z. [1876.
On the first floor, in the Hôtel della via Babuina—consisting
of an ante-Chamber, a large drawing-room, a small drawing-
room, four bed-rooms, a studio, and servants' rooms.
Saturday, March 18.-I have never yet had a moment's
féte-à féfe with Pietro A ; this vexes me. I love to hear
him tell me that he loves me. When he has told it to me over
and over again, I rest my elbows on the table and think with
my head between my hands. Perhaps I am in love with him.
It is when I am tired and half-asleep that I think I love
Pietro. Why am I vain P Why am I ambitious 2 Why do
I reason coldly about my emotions 2 I cannot make up my
mind to sacrifice to a moment's happiness whole years of
greatness and satisfied ambition.
“Yes,” say the romance-writers, “but that moment's hap-
piness is sufficient to brighten by its splendor an entire life-
time.” Oh, no ; to-day I am cold, and in love ; to-morrow
I shall be warm, and in love no longer. See on what changes
of temperature the destinies of men depend.
When he was going A-- kept my hand in his while he
said good-night, and asked me a dozen questions, afterward,
to defer the moment of Our parting.
I told all this immediately to mamma. I tell her every-
thing.
Jºriday, A/arch 24; Saſurday, A/arch 25.-A C3 ITM C Q.
quarter of an hour earlier than usual to-day ; he looked
pale, interesting, sorrowful, and calm. When Fortune an-
nounced him, I clothed myself at once from head to foot in
an armor of cold politeness such as a woman uses when she
wishes to make a man in his position angry.
I let him spend ten minutes with mamma before going in.
Poor fellow ! he is jealous of Plowden | What an ugly
thing it is to be in love
“I had sworn not to come again to see you,” he said.
1876.] JOURNAL OF AZAR/E BASHRIA TSEAF. 47
“Why have you come, then 2"
“I thought it would be rude toward your mother, who is
so amiable to me, if I stayed away.”
“If that is the reason, you may go away now, and not
come back again. Good-by.”
“No, no, no, it is on your account.”
“Well, that is different.”
“Mademoiselle, I have committed a great mistake,” he
said, “and I know it.”
“What mistake 2 ”
“That of giving you to understand—of telling you—"
“What P’’ &
“That I love you,” he said, with a contraction of the lips,
as if he found it hard to keep from crying.
“That was not a mistake.”
“It was a great—a very great—mistake ; because you
play with me as if I were a ball or a doll.”
“What an idea!”
“Oh, I am well aware that that is your character. You
love to amuse yourself; well, then, amuse yourself; it is
my own fault.”
“Let us amuse ourselves together.”
“Then it was not to dismiss me that you told me at the
theater to leave you ?” *.
{ % NO.”
“It was not to get rid of me?”
“I have no need to make use of a stratagem, Monsieur,
when I want to get rid of any one. I do it quite simply,
as I did with B ."
“Ah, and you told me that was not true.”
“Let us speak of something else.'
He rested his cheek against my hand.
“Do you love me?” he asked.
“No, not the least bit in the world.”
He did not believe a word of it. At this moment Dina
2
48 JOUAE.V.4/ OF M.4/C/A3 A4 S//A/R Z SAEAA. [1876.
and mamma entered the room, and at the end of a few
minutes he left.
Monday, March 27.-In the evening we had visitors,
among others A I think he has spoken to his father,
and that his communication has not been well received. I
cannot decide upon anything. I am entirely ignorant of the
condition of affairs, and I would not for anything in all
the world consent to go live in another family. Am I not
extremely sensible for a girl of my age?
“I will follow you wherever you go,” he said to me the
other evening.
“Come to Nice,” I said to him to-day. He remained
with bent head, without answering, which proves to me that
he has spoken to his father. I do not understand it ; I
love him and I do not love him.
Monday, March 30.-To-day Visconti spoke to mamma
about A–—'s attentions.
“Pietro A is a charming young man,” he ended, “and
will be very rich, but the Pope interferes in all the affairs of
the A 's, and the Pope will make difficulties.”
“But why do you say all that ?” mamma answered ; “there
is no question of marriage. I love the young man like a
son, but not as a future son-in-law.”
It would be well to leave Rome, the more so as nothing
will be lost by putting off the matter till next winter. . . .
What irritates me is that the opposition does not come
from our side but from the side of the A––’s. This is
hateful, and my pride revolts against it.
Let us leave Rome.
In the evening Pietro A came. We received him
very coldly in consequence of the Baron Visconti's words,
and our own suspicions ; for, except the words of Visconti,
all the rest is only suspicion.
1876.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASA/KIAE 7 SEAF. 49
“To-morrow,” said Pietro, after a few moments, “I leave
Rome.”
“And where are you going 2 ” I asked.
“To Terracina. I shall remain there a week, I think.”
“They are sending him away,” said mamma to me in
Russian.
I had said the same thing to myself, but what a humilia-
tion I was ready to cry with rage.
“Yes, it is disagreeable,” I replied in the same language.
When we were alone I attacked the question bravely,
though with some nervousness.
“Why are you leaving Rome 2 Where are you going 2"
Well, if you think he answered those questions as plainly
as I put them, you are mistaken.
I continued to question him, and he evaded answering.
. . . I wanted to know all, at any cost. This state of
disquiet and suspicion made me too miserable.
“Well, monsieur,” I said, “you wish me to love a man of
whom I know nothing, who conceals everything from me !
Speak, and I will believe you ! Speak, and I promise to give
you an answer. Listen well to what I say: after you have
spoken, I promise to give you an answer.”
“But you will laugh at me, mademoiselle, if I tell you. It
is so great a secret that if I tell it to you there will be noth-
ing left for me to conceal. There are things that one can
tell no one.”
“Speak, I am waiting.”
“I will tell it to you, but you will laugh at me.”
“I swear to you I will not.”
After many promises not to laugh, and not to betray it to
any one, he at last told me the secret.
It seems that last year, when he was a soldier at Vicenza,
he contracted debts to the amount of thirty-four thousand
francs. When he returned home ten months later he had a
quarrel with his father, who refused to pay them. At last,
'… /« () ºve. .
2.
*
5o JOURNAL OF MARIE BASF/AIR 7SEFF. [1876.
a few days ago, he pretended he was going to leave thé
house, saying that he was badly treated at home. Then his
mother told him that his father would pay his debts, on
condition that he would promise to lead a sensible life.
“And to begin,” she said, “and before being reconciled
with your parent, you must be reconciled with God.” He
had not confessed himself for a long time past.
In short, he is going to retire for a week to the convent of
San Giovanni and Paolo, Monte Coelio, near the Coliseum.
I found it hard enough to remain serious, I can assure
you. To us all this seems odd, but it is natural enough to
the Catholics of Rome.
This, then, is his secret. . . .
Next Sunday, at two in the afternoon, I am to be in front
of the convent, and he will show himself at the window,
pressing a white handkerchief to his lips.
After he went away I ran to soothe mamma's wounded
pride, by telling her all this ; but with a smile, so as not to
appear as if I were in love with him.
Friday, March 31.- . . . . Poor Pietro in a cassock, shut up
in a cell, with four sermons a day, a mass, vespers, matins—
I cannot accustom myself to so strange an idea.
My God, do not punish me for my vanity. I swear to you
that I am good at heart, incapable of cowardice or baseness.
I am ambitious—that is my greatest fault | The beauties
and the ruins of Rome make me dizzy. I should like to be
Caesar, Augustus, Marcus Aurelius, Nero, Caracalla, Satan,
the Pope I should like to be all these—and I am nothing.
But I am always myself ; you may convince yourself of
that by reading my diary. The details and the shading of
the picture change, but the outlines are always the same.
Wednesday, April 5.- . . . . I paint and I read, but that
is not enough. For a vain creature like me it is best to
1876.] /OURNAL OF MARIE BASI/AIR TSEFF. 5 I
devote one's-self entirely to painting, because that is im-
perishable.
I shall be neither a poet nor a philosopher, nor a savante.
I can be nothing more than a singer and a painter. But
that is always something. And then I want to be talked of
by everybody, which is the principal thing. Stern moralists,
do not shrug your shoulders and censure me with an affected
indifference for worldly things because I speak in this way.
If you were more just you would confess that you yourselves
are the same at heart You take very good care not to let
it be seen, but that does not prevent you from knowing in
your inmost souls that I speak the truth.
Vanity / Vanity / Vanity /
The beginning and the end of all things, and the eternal
and sole cause of all things. That which does not spring
from vanity springs from passion. Vanity and passion are
the sole masters of the world.
Friday, April 7.-I live in torture " Oh, how expressive
is the Russian saying, “To have a cat in one's heart" ! I
have a cat hidden in my heart. It makes me suffer incredi-
bly to think it possible that a man I care for should not
love me.
Pietro has not come ; he left the convent only this even-
ing. I saw his clerical and hypocritical brother, Paul
A , to-day. There is a creature to be crushed under
foot—little, black, sallow, vile, hypocritical Jesuit !
If the affair of the monastery be true he must know of it,
and how he must laugh with his mean, cunning air as he
relates it to his friends ! Pietro and Paul cannot abide
each other.
Sunday, April 9.—I have been to confession and received
absolution, and now I fly into a passion and swear. A cer-
tain amount of sin is as necessary to a man's existence, as
52 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHATR 7SEFF. [1876.
a certain volume of air is to sustain life. Why are men
attached to this earth 2 Because the weight of their con-
Science drags them down. If their conscience were pure,
men would be too light to keep their footing on this planet,
and would soar up to the skies like little red balloons.
There is a fantastic theory for you ! No matter
And Pietro does not come.
Monday, April 1 o.—They have shut him up forever. No,
only for the time I am to remain in Rome.
To-morrow I go to Naples; they cannot have foreseen
this trick. Besides, once he is released, he will come in
search of me. . . .
I don't know whether to think him a worthless fellow, a
coward, or a child whom they tyrannize over. I am quite
calm, but sad. It is only necessary to look at things from
a certain point of view, mamma says, in order to see that
nothing in the world is of any consequence. I am in com-
plete accord with madame, my mother, as to this, but to be
able to judge what that point of view is in the present in-
stance, I must first know the exact truth. All that I now
know is that this is a strange adventure.
Tuesday, April 18.-At noon to-day we set out for Pom-
peii; we are to make the journey in a carriage, as we pass
through a beautiful country and can thus enjoy the view of
Vesuvius and of the cities of Castellamare and Sorrento.
I overheard mamma speaking of marriage.
“Woman is made to suffer,” she said, “even if she has
the best of husbands.”
“Woman before marriage,” I said, “is Pompeii before
the eruption ; and woman after marriage is Pompeii after
the eruption.” *
It may be that I am right !
1876.) JOURNAL OF MARIE B.4 SHAZRTSEFF. 53
Wednesday, April 19.-See at what a disadvantage I am
placed Pietro, without me, has his club, society, his
friends—everything, in a word, except me ; while I, without
Pietro, have nothing.
His love for me is only the occupation of his idle moments,
while mine for him is everything to me. He made me for-
get my ambition to play an active part in the world; I had
ceased to think of it, I thought only of him, too happy to
escape thus from my anxieties. Whatever I may become
in the future, I bequeath my journal to the world. I offer
you here what no one has ever yet seen. All the memories,
the journals, the letters, which are given to the public are
only inventions glossed over, and intended to deceive the
world. I have no interest in deceiving any one; I have
neither any political action to gloss over, nor any unworthy
action to conceal. No one troubles himself whether I am
in love or not, whether I weep or whether I laugh. My
chief anxiety is to express myself with as much exactness as
possible. I do not deceive myself in regard to my style or
my orthography. I can write letters without mistakes, but
in this ocean of words, doubtless, I make a great many.
Besides, I am not a Frenchwoman, and I make mistakes in
French. Yet if you asked me to express myself in my own
language I should do it still worse, perhaps.
ROME, Monday, April 24.—I had matter enough to keep
me writing all day, but I have no longer a clear idea of any-
thing. I only know that in the Corso we met A––, that
he ran up to the carriage, radiant and joyous ; and that he
asked if we should be at home in the evening. We said we
should be, alas !
He came, and I went into the drawing-room and took
part in the conversation quite naturally like the others. He
told me he had remained four days in the convent, and that
he had then gone to the country ; that he was at present on
54 JOURA'.1L OF MARIE BASHA'IRTSEFF. [1876.
good terms with his father and mother ; and that he was now
going to be sensible and to think of his future. Finally,
he said that I had amused myself at Naples; that I had
been flirting there as usual, and that this showed I did not
love him. He told me also that he had seen me the other
Sunday near the Convent San Giovanni and Paolo ; and to
prove that he spoke the truth he told me how I was dressed
and what I was doing ; and I must confess he was correct.
“Do you love me 2" he asked me at last.
“And you ?”
“Ah, that is the way with you always; you are always
laughing at me.”
“And what if I should say that I do 2 ”
He is altogether changed ; in twenty days' time he seems
to have become a man of thirty. He speaks quite differ-
ently ; he has become surprisingly sensible, and has grown
as diplomatic as a Jesuit.
“You know I play the hypocrite,” he said; “I bow down
before my father, I agree to everything he wishes ; I have
grown very sensible, and I think of my future.”
Perhaps I shall be able to write more to-morrow ; to-night
I am so stupid that I cannot.
Tuesday, April 25.-‘‘I will come to-morrow,” he said,
to pacify me, “and we will talk over all this seriously.”
“It is useless,” I said. “I see now how much I can de-
pend upon your fine professions of love. You need not
come back,” I added more faintly. “You have vexed me ;
I bid you good-by in anger, and I shall not sleep to-night.
You may boast of having put me in a rage—go !”
“But, mademoiselle, how unjust you are To-morrow
I will speak with you when you are calmer.”
It is he who complains ; it is he who says I have always
repulsed him ; that I have always laughed at him ; that I
5
have never loved him. In his place I should have said the
1876.] JOURA’.4 L OF A/AR/E BASI/K/RTSEFF. 55
same ; nevertheless, I find him very dignified and very self-
possessed for a man who is really in love. I know how to
love better than that ; at any rate I am furious, furious,
furious !
It was still raining when the Baron Visconti—who, not-
withstanding his age, is both charming and spiritue/–was
announced. Suddenly, while discussing the Odescalchi
marriage, the conversation turned on Pietro.
“Well, madame, the boy, as you call him, is not a
parti to be despised,” he said, “for the poor Cardinal
may die at any moment, so that one of these days his
nephews will be millionnaires, and Pietro, consequently, a
millionnaire.”
“Do you know, Baron, they tell me the young man is
going to enter the convent,” said mamma.
“Oh, no, indeed, I assure you ; he is thinking of some-
thing altogether different.”
Then the talk turned on Rome, and I observed that I
should be sorry to leave it.
“Remain here, then,” said the Baron.
“I should like very much to do so.”
“I am glad to see that you are fond of our city.”
“Do you know,” I said, “that they are going to leave me
here in a convent 2 ''
“Oh,” said Visconti, “I hope you will stay here from
another reason than that. We shall find the means,— I
will find them,” he said, pressing my hand warmly.
Mamma was radiant, I was radiant ; it was quite an
aurora borealis.
This evening, contrary to our expectations, we had a
great many visitors, among them A g
Our visitors were seated at one table ; Pietro and I at
another. We talked of love in general, and Pietro's love in
particular. His principles are deplorable, or rather he is
so crazy that he has none. He spoke so lightly of his love
56 yo URAVAZ OF MARIE BASHA IK TSEFF. [1876.
for me that I don't know what to think. And then his
character is wonderfully like my own.
I don't know how it was, but at the end of five minutes
we were good friends again; everything was explained and
we agreed to marry; he did, at least; I remained silent for
the most part.
“You leave Rome on Thursday ?” he said.
“Yes, and you will forget me.”
“Ah, no, indeed; I am going to Nice.”
“When P "
“As soon as I can ; for the present I cannot.”
“Why not 2 Tell me, tell me this instant ' "
“My father will not allow it.”
“You have only to tell him the truth.”
“Of course I shall tell him that I go there on your
account, that I love you, and that I wish to marry you—but
not yet. You do not know my father. He has only just
forgiven me; I dare not ask anything more from him for
the present.”
“Speak to him to-morrow.”
“I dare not; I have not yet gained his confidence. Only
think, he had not spoken to me for three years; we had
ceased to speak to each other. In a month I will be at
Nice.”
“In a month I Šhall be no longer there.”
“And where shall you go?”
“To Russia. I shall go away and you will forget me.”
“But I shall be at Nice in a fortnight, and then—and
then we will go away together. I love you, I love you,”
he ended, falling on his knees.
“Are you happy?” I asked, pressing his head between
my hands.
“Oh, yes, because I believe in you—I believe your
word.’’
“Come to Nice, now,” I said.
1876.] JOURNAL OF JAA/E BASI/AIA TSAEFF. - 57
“Ah, if I could :''
“What one wants to do, one can do.”
Thursday, April 27.- . . . At the railway station I
walked up and down the platform with the Cardinalino.
“I love you,” he cried, “and I shall always love you, to
my misfortune, it may be.”
“And you can see me go away with indifference.’’
‘‘Oh, don't say that. You must not speak so; you do
not know what I have suffered. Since I have known you I
am completely changed; but you, you always treat me as if
I were the most despicable of men. For you I have broken
with the past; for you I have endured everything; for you
I have made this peace with my family. . . . Will you
write to me?”
“Don’t ask too much,” I said gravely. “It is a great
favor if a young girl permits herself to be written to. If
you don’t know that, I shall teach it to you. But they are
entering the car. Let us not lose time in useless discus-
sion. Will you write to me?”
“Yes, and all that you can say is of no avail. I feel that
I love you as I can never love again. Do you love me?”
I nodded affirmatively.
“Will you always love me?”
The same sign.
“Good-by, then."
‘‘Till when P’’
‘‘Till next year."
“No 1 ''
“Come, come, good-by.”
And without giving him my hand I went into the railway
coach, where our people were already seated.
“You have not shaken hands with me,” he said, ap-
proaching the car.
I gave him my hand,
58 JOUA’.VAZ OF AZ.1/ø/E B.A.S//KZA' TSAEAA’. [1876.
“I love you!'' he said, very pale.
“Au revoir,” I answered softly.
“Think of me sometimes,” he said, growing still paler;
“as for me, I shall do nothing else but think of you.”
“Yes; au revoir.”
The train started, and for a few seconds I could still see
him looking after me with an expression of deep emotion
On his countenance; then he walked a few steps toward the
door, but as the train was still in view, he stopped again,
mechanically crushed his hat down over his eyes, took a
few steps forward, and then—then we were already out of
sight.
NICE, Friday, April 28.- . . . The house is charmingly
furnished; my room is dazzling, all upholstered in sky-blue
satin. On opening the window of the balcony and looking
Out on our pretty little garden, the Promenade, and the sea,
I could not help saying aloud: -
“They may say what they will, but there is no place at
Once so charmingly home-like and so adorably romantic as
Nice.’’
Sunday, May 7.-One finds a miserable satisfaction in
having cause to despise everybody. At least one no longer
cherishes illusions. If Pietro has forgotten me, I have been
grossly insulted, and there is another name to inscribe on
the list of those to whom I owe hatred and revenge.
Such as they are, I am satisfied with my fellow-beings and
I like them; my interests are the same as theirs; I live
among them, and on them depend my fortune and my hap-
piness. All this is stupid enough. But in this world what
is not stupid is sad, and what is not sad is stupid.
To-morrow at three o'clock I start for Rome, to enjoy the
gayeties there, as well as to show A my contempt for
him if the occasion should present itself.
1876.] JOURNAL OF AZAR/E B.15//K/RTSEFF. 59
ROME, Thursday, May 1 1.- . . . I left Nice yesterday
at two o'clock, with my aunt. . . . We arrived here at two.
I took my aunt to the Corso. (What a delightful thing it
is to see the Corso again after Nice!) Simonetti came over
to us. I presented him to Mme. Romanoff, and told him it
was by a miraculous chance I was in Rome.
I made a sign to Pietro to come to us; he was radiant,
and looked at me with a glance that shows he has taken
everything seriously. *
He made us laugh a great deal telling us about his sojourn
in the monastery. He had consented, he said, to go there
for four days, and they kept him for seventeen.
“Why did you tell me a falsehood?” I asked. “Why
did you say you were going to Terracina?”
“Because I was ashamed to tell you the truth.”
“And do your friends at the club know of it?”
“Yes; at first I said I had gone to Terracina; then they
asked me about the monastery, and I ended by telling
them all about it; I laughed, and everybody laughed. Only
Torlonia was furious.”
“Why?”
“Because I did not tell him the truth at first; because I
had not confidence in him.”
Then he told us how, in order to please his father, he
had let a rosary fall, as if by chance, out of his pocket, so
that it might be thought he always carried one. I said all
sorts of mocking and impertinent things to him, to all of
which he responded, I must say, with a good deal of spirit.
Saturday, May 13–I feel unable to write to-night, and
yet something compels me to write. So long as I leave
anything unsaid, something within torments me.
I chatted and made tea to the best of my ability till half-
past ten. Then Pietro arrived. Simonetti went away soon
afterward, and we three were left alone. The talk turned
6o JOUAM.4 L OF AZAR/E BASA/AIR 7SAEAF. [1876.
on my diary, that is to say, on the questions I have touched
on in it, and A asked me to read him some extracts
from it on God and the soul. I went to the antechamber,
and knelt down beside the famous white box to look up the
passages while Pietro held the light. But in doing so I
came across others of more general interest, and read them
aloud. And this lasted almost half an hour. On returning
to the drawing-room A began to tell us all sorts of
anecdotes of his past life, from the time he was eighteen. I
listened to everything he said with something like jealousy
and terror.
In the first place, his absolute dependence upon his
family freezes my blood. If they were to forbid him to
love me, I am certain he would obey.
The thought of the priests, the monks, terrifies me, not-
withstanding all he has told me of their piety. It frightens
me to hear of the atrocities they perpetrate, of their tyranny.
Yes, they make me afraid, and his two brothers also, but
this is not what most troubles me; I am free to accept or to
refuse him. All I heard. to-night and the conclusions I
drew from it, taken in connection with what has passed
between us, confuse my mind.
Wednesday, May 17. –I had much to write about yester-
day but it was nothing compared to what I have to write
about to-night. He spoke to me again of his love. I told
him it was useless; that my family would never consent.
“They would be right in not doing so,” he said dreamily.
“I could not make any woman happy. I have told my
mother everything; I spoke to her about you. I said, ‘She
is so good and so religious, while as for me I believe in
nothing, I am only a miserable creature.’ See, I remained
seventeen days in the monastery, I prayed, I meditated, and
I do not believe in God; religion does not exist for me, I
believe in nothing.”
1876.] JOCA'.VAZ OF AZAR/F, BASHAZA 7"SA.A.F. 6 I
I looked at him in terror.
“You must believe,” I said, taking his hand in mine;
“you must correct your faults; you must be good.”
“That is impossible; and as I am no one could love me.
Am I not right? I am very unhappy,” he continued: “you
could never form an idea of my position. I am apparently
on good terms with my family, but only apparently. I detest
them all—my father, my brothers, my mother herself. I am
unhappy; if you ask me why, I cannot tell you. I do not
know. Oh, the priests!” he cried, clenching his fists and
grinding his teeth as he raised to heaven a face hideous with
hatred. “The priests! oh, if you knew what they were !”
It was fully five minutes before he grew calm.
“I love you, however, and you only. When I am with
you I am happy,” he said at last.
“Give me the proof.”
“Speak.”
“‘Come to Nice.”
“You put me out of my senses when you say that; you
know that I cannot go.” *
“Why not "
“Because my father will not give me the money ; because
my father does not wish me to go to Nice.”
“I understand that very well, but if you tell him why you
wish to go 2 ”
“He would still refuse his consent ; I have spoken to my
mother; she does not believe me. They are so accustomed
to see me behave badly that they no longer beliève in me.”
“You must reform ; you must come to Nice.”
“But you have told me that I shall be refused.”
“I have not said you would be refused by me.”
“Ah, that would be too much happiness,” he said, look-
ing at me intently; “That would be a dream.”
“But a beautiful dream ; is it not so 2 ”
& 4 Ah, yes ! y 2
62 JOUAEAVAZ OF AZAA’/AE BASA/AZA' 7 SEAF. [1876.
“Then you will ask your father to let you go?”
“Yes, certainly ; but he does not wish me to marry.”
“All is ended, then,” I said, drawing back. “Fare-
Well l’’
“I love you !”
“I believe you,” I said, pressing both his hands in mine,
“and I pity you.”
“You will never love me 2 ”
“When you are free.”
“When I am dead.”
“I cannot love you at present, for I pity you, and I de-
spise you. If they commanded you not to love me, you
would obey.”
“Perhaps I’’
“That is frightful . "
“I love you,” he repeated for the hundredth time, and he
went away, his eyes filled with tears.
He came back once more and I bade him farewell.
“No, not farewell.”
“Yes, yes, yes, farewell. I loved you until this conversa-
tion.” (1881.-I never loved him ; all this was but the effect
of an excited imagination in search of romance.)
For the past three days I have had a new idea—it is that
I am going to die. I cough and complain. The day before
yesterday I was seated in the drawing-room at two o'clock
in the morning ; my aunt urged me to retire, but I paid no
heed to her ; I said I was convinced that I was going
to die.
“Ah,” said my aunt, “from the way in which you behave
I don't doubt but that you will die.”
“So much the better for you ; you will have less to
spend; you will not have to pay so much to Laferrière ”
And being seized with a fit of coughing I threw myself
face downward on the sofa, to the terror of my aunt, who
left the room so as to make it appear that she was angry.
1876.] JOURNAL OF AZAR/E BASHAVA. TSEFF. 63
Priday, May 19.- . . . I have just been singing, and
my chest pains me; here you see me playing the rôle of
martyr It is too stupid My hair is dressed in the fashion
of the Capitoline Venus: I am in white, like a Beatrice;
and I have a rosary with a mother-of-pearl cross around my
neck. Say what you will, there is in man a certain leaning
toward idolatry—a necessity for experiencing physical sensa-
tions. God, in His simple grandeur, is not enough. One
must have images to look at and crosses to kiss. Last night
I counted the beads on the rosary ; there were sixty, and I
prostrated myself sixty times on the ground, touching the
floor with my forehead each time I did so. I was quite out
of breath when it was over, but I thought I had performed
an act agreeable in the sight of God. It was no doubt
absurd, but the intention was there. Does God take inten-
tions into account Ah, but I have here the New Testa-
ment. Let me see.—As I could not find the good book I
read Dumas instead. It is not quite the same thing.
When Count A was announced this evening I was
alone. . . . My heart beat so violently that I was afraid it
would be heard, as they say in novels.
He seated himself beside me and tried to take my hand,
which I withdrew immediately. *
“I have so many things to say to you,” he began.
“Indeed 2 ” . . .
“But serious things.”
“Let us hear them.” . . .
“Listen : I have spoken to my mother, and my mother
has spoken to my father.”
“Well ?”
“I have done right, have I not 2"
“That does not concern me; whatever you have done
you have done to please yourself.”
“You no longer love me P’’ he asked,
( & No 5 y
64 JOURNAL OF AZAAAA, BASI/AAA' TSEAF. [1876.
“And I, I love you madly.”
“So much the worse for you,” I said, smiling, and allow-
ing him to take my hands in his.
“No, listen,” he said; “let us speak seriously; you are
never serious; I love you, I have spoken to my mother. Be
my wife ”
“At last !” I thought to myself. But I remained silent.
“Well ?” he said. &
“Well,” I answered, smiling.
“You know,” he said, encouraged by this, “it is necessary
to take some one into our confidence.”
“What do you mean *"
“This : I can do nothing myself. We must find some
one who will undertake the affair—some one of respect-
ability who is serious and dignified, who will speak to my
father and arrange the whole matter, in short. But whom P”
“Visconti,” I said, laughing.
“Yes,” he replied very seriously, “I had thought of
Visconti; he is the man we need. . . Only,” he resumed,
“I am not rich—not at all rich. Ah, I wish I were a hump-
back and had millions.”
“You would gain nothing in my eyes by that.”
“Oh oh oh ” he exclaimed incredulously.
“I believe you wish to insult me,” I said, rising.
“No, I don't say that on your account; you are an
exception to women.”
“Then don't speak to me of money.”
“Heavens, what a creature you are One can never
understand what you want. Consent—consent to be my
wife ”
He wished to kiss my hand ; I held the cross of the
rosary before him, which he kissed instead ; then raising
his head :
“How religious you are " " he said, looking at me.
“And you, you believe in nothing?”
1876.] /OURNAL OF iſ AA/E BASHAIRTSEFF. 65
“If I love you ; do you love me 2"
“I don’t say those things.”
“Then, for Heaven's sake, give me to understand it, at
least.”
After a moment's hesitation I gave him my hand.
“You consent 2 ”
“Not too fast !” I said, rising; “you know there are my
father and my grandfather, and they will strongly oppose
my marrying a Catholic.”
“Ah, there is that, too !”
“Yes, there is that, too.”
“He took me by the arm and made me stand beside him
before the glass ; we looked very handsome standing thus
together. -
“We will give it in charge to Visconti,” said A–.
“Yes.”
“He is the man we need. . . . But we are both so young
to marry ; do you think we shall be happy 2 ”
“You must first get my consent.”
“Of course. Well, then, if you consent, shall we be happy?”
“If I consent, I can swear to you by my head that there
will be no happier man in the world than you.”
“Then let us be married. Be my wife.”
I smiled. . . .
At this moment voices were heard on the staircase, and I
sat down quietly to wait for my aunt, who soon entered.
A great weight was lifted from my heart. . . .
At twelve A rose, and bade me good-night, with a
warm pressure of the hand.
“Good-night,” I answered.
Our glances met, I cannot tell how, it was like a flash of
lightning.
“Well, aunt,” I said, after he had gone, “we leave early
to-morrow. You retire, and I will lock the door of your
* Marie belonged to the Greek Church, of Russia.
66 JOURNAL OF MAA// B.15//KIA 7'SEAA. [1876.
room so that I need not disturb you by my writing, and I
will soon go to bed.”
“You promise 2"
“Certainly.” -
I locked my aunt's door, and after a glance at the mirror
went downstairs, and Pietro glided like a shadow through
the half-open door.
“So much may be said without words when one is in love.
As for me, at least I love you,” he murmured.
I amused myself by imagining this to be a scene from a
novel, and thought involuntarily of the novels of Dumas.
“I leave to-morrow,” I said, “ and we have so many things
to talk seriously about, which I had forgotten.”
“That is because you no longer think of anything.”
“Come,” I said, partly closing the door, so that only a
ray of light could pass through. -
And I sat down on the lowest step of the little stairs at
the end of the passage.
He knelt down by my side.
I fancied at every moment that I heard some one coming.
I remained motionless, and trembled at every drop of rain
that fell on the flags.
“It is nothing,” said my impatient lover.
“It is very easy for you to say that, monsieur. If any
one should come, it would only flatter your vanity, and I–
should be lost.”
With head thrown back I looked at him through my half-
closed lids.
“Through me 2 ” he said, misunderstanding the mean-
ing of my words. “I love you too much ; you are safe
with me.”
I gave him my hand, on hearing these noble words.
“Have I not always shown my consideration and respect
for you ?” he said.
“Oh, no ; not always. Once you even wanted to kiss me.”
1876.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHAVRTSEFF. 67
“Don’t speak of that, I entreat you. I have begged your
forgiveness for it so often. Be good and forgive me.”
“I have forgiven you,” I said softly.
I felt so happy Is this what it is to be in love, I thought 2
Is it serious 2 I thought every moment he was going to
laugh, he looked so grave and tender.
I lowered my glance before the extraordinary intensity
of his.
“But see, we have again forgotten our affairs. Let us be
serious, and talk of them.”
“Yes, let us talk of them.
“In the first place, what are we to do if you go away to-
morrow P Stay ! I entreat you, stay !”
“Impossible; my aunt—”
“She is so good Oh, stay !”
“She is good, but she will not consent to that. Good-by,
then, perhaps forever !” -
“No, no ; you have consented to be my wife.”
“When P.'”
“Toward the end of the month I will be at Nice. If
you consent to my borrowing, I will go to-morrow.”
“No, I will not have that ; I would never see you again
in that case.” . . .
“Advise me; you, who reason like a book, advise me
what to do.” -
“Pray to God,” I said, holding my cross before him ;
ready to laugh if he ridiculed my advice, or to maintain my
air of gravity if he took it seriously. He saw my impassive
countenance, pressed the cross against his forehead, and
bent his head in prayer.
“I have prayed,” he said.
“Truly "
“Truly. But let us continue. We will entrust the whole
affair to Baron Visconti then.”
“Very well.”
t
68 your/VAZ OF MARVE BASHAVR 7SEFF. [1876.
I said “Very well,” and thought “conIDITIONALLY.”
“But all that cannot be done immediately,” I resumed.
“In two months.” .
“Are you jesting 2 " I asked, as if what he suggested
were the most impossible thing in the world.
“In six months, then P’’
{ % NO.”
“In a year.”
“Yes, in a year; will you wait 2 ”
“If I must—on condition that I shall see you every
day.”
“Come to Nice, for in a month I go to Russia.”
“I will follow you.”
“You cannot.”
“And why not ?”
“My mother would not allow it.”
“No one can prevent my traveling.”
“Don’t say stupid things.”
“Oh, how I love you !”
I leaned toward him so as not to lose a single one of his
words.
“I shall always love you,” he said. “Be my wife.” . . .
He proposed that we should confide all our secrets to each
other.
“Oh, as to yours, they do not interest me.”
“Tell me, mademoiselle,” he said, “how many times have
you been in love 2 ”
“Once.”
“And with whom 2 ”
“With a man I do not know, whom I saw ten or twelve
times in the street, and who is not even aware of my exist-
ence. I was twelve years old at the time, and I had never
spoken to him.”
“What you tell me is like fetion.”
“It is the truth.”
1876.] ſo URNAL OF MAA'ZE BASHAZRTSEFF. 69
“But this is a novel, a fantastic tale. Such a feeling
would be impossible ; it would be like loving a shadow.”
“Yes, but ſ feel that I have no reason to blush for having
loved him, and he has become for me a species of divinity.
I compare him to no one in my thoughts, and there is no
one worthy of being compared to him.”
“Where is he P’’ *
“I do not even know. He is married and lives far
away.”
“What an absurdity 1"
And my good Pietro looked somewhat disdainful and
incredulous.
“But it is true: I love you now, but the feeling is an
entirely different one.” $
“I give you the whole of my heart,” he answered, “and
you give me only the half of yours.”
“Do not ask for too much, and be satisfied with what
you have.” *
“But that is not all 2 There is something else.”
“That is all.”
“Forgive me, and allow me to disbelieve you for this
once.”
(See what depravity ()
“You must believe the truth.”
“I cannot.”
“So much the worse,” I cried, vexed.
“That is beyond my understanding,” he said.
“That is because you are very wicked.”
“Perhaps.”
“You do not believe that I have never allowed any one
to kiss my hand 2 ”
“Pardon me, but I do not believe it.”
“Sit down here beside me,” I said, “let us talk over our
affairs, and tell me everything.”
“You will not be angry 2” he asked.
7o JOURAVAZ OF MAA'ZZ BAS/IX/AE 7 SEAF. [1876.
“I shall be angry only if you conceal anything from me.”
“Very well, then ; you understand that our family is very
well known here 2 "
“Yes.”
“And that you are strangers in Rome 2 ”
“Well ?”
“Well, my mother has written to some persons in Paris.”
“That is very natural ; and what do they say of me?”
“Nothing, as yet, but they may say what they choose, I
shall always love you.”
“I stand in no need of your indulgence—”
“Then,” he said, “there is the religion.”
“Oh, the religion.”
“Ah,” he said, with the calmest air imaginable, “become
a Catholic.”
I cut him short with a zery severe expression.
“Do you wish me, then, to change my religion ?” asked
A——.
“No, because, if you did so, I should despise you.” To
tell the truth it would have displeased me only on account
of the Cardinal.
“How I love you ! How beautiful you are How
happy we shall be ’’
My only answer was to take his head between my hands
and kiss him on the forehead, the eyes, the hair. I did it
rather on his account than my own.
“Marie Marie ' " cried my aunt from above.
“What is the matter 2 " I asked quietly, putting my head
through the door at the head of the stairs, that the voice
might seem to come from my room.
“You should go to sleep ; it is two o'clock.”
“I am asleep.”
“Are you undressed ?”
“Yes, let me write.”
“Go to bed.”
1876.] JOUR.VAL OF MARIE BASHAIRTSEFF. 1 I
“Yes, yes.”
I went down again and found the place empty; the poor
fellow had hidden himself under the staircase.
“Now,” said he, resuming his place, “let us speak of the
future.”
“Yes, let us speak of it.”
“Where shall we live Do you like Rome 2"
“Yes.”
“Then we will live in Rome, but by ourselves—not with
my family.”
“No, indeed ; in the first place, mamma would never
consent to let me live with the family of my husband.”
“She would be right; and then, my family have such ex-
traordinary ideas . It would be torture. We will buy a
little house in the new quarter.”
“I should prefer a large one.”
“Very well, then, a large one.”
And we began—he, at least—to make plans for the
future.
“We will go into society,” I resumed ; “we will keep up
a large establishment, shall we not * *
“Oh, yes; tell me all you would like.” -
“Yes, when people decide to spend their lives together,
they want to do so as comfortably as possible.”
“I understand that. You know all about my family;
but there is the Cardinal.”
“You must make your peace with him.”
“Of course; I shall do so decidedly. The only thing is
that I am not rich.”
“No matter,” I answered, a little displeased, but suffi-
ciently mistress of myself to refrain from making a gesture
of contempt ; this was perhaps a trap. . . .
No, this cannot be true love ; in true love there is no
room for meanness or vulgarity.
I felt secretly dissatisfied. . . .
72 Jo UAE.V.A L OF 77.1/e/Z BAS//X/A, TS/EFF. [1876.
Do I love him truly, or is it only that he has turned my
head 2 Who can tell ? From the moment doubt exists,
however, there is no longer room for doubt.
“Yes, I love you,” I said, taking his hands in mine and
pressing them tightly.
He did not answer; perhaps he did not understand the
importance I attached to my words; perhaps he found
them quite natural. . . .
But I began to be afraid, and I told him he must go. “It
is time,” I said.
“Already ? Stay with me a moment longer. How happy
we are thus ! Dost thou love me 2'' he cried ; “Wilt thou
love me always, always P’’
This thou chilled me and made me feel humiliated.
“Always ” I answered, still dissatisfied, “always; and
you, do you love me 2" &
“Oh, how can you ask me such things 2 Oh, my darling,
I should like to remain here forever !”
“We should die of hunger,” I replied, humiliated by this
term of endearment, and not knowing what to say.
“But what a beautiful death !—In a year, then,” he said,
devouring me with his eyes.
“In a year,” I repeated, for form's sake rather than for
any other reason.
At this moment I heard the voice of my aunt, who, seeing
light still in my room, began to grow impatient.
“Do you hear 2 " I said.
We kissed each other and I fled, without once turning
back. It is like a scene out of a novel, that I have read
somewhere. I feel humiliated. I am angry with myself
Shall I always be my own critic, or is it because I do not
entirely love him that I feel thus 2
“It is four o'clock ” cried my aunt.
“In the first place, aunt, it is only ten minutes past two ;
and in the next place leave me in peace.”
1876.] JOUR.V.A L OF JAA/E BASI/AIAE 7 SEAF. 73
“This is frightful ' You will die, if you sit up so late,"
exclaimed my aunt.
“Listen,” I said, opening her door, “don’t scold, or I
shall tell you nothing.”
“What is it? Oh, what a girl | "
“In the first place, I was not writing, I was with Pietro.”
“Where, miserable child 2 °
“Downstairs.”
“How dreadful ”
“Ah, if you cry out you shall hear nothing.”
“You were with A––.”
“Yes | *
“Well, then,” she said, in a voice that made me tremble,
“when I called you just now, I knew it.”
“How P ''
“I had a dream in which your mother came to me and
said, “Do not leave Marie alone with A––.”
A cold shiver passed down my back when I compre-
hended that I had escaped a real danger. . . .
NICE, Tuesday, May 23.−I should like to be certain of one
thing—do I love him or do I not love him
I have-allowed my thoughts to dwell so much on grand-
eur and riches that Pietro appears to me a very insignificant
person indeed. Ah, H ! And if I had waited 2—waited
for what P A millionnaire prince, an H-- ? And if no
one came 2 I try to persuade myself that A–– is very
chic, but when I am with him he seems to me even more
insignificant than he really is. . . .
To-night I love him. Should I do well to accept him 2
So long as love lasted, it would be very well, but afterward 2
I greatly fear that I could not endure mediocrity in a hus-
band
I reason and discuss as if I were mistress of the situation.
Ah misery of miseries
74 JOUAMAL OF A/A A/F B.1.S//A/A 7'SEAF. [1876.
To wait ! To wait for what ? t
And if nothing comes | Bah with my face something
will come, and the proof is—that I am scarcely sixteen and
that I might already be a countess two and a half times
over if I had wished. The half is on Pietro's account.
Wednesday, May 24.—To-night, on retiring, I kissed
Iſla II, II) 2.
“She kisses like Pietro,” she said laughing.
“Has he kissed you ?” I asked.
“He has kissed you,” said Dina, laughingly, thinking she
had said the most dreadful thing possible, and causing me
to feel a sensation of lively remorse, almost of shame.
“Oh, Dina | " I cried, with such an expression that mam-
ma and my aunt both turned on her a look of reproach and
displeasure. -
Marie kissed by a man 1 Marie, the proud, the severe,
the haughty 1 Marie, who has made such fine speeches on
that subject.
This made me inwardly ashamed. And indeed, why was
I false to my principles 2 I cannot admit that it was through
weakness, through passion. If I were to admit that, I
should no longer respect myself I cannot say that it was
through love.
Friday, May 26.-My aunt remarked to-day that A–
was only a child.
“That is quite true,” said mamma.
These words, of which I recognized the justice, made me
feel that I have sullied myself for nothing ; for, after all, I
have committed this folly without the excuse of either inter-
est or love. It is maddening !
After his departure for Rome I looked at myself in the
glass, to see if my lips had not changed their color. A–
will have the right to say I loved him, and that the break-
1876.] JOUR.VAZ OF A/AAAA, BAS//ÅIAE 7 SEAF. 75
ing of this engagement has made me very unhappy. A
broken engagement is always a blot on the life of a
young girl. Every one will say we loved each other, but no
one will say the refusal came from me. We are neither
sufficiently liked nor sufficiently great for that. Besides,
appearances will justify those who may say so ; that en-
rages me ! If it were not for those words of V 3.
“Oh, child, how young you are still !” I should never have
gone so far. But I needed to hear his repeated offers of
marriage to soothe my wounded vanity. You will observe
that I have said nothing positive ; I let him talk, but, as I
allowed him to take my hands in his and kiss them he failed
to notice the tone of my voice, and in his happy and ex-
alted mood suspected nothing. These thoughts console me,
but they are not enough.
They say the blonde is the ideal woman ; as for me, I say
the blonde is the material woman, par excellence. See those
golden locks, those lips red as blood, those deep-gray eyes,
that rose-tinted flesh, that Titian knows so well how to
paint, and tell me what are the thoughts with which they
inspire you ! Besides, we have Venus among the Pagans,
and Magdalen among the Christians, both of them blondes.
While the woman who is a brunette, who is really as
much of an anomaly as a man who is fair, the brunette,
with her eyes of velvet and her skin of ivory, may remain
pure and divine in our thoughts. There is a fine picture of
Titian's in the Borghese Palace called “Pure Love and
Impure Love.” “Pure Love" is a beautiful woman with
rosy cheeks and black hair, who is regarding with a tender
look her infant child whom she is holding in the bath.
“Impure Love" is a reddish blonde who is leaning
against something, just what, I do not remember, with
her arms crössed above her head. For the rest, the normal
woman is fair, and the normal man dark.
The different types we see that are in seeming contradic-
76 //wwwaz OA' Al/AA’/A2 A3 A SAA /A2 7"S/EAA' [1876.
tion to this rule are sometimes admirable, but they are none
the less anomalies. I have never seen any one to be com-
pared to the Duke of H : he is tall and strong; he has
hair of a beautiful reddish gold hue, and a mustache of the
same color; his eyes are gray and small, but piercing ; his
lips are modeled after those of the Apollo Belvidere. There
is in his whole person an air of grandeur and majesty, of
haughtiness even, and indifference to the opinions of others.
It may be that I see him with the eyes of love. Bah I do
not think so How is it possible to love a man who is dark,
ugly, extremely thin P who has beautiful eyes, it is true, but
who has all the awkwardness of a very young man, and
whose bearing is by no means distinguished, after having
loved a man like the Duke, even though it be three years
since I have seen him 2 And remember that three years in a
young girl's life are three centuries. Therefore I love no
one but the Duke And the Duke will not be very proud of
my love, and will care very little about it. I often tell my-
self stories; I think of all the men I have ever known or
heard of—well, not even to an Emperor could I say, “I love
you,” with the conviction that I was speaking the truth.
There are some to whom I could not say it at all.—Stay ! I
have said it in reality | Yes, but I thought so little about
it at the time that it is not worth while to speak of that.
Sunday, May 28.-I am reading Horace and Tibullus.
The theme of the latter is always love, and that suits me.
And then I have the French and the Latin texts side by
side; that gives me practice. Provided only that this mar-
riage affair that I have brought about by my own thought-
lessness does not injure me ! I much fear it may. I ought
not to have given A any promise; I should have said
to him : “I thank you, monsieur, for the honor you have
done me, but I can give you no answer until I have con-
sulted with my family. Let your people speak to mine
1876.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIAE 7 SEAF. 77
about it, and we shall see. As for me,” I might have added,
to soften this answer, “I shall have no objection to offer.”
This accompanied by one of my amiable smiles, and
my hand to kiss, would have been sufficient. I should not
then have compromised myself; they would not have gos-
siped about me at Rome, and all would have been well. I
have sense enough, but it always comes to my assistance
too late.
Wednesday, May 31.-Has not some one said that great
minds think alike 2 I have just been reading La Rochefou-
cauld, and I find he has said a great many things that I
have written down here—I, who believed I had originated
so many thoughts, and it turns out that they are all things
that have been said long since. e
I am troubled about my eyes. Several times, while
painting, I was obliged to stop ; I could no longer see. I
use them too much, for I spend all my time either reading,
writing, or painting. I went over my compendium of the
classics this evening, and that gave me occupation. And
then, I have discovered a very interesting work on Con-
fucius—a French translation from the Latin. There is
nothing like keeping the mind occupied ; work is a cure for
everything, especially mental work. I cannot understand
women who spend their time knitting or embroidering—the
hands busy and the mind idle. A multitude of frivolous or
dangerous fancies must crowd upon the mind at such a
time, and if there is any secret trouble in the heart, the
thoughts will dwell upon that, and the result must be dis-
aStrous. . . . *
Ask those who know me best what they think of my dis-
position, and they will tell you that I am the gayest, the
most light-hearted, as well as the most self-reliant person
they ever saw, for I experience a singular pleasure in
appearing haughty and happy, invulnerable to a wound
78 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASI/K/RTSEFF. [1876.
from any quarter, and I delight in taking part in discus-
sions of all sorts, both serious and playful. Here you see
me as I am. To the world I am altogether different. One
would suppose, to see me, that I had never had a care in
my life, and that I was accustomed to bend circumstances
and people alike to my will.
Saturday, June 3.—Why does everything turn against me?
Forgive me for shedding tears, O my God . There are
persons more unhappy than I; there are those who want
for bread, while I sleep under lace coverlets; there are
those who bruise their feet against the stones of the street,
while I tread on carpet; there are those who have only the
sky for a canopy, while I have above my head a ceiling
hung with blue satin. Perhaps it is for my tears that you
punish me, my God; ordain, then, that I no longer weep.
To what I have already suffered there is now added a feel-
ing of personal shame—shame before myself. They will
say : “Count A asked her in marriage, but there was
some opposition, so he changed his mind and withdrew.”
See how good impulses are recompensed
Sunday, June 4.—When Jesus had healed the lunatic, his
disciples demanded of him why they had not been able to
do so, and he answered : “Because of your unbelief : for
verily I say unto you, if ye have faith as a grain of mustard-
seed, ye shall say unto this mountain, Remove hence to
yonder place, and it shall remove ; and nothing shall be
impossible to you.”
On reading these words my mind was, as it were, illumined,
and for the first time in my life, perhaps, I believed in God.
I rose to my feet, I was conscious of myself no longer. I
clasped my hands together, and raised my eyes to heaven ;
I smiled; I was in a state of ecstasy. Never, never will I
doubt again ; not that I may receive a reward for my faith,
1876.] JOUR.V.4 L OF JAA/E BASI/ATA’ TSEAF. 79
but because I am convinced—because I believe. Up to the
age of twelve I was spoiled ; my lightest wishes were obeyed,
but my education was never thought of. At twelve years I
asked for masters; they were given to me, and I made out
a programme for myself. I owe everything to myself. . . .
Thursday, June 8.-. . . . To think only that we live but
once, and that this life is so short | When I think of this
my senses forsake me and my mind becomes a prey to de-
spair We live but once / And I am losing this precious
life, hidden in obscurity, seeing no one. We live but once /
And my life is being ruined. We live but once / And I am
made to waste my time miserably. And the days are pass-
ing, passing, never to return, and carrying a part of my life
with them, as they pass.
We live but once / Must this life, already so short, be still
further shortened, ruined, stolen—yes, stolen—by miserable
circumstances 2
Saturday, June Io.—“Do you know,” I said to the doc-
tor, “that I spit blood, and that it is necessary that my
health should be attended to ?”
“Oh, mademoiselle,” replied Walitsky, “if you continue
to go to bed at three o'clock in the morning, you will have
every ailment under the sun.”
“And why do you suppose I go to bed late P Because
my mind is disturbed. Give me a tranquil mind and I will
sleep tranquilly.” *
“You might have had that if you chose. You had the
opportunity at Rome.”
“Who would have given it to me 2"
“A , if you had consented to marry him without ask-
ing him to change his religion.”
“Oh, my friend Walitsky, how shocking ! A man like
A—! . Think of what you are saying ! A man who has
So JOUR.VAZ OA J/AA/E BASI/AIAE 7 SEAA. [1876.
neither an opinion nor a will of his own ; you have made a
very foolish speech "
And I began to laugh softly.
“He neither comes to see us nor writes,” I continued ;
“he is a poor boy whose importance we have exaggerated.
No, my dear friend, he is only a boy, and we were wrong to
think otherwise.”
I preserved the same calmness in uttering these words as
I had shown during the rest of the dialogue—a calmness
that resulted from the conviction I had of having said only
what was just and true. *
I went to my own room, and my spirit all at once became, as
it were, illuminated. I comprehended at last that I had done
ZUrong in allowing a kiss—a single one, indeed, but still a kiss—
and in giving a rendezvous downstairs; that, if / had not gone
out into the hall or elsewhere, to seek a fête-à-féfe, the man
would have had more respect for me, and Z should now have no
occasion for either anger or fears.
(How I love myself for having spoken thus ! What re-
finement of feeling !—Paris, 1877.)
Everything is at an end I knew well this state of things
could not last. I long to lead a tranquil life. I will go to
Russia—that will improve the situation—and bring papa
back with me to Rome.
Monday, January 12 ; Tuesday, January 13.−I, who
desired to live half a dozen lives at once, I do not live even
a quarter of a life. I am held in chains. But God will
have pity upon me; my strength has left me, I feel as if
I were going to die. Yes, I must either acquire what God
has given me the power to discern and to comprehend, in
which case I shall be worthy of a future, or die. For, if
God cannot with justice grant me all I ask, he will not have
the cruelty to make an unhappy creature live to whom He
1876.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHA'IRTSEFF. 81
has given comprehension, and the ambition to acquire what
she comprehends.
God has not made me such as I am without design. He
cannot have given me the power to understand all things in
order to torture me by denying me everything. Such a sup-
position is not in accordance with the nature of God, who
is just and merciful. I must either attain the object of my
ambition or die. Let it be as He wills. I love Him ; I
believe in Him ; I bless Him ; and I beg Him to pardon
me for all the wrong I may have done. He has endowed
me with the comprehension of what is great, in order that I
might attain it, and I will show myself to be worthy of the
gift. If I am not worthy, then God will allow me to die.
Wednesday, June 14.—In addition to the triumph I have
given this little Italian, which deeply vexes me, I foresee,
besides, the scandal that will result from this affair.
I did not anticipate an adventure of this nature ; I fore-
saw nothing of the sort ; I had never imagined that such a
thing could happen to me; if I am as beautiful as I say,
why then am I not loved 2 I am admired, I am made love to,
but I am not loved—I, who have so much need of love
It is the novels I have read that have turned my head
No ; but I read novels because my head is turned. I read
over and over again the novels I have already read, seeking
out the love-scenes with lamentable eagerness. I devour
them, because I think I am loved—because I think I am not
loved -
I love, yes; I will give no other name to what I feel.
But no ; this is not what I long for. I long to go into
society ; I long to shine ; I long for high rank, for riches,
pictures, palaces, jewels ; I long to be the center of a brill-
iant circle—political, literary, charitable, frivolous. I long
for all this. May God grant it to me !
My God, do not chastise me for these wildly ambitious
82 JOURNAZ OF MARIAE BASHAZRTSEFF. [1876.
thoughts. Are there not people who are born in the midst
of all this, and who find it natural to possess it, and who
thank God for it?
Am I culpable in desiring to be great? No, for I desire
to employ my greatness in manifesting my gratitude to God,
and in being happy. Is it forbidden to wish to be happy?
Those who find their happiness in a modest and com-
fortable home, are they less ambitious than I? No, for they
have no comprehension of anything beyond. He who is
content to live humbly, in the midst of his family, is he thus
modest and moderate in his wishes through wisdom? No,
no, no! He is so because he is happy thus; because to live
obscurely is for him the height of happiness. And if he
does not desire excitement, it is because excitement would
render him unhappy. There are those, too, who have not
the courage to be ambitious; those are not sages, but cow-
ards; because they desire, in secret, what they do not pos-
sess, but make no effort to obtain it, not through Christian
virtue, because of a timid and incapable nature. My God;
if I reason badly, enlighten me, pardon me, pity me !
Thursday, /une 22.--When I used to hear Italy praised
I was incredulous; I could not understand why there was
so much enthusiasm about this country, and why it was
spoken of as if it were different from other countries. It is
because it is different from other countries. It is because
one breathes there another atmosphere. Life is not the
same as elsewhere; it is free, fantastic, large, reckless and
yet languid, fiery yet gentle, like its Sun, its sky, its glowing
plain. Therefore it is that I soar upward on my poet's
wings (I am sometimes altogether a poet, and almost always
one on some side of my nature), and am ready to exclaim
with Mignon:
Italia, reggio di ciel,
Sol beato
1876.] /OURNAL OF AZAR/E BASHAZRTSEAF. 83
Saturday, /une 24.—I was waiting to be called to break-
fast when the doctor arrived, quite out of breath, to tell me
he had received a letter from Pietro. I turned very red
and without raising my eyes from my book asked:
“Well, what does he say?”
“They refuse to give him any money. But you will
yourself be able to judge from the letter, better than I.”
I took good care to show no eagerness to see it. I was
ashamed to manifest so much interest in the matter as that
would imply.
Contrary to custom I was the first at table. I ate my
breakfast with impatience, but I said nothing.
‘‘Is what the doctor has told me true?'' I asked at last.
“Yes,” responded my aunt. “A has written to him.”
“Where is the letter, doctor?”
“In my room.”
“Show it to me.’’
The letter bears date of June Io, but as A directed it
simply “Nice,” it has traveled all through Italy before
arriving here.
“I have done nothing all this time,” he writes, “but ask
my family to allow me to go to Nice, but they absolutely
refuse to hear of it”; so that it is impossible for him to come,
and there is nothing left him but to hope in the future,
which is always uncertain.
The letter was in Italian; they waited for me to translate
it. I said not a word, but gathering up my train with
affected deliberation, so that they might not attribute my
departure to agitation, I left the room and crossed the gar-
den, my countenance calm, but hell within my heart.
This letter is not in answer to a telegram from some
Monaco acquaintance, that one should laugh at it. It is in
answer to me; it is an announcement. And it is to me!
To me who had soared so high in imagination; it is to me
he says this. What remains for me to do?
84 JOURNAL OR MARIE BASI/AIR TSAEAF. [1876.
To die? God does not will it. To become a singer? I
have neither the health nor the patience for it.
What then? What then?
I threw myself on a sofa, and with my eyes fixed stupidly
on vacancy tried to comprehend the meaning of the letter,
to think of what course to pursue.
It is impossible to describe my suffering. Besides, there
comes a time when complaints are useless. Crushed as I
am of what should I complain?
I cannot describe the profound disgust and discourage-
ment I feel. Love! Word henceforth without meaning to
me! This, then, is the truth? This man has never loved
me; and he looks upon marriage only as the means of ac-
quiring his freedom. As for his protestations, I do not take
them into account. I have spoken of them to no one. I
do not place sufficient confidence in them to speak of them
seriously. I do not say that he has always lied to me. A
man almost always believes in his protestations the moment
he is uttering them, but afterward?
And notwithstanding all these reflections, I am burning to
be revenged. I will bide my time, but be sure I will be
revenged. I went into my room, wrote a few lines, and
then, suddenly losing heart, burst into tears. Oh, after all,
I am nothing but a child. These sorrows are too heavy for
me to bear all alone. I thought of awaking my aunt, but
she would think I was crying from disappointed love, and
I could not endure that. To say that love has no part in
my tears would be to speak the truth. I am ashamed of
that feeling now.
I might write all night without being able to express what
I feel; and if I could succeed in expressing it, I should say
nothing new, nothing that I have not already said.
Sunday, July 2. —Oh, what heat! Oh, what enmui A
But I am wrong to say ennui (that one can never feel who
1876.] /OURNAL OF MARIE BASHAEIR 7SEFF. 85
has so many resources within one's-self as I have). I do
not feel ennui , for I read, I sing, I paint, I dream; but I
am restless and sorrowful. Is my poor young life, then,
doomed to be spent in eating and drinking, and domestic
quarrels? Woman lives from sixteen to forty. I tremble at
the thought of losing even a single month of my life. If
this is to be, why have I studied, and sought to know more
than other women, priding myself on being as learned as
great men are said in their biographies to have been.
I have a general idea of many things, but I have devoted
my attention chiefly to painting, literature, and physics, so
that I might have time to read everything—everything in-
teresting, that is to say. It is true that once I begin, I find
everything interesting. And all this produces in me a
genuine fever.
If this is to be so, why have I studied and reflected?
Why were genius and beauty and the gift of song be-
stowed upon me? That I might wither in obscurity and
die of sadness. If I had been ignorant and stupid I might
then, perhaps, have been happy. Not a living soul with
whom to exchange a word One's family does not suffice
for a creature of sixteen—above all, a creature such as I am.
Grandpapa, it is true, is a man of intelligence, but he is
old and blind; he irritates one with his eternal complaints
about the dinner and about his servant Triphon.
Mamma has a good deal of intelligence, very little learn-
ing, no knowledge of the world, no tact whatever; and her
faculties have deteriorated through thinking of nothing but
the servants, my health, and the dogs. My aunt is a little
more polished ; she is imposing, even, to those who know
her but slightly.
Have I ever mentioned their ages 2 If it were not for
ill-health, mamma would be still a superb woman. My aunt
is a few years younger, but looks older ; she is not hand-
some, but she is tall and she has a good figure.
86 /OCAA’AZ OF AZAR/E BASI/AIA Z SZAF. [1876.
Monday, July 3.—I leave Nice to-morrow. I feel an
indefinable sadness at leaving Nice. I have selected the
music I shall take with me, and some books—the ency-
clopaedia, a volume of Plato, Dante, Ariosto, Shakespeare,
and several English novels, by Bulwer, Collins, and
Dickens.
I went into my room, followed by all the dogs. I drew the
white box over to the table. Ah, that is my chief regret—
my journal That is the half of myself. I was accustomed
to glance over some one of its volumes every day, when I
wished to recall Rome or Nice, or something still further
back in the past.
And as if expressly for me—on this the eve of my depar-
ture—the moon shone brightly, lighting up the beauties of
my city with her pale and silvery light. Aſy city ? Yes, my
city. I am too insignificant a person for any one to care to
dispute its ownership with me. Besides, does not the sun
belong equally to every one 7 I entered the drawing-room ;
the moon’s rays poured in through the large, open windows,
and lighted up the white plaster wall, and the white covers
of the chairs. One feels melancholy without knowing why,
on a summer night like this.
To leave my journal behind, that is a real grief.
This poor journal, the confidant of all my struggles
toward the light, all those outbursts, which would be regarded
as the outbursts of imprisoned genius if they were to be
finally crowned by success, but which will be regarded only
as the idle ravings of a commonplace creature if I am des-
tined to languish forever in obscurity. To marry and have
children 2 Any washerwoman can do that.
What then do I desire * Ah, you know well what I
desire—I desire glory !
It is not this journal that will give it to me, however.
This journal will be published only after my death ; for I
show myself too makcd/y in it to wish it to be read during my
1876.] JOURNA / OF MIA RIAE BASI/KIRTSEAF. 37
lifetime. Besides, it would not in that case be the comple-
ment of an illustrious existence.
An illustrious existence Vain illusion resulting from
an isolated life, much reading of history, and a too lively
imagination.
I know no language perfectly. My own is familiar to me
only in connection with domestic affairs. I left Russia at
the age of ten, and I speak English and Italian well. I
think and write in French, yet I believe I still make mis-
takes in spelling. And often, to my unutterable vexation,
I find some thought which I had vainly sought to put into
fitting words, expressed by some celebrated author with
fluency and grace. Here is an instance : “To travel, what-
ever we may say to the contrary, is one of the saddest
pleasures in life; when you begin to feel yourself at
home in some foreign land, it is because you have already
begun to make it your country.” It is the author of Corinne
who says this. And how many times have I lost patience,
trying vainly, pen in hand, to express the same thought, and
burst out, at last, into some such words as these : “I hate
new cities . It is a martyrdom for me to see new faces !”
We all think alike, then ; the only difference is in the way we
express our thoughts; as men are all made out of the same
material, but how widely do they differ in feature, form,
complexion, and character -
One of these days I shall no doubt come across some such
thought as this, but expressed with spirit, eloquence, and
grace.
There, this volume is finished. When I arrive in Paris I
will begin a new one that will no doubt suffice for Russia
also.
I shall take Pietro's last letter with me.
I have just read it again. He is unhappy Why, then,
has he not more energy
It is easy for me—obeyed as I am by every one—to talk;
88 yovKAVAL OF MARIE BASHR/RTSEFF. [1876.
but for him—And then those Romans—there are no
other people in the world like them.
Poor Pietro ! The thought of my future glory forbids me
to allow my mind to dwell seriously upon him. I feel as if
it reproached me for the moments I dedicate to him.
Dear Divinity, reassure thyself. Pietro is nothing more
for me than an amusement—a strain of music in which to
drown the lamentations of my soul. If I reproach myself for
allowing my thoughts to dwell upon him, it is because he
can be of no service to me. He cannot even be the first
rung of the divine ladder that leads to fame.
GRAND HOTEL, PARIS, July 4.
Amor, ut lacryma, oculo oritur in pectus cadit.
—PUBLIUS SYRUS.
Wednesday, /uly 5.-I left Nice yesterday at two in the
afternoon, accompanied by my aunt and Amalie my maid.
Mamma cried for fully three hours at the thought of our
separation, so that I was amiable and affectionate with her.
At half-past two we reached Paris; it must be confessed
that if Paris is not the most beautiful, it is at least the most
charming, the most spirituelle of cities.
Thursday, July 13.−We went to see the Countess M
this evening. She spoke to me on the subject of marrying.
“Oh, no,” I said, “I have no wish to marry. I want to
be a great singer. See, dear Countess, we must do this ; I
will disguise myself as a poor girl, and you and my aunt will
take me to the most celebrated singing-master in Paris, as
a little Italian protegée of yours who gives promise of being a
singer.”
“Oh oh ” cried the Countess in remonstrance.
“That is the only way to learn the truth concerning my
voice,” I resumed tranquilly. “And I have one of last
1876.] JOURNAL OF MARIAE AASI/AIR 7SAEFF. 89
year's dresses that will just produce the desired effect ' " I
added, pursing up my mouth and pushing out my lips.
“After all, it is an excellent idea " she said at last.
Friday, July 14.—Since morning I have been taking the
greatest care of myself; I have not coughed once more
than was necessary. I have not moved. I am dying of
heat and thirst, but I have not taken even a drink of
Water. . . ,
We set out at last, with Madame de M , and proceeded
to No. 37 Chaussée d'Antin, when M. Wartel, the most cele-
brated singing-master in Paris, lives.
Madame de M had spoken to him of me as a young
girl from Italy who had been particularly recommended to
her, and whose family desired to know what hopes she gave
of becoming a great singer.
We reached the house at three . . . and were shown into
a little salon adjoining the one in which the master was giv-
ing a singing lesson. At last four o'clock struck. I felt my
limbs tremble and my strength fail me.
Wartel made me a sign that meant “come in.” I did not
understand. -
“Come in, mademoiselle, come in,” he said.
I entered the salom, followed by my two protectresses,
whom I begged to return to the room we had left, lest their
presence should intimidate me, and in truth I felt very much
afraid.
Wartel is an old man, but his accompanist is quite
young.
“Do you read music 2" asked the master.
“Yes,” I replied.
“What pieces can you sing 2 °
“None ; but I can sing a scale or an exercise.”
“Take an exercise, then, Monsieur Chose. What is your
voice—soprano 2 "
90 JOUA'A'AZ OA. MAA'/E BASI/AAA' TSZAF. [1876.
“No, monsieur, contralto.”
“We shall see.”
Wartel, who did not rise from the arm-chair in which he
was seated, made me a sign to begin, and I proceeded to
sing the exercise with diffidence at first, then desperate, and
at last satisfied.
“Well,” said the master, “your voice is rather a mezzo-
soprano than a contralto. It is a voice that will gain in
range. Have you ever taken lessons P’’
“Never, Monsieur ; that is to say, ten lessons only.”
“Well, you must work hard. Can you sing a romance 2''
“The aria from Mignon ’’ cried my aunt from the other
TOO II). &
“Very well ; sing the aria from Mignon.”
As I sang, the countenance of Wartel, which at first had
expressed only attention, showed a slight surprise which
gradually deepened into annazement ; at last he went so far
as to keep time to the music with his head, smiling agree-
ably as he did so, and finally to join in himself.
“Good, very good now make her sing a- " I have for-
gotten the word he used.
The accompanist made me sing the—(it signifies little
what its name was), he made me run through all my notes.
“As far as si natural,” said the old man. “Yes, it is a
mezzo-soprano ; and that is better, much better, for the
stage.”
I continued standing.
“Sit down, mademoiselle,” said the accompanist, examin-
ing me from head to foot with his eyes.
I sat down on the edge of the sofa.
“In fine,” said the severe Wartel, “you must work hard ;
you will succeed.”
“How long will it take to develop her voice P” said Ma-
dame de M––.
“You can understand, madame, that that will depend
1876.] JOUR.V.1 L OF AZ.4A /E B.15//K/RTSEFF. 9 I
upon the pupil herself; some do not need so long—those
who have intelligence.”
“This one has more than is necessary.”
“Ah, so much the better; in that case it will be
easier.”
“But, finally, how long will it take 7"
“To develop her voice, to perfect it, fully three years;
yes, fully three years' work, fully three years " he repeated.
I was silent, meditating vengeance against the perfidious
accompanist, whose looks seemed to say, “This little girl
has a good figure, she is pretty ; that will be amusing.”
After a few words more we rose : Wartel remained seated,
and extended his hand kindly to me. I bit my lips.
“Listen,” I said at the door, “let us go back and tell them
the truth.”
My aunt took out her card, and we returned, laughing. I
told the severe maestro of my stratagem.
What an expression the face of the accompanist wore
I shall never forget it ; I was avenged.
Sunday, July 23.-Rome—Paris—the stage, singing, paint-
ing !
No, no Russia before everything ! That is the founda-
tion of everything. Since I am posing as a sage, let me play
my part consistently ; let me not be led astray by any will-o'-
the-wisps of imagination.
Russia first of all, if God will only help me.
I have written to mamma. Here I am, out of love, and
up to my ears in business. Oh, if God will only help me,
then all will go well. cº
May the Virgin Mary pray for me !
Thursday, July 27,-We arrived this morning in Berlin.
The city made a singularly agreeable impression on me ;
the houses are extremely handsome.
92 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1876.
Ariday, July 28.-Berlin reminds me of Italy, of Florence.
It reminds me of Florence because my aunt is with me here,
as she was at Florence, and the life we lead is the same.
Before going anywhere else we went to the Museum.
Whether from ignorance or prejudice, I had not expected to
see so fine a collection of works of art as we found here. As
usual, it was the sculpture that most engaged my attention ;
it seems to me that I have one sense more than other peo-
ple—a sense devoted especially to the comprehension of
sculpture.
Here I am lodged like Faust,--before me an antique
German bureau, at which I am seated with books, manu-
scripts and rolls of paper around me.
Where is the devil 2 Where is Margaret P Alas! the
devil is always with me ; my mad vanity—that is the devil.
O ambition unjustified by results O vain aspirations
toward an unknown goal
I hate moderation in anything. I want either a life of
continual excitement or one of absolute repose. Why the
thought should occur to me now I know not, but I do not
love A Not only do I not love him, but I do not
even think of him any longer, and all that appears to me a
dream.
While I do not admire the plainness and the materialism
of the Germans, I must concede to them many good quali-
ties: they are very polite, and very obliging. What I like
most in them is the respect they entertain for their history
and for their rulers. This shows they are still far from being
contaminated by the infection of what is called republican-
ism. No other form of government can be compared to the
ideal republic; but a republic is like ermine—the slightest
blemish upon it renders it worthless. And where will you
find a republic without blemish 2 ” &
No, life here is impossible ; this is a frightful country.
Fine houses, broad streets—but nothing for the spirit or the
1876.] JOURNAL OF MAK/E BASIIAIRTSEFF. 93
imagination. The most insignificane town in Italy is the
equal of Berlin in this respect.
Sunday, July 30.-Nothing can be gloomier than Berlin.
The city bears the stamp of simplicity—a simplicity with-
out beauty or grace. The innumerable monuments that
encumber the bridges, the streets, and the gardens seem
unmeaning and out of place. Berlin reminds one of the
pictures on certain clocks, where, at stated intervals, the
soldiers come out from the barracks, the boatmen row, and
ladies in hoods, holding little children by the hand, pass by.
Now that the time has arrived when I shall cross the
borders of Russia, and be left without either my aunt or
mamma, my courage fails, and I begin to be afraid. The
law-suit, the uncertainty—and then, and then—I don't know
why, but I fear that I shall be able to alter nothing.
In two hours more we leave Berlin. To-morrow I shall
be in Russia. Well, then, no ; I will not be afraid. I am
strong. Only, if my journey should prove to be in vain
But it will not do to think of that. One must not despair
beforehand.
Oh, if any one could know what I feel !
The country here is flat, and thickly wooded, but the
foliage, although fresh and luxuriant, has a certain look of
sadness, after the rich and flourishing verdure of the South.
We were conducted to an inn called the Russian Hotel,
and installed in two small chambers with whitewashed
ceilings and bare wooden floors, and furniture equally sim-
ple and unpretending.
Thursday, August 3; Friday, August 4 (July 23, Russian
style).-Yesterday at three o'clock I went to meet the train,
and fortunately found my uncle, who had already arrived,
waiting for me. . . . At midnight I entered the carriage ;
my aunt cried ; I held my eyes level and motionless, so that
94 JOURNAL OF AZAR/E BASHATR 7SZFF. [1876.
the tears might not overflow. The conductor gave the sig-
nal, and, for the first time in my life, I found myself alone !
I began to sob aloud; but don't imagine I derived no profit
from it ! I studied from nature the art of crying.
“Enough my child,” I said at last, sitting erect. It
was time. I was in Russia. On descending from the car-
riage I was received in the arms of my uncle, who was ac-
companied by two gendarmes and two custom-house officers.
I was treated like a princess; they did not even examine
my luggage. The station is large, and the officials are well-
bred and extremely polite. I fancied myself in some ideal
country, everything is so well-managed. . . . My Com-
patriots awaken no particular emotion in me, no species of
ecstasy such as I have experienced on revisiting other coun-
tries that I had seen before ; all I feel is a sort of sympathy
for them and a sensation of extreme ease. It was still day-
light at half-past nine. We had already passed Gatchina,
the ancient residence of Paul I., who was so persecuted all
his lifetime by his haughty mother ; and soon arrived at
Tsarskoë Selo, within twenty-five minutes of St. Petersburg.
Sunday, August 6.-It is raining, and I have taken cold ;
I have written in my letter to mamma, “ St. Petersburg is a
filthy place | The streets are disgraceful for the capital of
a country ; one is mercilessly jolted over the rough paving-
stones ; the Winter-Palace is a barracks, and so is the
Grand Theater ; the cathedrals are richly decorated, but
outlandish and badly planned.”
I tried to call up some emotion on looking at the portrait
of Pietro A , but he is not handsome enough to make
one forget that he is a despicable man, a creature one cannot
but regard with contempt. I am no longer angry with him ;
I despise him too much for that—not from personal feeling,
but because of his manner of life, of his weakness of char-
acter. Stay, I am going to define for you the word weak-
1876.] JOURAWAZ OF AZAR/F, BASA/AIA Z'SEAF. 95
ness. The weakness which inclines us to the good, to ten-
derness, to the forgiveness of injuries, may be called by that
name, but the weakness which inclines us to evil-doing and
wickedness is called cowardice.
I thought I should feel the separation from my family
more than I do. I am, however, not happy ; but that is
rather owing to the presence of disagreeable and common
people (my poor uncle, for example, notwithstanding his
beauty), than to the absence of those I love.
Monday, August 7, 1876 (July 26).-I have just come
from the post-office, where I went to get my photographs
and a dispatch from my father. He had telegraphed to
Berlin that my coming would be for him a “real happiness.”
Thursday, August 1o (July 29), 1876.-This is a memor-
able evening. I have finally ceased to regard the Duke of
A as my cherished ideal. I saw at Bergamasco's a
portrait of the Grand Duke Vladimir, from which I could
not tear myself away; a more perfect and pleasing type of
beauty could not be imagined. Giro grew enthusiastic
with me over it, and we ended by kissing the portrait on
the lips. . . . I adored the Duke when I might have adored
a Prince Imperial of Russia . It was stupid, but one can-
not command these things; and then, in the beginning I
regarded H as my equal, as a man whom I might
aspire to marry. Well, that is past. Who will be my idol
now 2 No one. I shall live for fame, and in the hope of
finding—a man.
Behold me, then, free I have no longer an idol to
worship ; I am in search of some one to adore, and I must
find one soon, for life without love is like a bottle without
wine. The wine must be good wine, however.
Abundance in not the only merit of the fare here. It is
also of the most delicate quality. When one eats well, one
96 JOURAVAZ OF A/AAC/E BASI/AIR TSAEFF. [1876.
is in a good humor, one regards good fortune with greater
joy and evil fortune with greater equanimity, and one feels
well-disposed toward one's neighbors. Gluttony is a mon-
strous thing in a woman, but to love good eating to some
extent is as much a merit as it is to be intelligent or well-
dressed ; without taking into account that simple and deli-
Cate food preserves the health, and, as a consequence,
youth, the freshness of the complexion, and the roundness
of the contours. Let my figure testify to this. Marie Sapo-
genikoff was right in saying that a figure like mine was
worthy of a more beautiful face ; and observe that I am far
from being ugly. At thirteen I was too large, and every one
thought me sixteen. At present I am slender, but fully
developed, remarkably rounded, perhaps too much so. I
Compare myself with all the statues I see, and I find none
of them with contours as rounded, or with hips as large, as
mine. Is this a defect 2 The shoulders, however, require
a slightly fuller curve.
At the station Grousskoë we were met by two carriages,
six peasant-servants, and my good-for-nothing brother.
Paul is tall of stature, and rather stout; but he is beautiful
as a Roman statue.
We arrived at Chapatowka, after a drive of an hour and
a half, during which I could detect the existence of much
petty rivalry and spite on my father's side toward the Ba-
banines. I held my head high and kept my brother in check,
who, indeed, was enchanted to see me. I will not take
part with either side. I need to be on good terms with my
father.
The house is small, and consists of a single story. It has
a large garden, not very well kept. The women of the
peasantry are remarkably well-formed, pretty, and piquante
in their costume, that follows every contour of the figure
and allows the leg to be seen as far as the knee.
My Aunt Marie received us on the steps. After I had
1876.] JOURAVAZ OF MARIE BASHA'IA TSEAF. 97
taken a bath we went in to dinner. I had several skirmishes
with Paul. He tries to pique me, without meaning it, per-
haps, and only in obedience to the impulse given him by
my father. I put him haughtily in his place, however, and
it is he who is humbled when he sought to humble me. I
can read what is in the depths of his heart : Incredulity
as to my success and petty resentment in regard to our
relative positions in the world. The only name they give
me here is “Queen.” My father seeks to dethrone me, but
I will make him yield to my power. I know his nature,
for he and I are alike in many things.
Thursday, August 15 (August 3).-I was pacing slowly up
and down, leaning on my brother Paul's arm, and my
thoughts idly wandering, when, in passing under the trees
whose interlaced branches formd a green canopy above
that almost touched our heads, it occurred to me to think
what A would say if he were walking here with me and
I were leaning on his arm. He would say, bending slightly
toward me, in those soft and penetrating tones he kept for
me alone, “How happy I am, and how much I love you !”
No words could give an idea of the tenderness of his
accents in speaking to me, in saying those things that were
meant for me—alone. Those tiger-cat manners, those
burning glances and those enchanting tones, veiled and
vibrating, that murmured endearing words as if they were a
complaint or a supplication—so humble, so passionate, so
gentle were they—were for me alone !
But it was a superficial tenderness, that meant nothing ;
and if he looked at me tenderly, it was because this was his
natural expression, as there are persons who appear always
eager, others who appear always astonished, and others
vexed, when they are none of these things in reality.
Oh, how I should like to know the truth in regard to all
of this / I should like to return to Rome married, other-
98 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHAZA 7'SEAF. [1876.
wise it would be a humiliation. But I have no desire to
marry. I want to remain free, and, above all, I want to
study. I have discovered the right path at last.
And, frankly speaking, to marry in order to spite A–
would be a piece of stupidity.
That is not the question, however, but I wish to live as
other women live.
I am dissatisfied with myself to-night, without knowing
exactly why.
. . . . We had no sooner reached the open country than
my father suddenly asked me:
“Well, are we going to have a skirmish to-day, as we had
yesterday?”
“Just as you choose !” I answered.
He took me brusquely in his arms, wrapped his cloak
around me, and rested my head on his shoulder.
I closed my eyes; that is my way of showing tenderness.
We remained thus for a few moments.
Then I begun to talk of foreign countries—of Rome, and
of the pleasures of society, taking good care to make him
understand that our position there is a good one; I spoke
of Mgr. de Fallous, the Baron Visconti, and the Pope. I
enlarged, then, on the Society of Poltava.
“To spend one's life losing money at cards,” I exclaimed ;
“to ruin one's-self in the heart of a province drinking cham-
pagne in taverns; to lead a purely animal existence and let
one's faculties rust in inaction. Whatever one does, one
should always keep good company.”
“Come you seem to want to insinuate that I keep bad
company,” he said, laughing.
“I 2 No, indeed I speak only in general terms; I
allude to no one in particular.”
I dwelt so long upon the subject, that at last he asked me
what a large apartment in Nice, in which one could give
entertainments, would cost.
1876.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHAARTSEAF. 99
“You know,” he said, “if I should go settle down there
for the winter, the position would be a different one.”
“Whose position ?”
“That of the birds of the air,” he answered, laughing, as
if piqued.
“My position ?” I said. “Yes, that is true; but Nice is
a disagreeable city. Why could you not come this winter
to Rome 2 ”
“I H'm well, h’m ”
All the same, the first seed is sown, and it has fallen on
good ground. What I fear is the influence of others. I
must accustom this man to my society, render myself agree-
able to him, necessary to him, so that my Aunt T may
find a barrier raised between her brother and her evil
influences.
Wednesday, August 23 (August 11).-I have written almost
as much in detail to mamma as I have written in my journal.
That will do her more good than all the medicines in the
world. I pretend to be enchanted, but I am not so, as yet.
I have related everything exactly as it happened, but I am
not sure of my success until the end of the story. In fine,
we shall see; God is good. -
Pacha is my real cousin—the son of my father's sister.
This man puzzles me. This morning, in speaking of my
father, I remarked that children criticise their parents'
actions, and when they marry and have children of their
own, do the very things themselves they disapproved of in
their parents.
“That is perfectly true,” he said ; “but my children will
not criticise me, for I shall never marry.”
After a moment's silence I said: “Every young person
says the same thing.”
“Yes, but in my case it is different.”
“And why so 2 ”
sº
:
;
:
foo yovka.Aſ of MARIE BASI/k/k 7:SEFF. [1876.
:
:
:
*-
:
“Because I am twenty-two years old, and I have never
yet been in love; I have never cast a second glance at
any woman.”
“That is quite natural. Before the age of twenty-two
one has no right to fall in love.”
“What and the boys who fall in love at fourteen or
fifteen P’’
“That sentiment has nothing at all to do with love.”
“That may be so, but I am not like others. I am pas-
sionate ; I am haughty, that is—I mean to say that I respect
myself ; and then—”
“But all those qualities you mention are good ones.”
“Good ones P’’
“Yes, of course.”
Afterwards he remarked, apropos of something I do not
remember, that if his mother were to die he would lose his
I CalSOI).
“Yes, for a time ; and then—”
“Oh, no ; I should lose my reason ; I know it.”
“For a time ; every feeling yields eventually to newer
impressions.”
“Then you deny the eternity of the feelings 2"
“Decidedly.”
“It is strange, Moussia,” he said to me, “how quickly
one forms an attachment when one is free from other ties.
The day before yesterday I called you Maria Constantinovna ;
yesterday Mademoiselle Moussia, and to-day—”
“Moussia, simply, as I told you to do.”
“It seems to me as if we had always lived together ; your
manners are so simple and engaging.”
“Are they not?”
. . . . My father was waiting for us in the colonnade.
“Well, did I deceive you ?” I asked. “Do I look badly
in a riding-habit 2 Ask Pacha how I ride. Do I look
Well ?”
1876.] /OURNAL OF MARIE BASHAZR 7 SEAF. IO1
“Yes, very well—h’m ; very well, indeed.”
He examined me with satisfaction.
I am very far from regretting having brought thirty gowns
with me ; my father is to be won over only through his
vanity.
At this moment M-- arrived, with his luggage and a
servant. When he saluted me I responded with the custom-
ary compliments, and then went to change my dress, saying
I would return.
I returned attired in a gown of Oriental gauze, with a
train two yards long, a silk bodice open, in front, à la Zouis
A. V., and fastened with a large white bow. The petticoat
was in one piece, and the train was a square one.
M spoke of dress, and admired mine.
They call him stupid, yet he can talk on every subject—
music, art, science. It is true that it is I who do all the
talking, and he does nothing but answer, “You are per-
fectly right ; it is quite true.”
I was silent about my studies, fearing to frighten him, but
I"was provoked into speaking of them at table. I used a
Latin quotation, and discussed classic literature and the
modern imitations of it with the doctor.
They all cried out that I was wonderful ; that there was
nothing about which I could not talk—no subject of conver-
sation in which I did not find myself at home.
Papa made heroic efforts to conceal his pride. Finally a
poulet aux truffes started a culinary discussion, during which
I displayed a knowledge of gastronomy that made M
open his mouth and eyes with still greater amazement.
And then putting into practice my powers of sophistry, I
went on to give my views in regard to the advantages of
good cooking, sustaining that it made men virtuous.
After dinner we went upstairs. The rooms are very
large, especially the ball-room; the piano was placed there
only yesterday.
IO2 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHAVRTSEAF. [1876.
I played. Poor Kapitanenko made the most desperate
gestures to prevent Paul from talking.
“Mon Dieu,” cried the good man, “I forget while I listen
that I have been vegetating here in a province for the last
six years; I begin to live again ”
When I had finished “Le Ruisseau " they all kissed my
hand.
Papa sat on a sofa with half-closed eyes. The Princess
worked on at her embroidery without speaking. She is a
good sort of woman, though.
When the others were gone I said to my father: “This
is the way we shall live after we leave Russia. You will
come with me 2 ”
“I will think of it ; yes—perhaps.”
Friday, August 25 (August 13).-My father proposed an
excursion to Pavlovska, his other estate. He is very good
to me, but to-day I was extremely nervous, and scarcely
spoke; the least attempt at speech threatened to make me
burst into tears. {}
Thinking, however, of the effect this complete absence of
pomp and festivity would have upon mamma, I told my
father I should like to see something of society and amuse-
1meln tS.
“Very well,” he answered ; “if you wish it, it shall
be done. Shall I take you to see the wife of the
Prefect P '’
“Yes.”
“Very well; it shall be done.”
Reassured on this point, I was able to inspect the work on
the farm with a tranquil spirit, and even to enter into all its
details—something I found not at all amusing, but which I
thought I might make use of in the future to astonish some
one by my knowledge on the subject, mixing up a mot de con-
moisseur in such matters as the planting of barley and the
1876.] /OG/RAVAZ OF MAA/E BAS//ÅZA 7 SEAF. Io3
good points of wheat with a quotation from Shakespeare or
a discourse on the Platonic philosophy.
You see that I try to derive some profit from everything.
Pacha procured an easel for me, and near dinner-time I
received two large canvases sent me from Poltava by M &
“How do you like M ?” asked papa.
I told him.
“Well,” said Pacha, “I did not like him at all, at first,
and now I like him very much indeed.”
“And me—did you like me at first 7” I asked him.
“You ? Why?”
“Come, tell me.”
“Very well, yes; I liked you; I expected to find you
different ; I thought you did not speak Russian ; that you
were affected, and—and, now, you see how it is l’’
“It is very well.”
Pacha grew enthusiastic, to the point of asking me to give
him my likeness to wear in a locket all his life.
“For I love and honor you as I do no one else,” he cried.
The Princess opened her eyes wide, and I laughed, and
offered my cousin my hand to kiss.
At first he refused, coloring deeply, but ended by obey-
ing me.
A strange and untamed nature | This afternoon I spoke
of my contempt for humanity.
“Ah, that is how it is ' " he cried. “I am, then, only a
y 9
dastard—a wretch
And, flushed and trembling, he left the room hastily.
Saturday, August 26 (August 14).-The country is killing!
I with surprising rapidity sketched two portraits to-day—
my father's and Paul's. The whole thing occupied thirty-
five minutes.
My father, who thinks my talent for painting something
to be truly proud of, examined them and was pleased. As
*
iO4 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASI/KIRTSEFF. [1876.
for me, I was enchanted ; for to paint is to do something
toward furthering one of my aims in life. Every hour not
spent in that, or in coquetry, presses like a weight upon my
head. To read 2 No, to act
This morning my father entered my apartment. After a
few commonplace phrases, Paul having left the room, he
suddenly grew silent, and as I felt he had something to say
to me that I too wished to speak of, I remained purposely
silent also, as much for the pleasure of seeing his embarrass-
ment and hesitation as in order to avoid broaching the
subject myself.
“H'm—well, then, what do you say ?” he asked.
“I, papa? Nothing.”
“H'm —you said—h’m —that you wished me to go
with you to Rome, h’m And how, then 2"
“Very simply.”
“But—”
He hesitated, moving my combs and brushes about from
one place to another.
“But if I should go with you—h’m and your mamma—
she might not come. And then—you see if she did not
come—h’m what then P’’
“Mamma 2 Mamma will come.”
“Ah ”
“Besides, mamma will do anything I want her to do. She
exists no longer; there is only I.”
Then, visibly relieved, he put a number of questions to
me, as to the manner in which mamma passed her time—in
regard to an infinity of things, in fact.
The Cardinal is dying.
Despicable man (The nephew, I mean.)
Tuesday, August 29 (August 17).-I dreamed that Pierre
A—— was dead. I approached his bier and placed around
his neck a rosary of topazes, to which was attached a cross
1876.] JOUA.V.A L OF MARIE BASI/ATA TS/EFF. IOS
of gold. No sooner had I done this, however, than I saw
that the dead man was not Pietro.
To dream of death is a sign of marriage, I believe.
A young man was in love with a girl who loved him in
return. After some time he married another, and when he
was asked the reason of his fickleness, he answered :
“She kissed me, consequently she has either kissed
others, or she will kiss them.”
“He was quite right,” said my uncle Alexander. And
every man reasons in the same way.
A mode of reasoning which is in the highest degree un-
just, but that does not prevent me being now shut up in my
room, beside myself with rage.
I took it for granted that they meant me. But think of
the cause I had for the supposition.
Grant me, O Heaven, the power to forget ! O my God,
have I then committed a crime, that thou shouldst punish
me in this way?
That which neither education, nor books, nor advice could
teach me, experience has taught me.
Aºriday, September 8 (August 27).-Despicable fear, I shall
conquer thee at last. Did I not take it into my head yester-
day to be afraid of a gun ? It is true that Paul had loaded
it, and that I did not know how large a charge of powder he
might have used, and that I was unacquainted with the gun.
It might have gone off, and that would be a stupid death ;
or, I might be disfigured for life.
So much the worse It is only the first step that is diffi-
cult. Yesterday I fired at fifty paces, and to-day I fired
without any fear whatever. May God forgive me, but I
think I hit the mark every time.
We read Poushkine aloud to-day, and discussed the
passion of love.
“Oh, I should like to be in love to know what it is like . "
Ioff JOCAAWA L OF MAA'/E BASI/AIRTSEFF. [1876.
I said ; “Or perhaps I have already been in love 2 In that
case, love is a contemptible thing that one picks up—in
order to cast it away again.”
“You will never be in love,” said my father.
“If that should prove to be the case, I would thank
Heaven for it,” I answered.
I wish, and I do not wish, to love.
Yet in my dreams I love. Yes, but an imaginary hero.
And A ? I to love him 2 No; is it thus one loves?
No. If he were not the nephew of the Cardinal, and if he
were not surrounded by priests, and monks, and ruins, and—
the Pope, I should not have loved him.
Besides, what need have I to explain? You know all
better than I do. You know then that the music at the
opera, with A in the barcaccia, produced together a
charming effect, and you ought to know how great the
power of music is. That was an amusement, but it was not
love.
When, then, shall I really love? I shall still continue to
pour out on all sides the superabundance of my affection,
still grow enthusiastic, still shed tears—and for creatures
who are less than nothing!
Saturday, September 9 (August 28).-The days are
passing; I am losing precious time, and in the best years of
my life.
What ennui / Never a witty saying! Never a polished
phrase! Unhappily I am a pedant, and I love to hear an-
cient literature and the sciences discussed. Find me any of
this here if you can Cards and nothing else! I would
shut myself up and read, but since my object in coming
here was to make myself loved, that would be a bad way to
set about doing it. . . .
Thursday, September 2 (14.)—Here I am still in this de-
18, 6.] /OURNAL OF MIAA/E BASI/AAR 7 SEAF. Io?
teatable city of Poltava " I am more familiar with Kharkoff.
I spent a year there before going to Vienna. I remember
all the streets and all the shops. This afternoon at the sta-
tion I recognized a physician who had attended grand-
mamma, and I went over and spoke to him.
I long to return—there! “Knowest thou the land where
the orange-tree blooms?” Not Nice, but Italy.
GAVRONZI, Sunday, September 17.-While waiting for my
future fame I went to a hunt, arrayed in masculine attire,
and with a game-bag slung around my shoulder.
We set out, my father, Paul, the Prince, and I, at about
two o'clock in a char-à-banc.
Now I find myself without a word with which to describe
our excursion, not knowing the name of—in fine, of any-
thing pertaining to the chase. The brambles, the reeds,
the shrubs, the trees, were all so thick that we could hardly
make our way through them. The branches brushed
against us on all sides, the air was deliciously pure, there
was no sun, but a fine rain fell such as is the delight of
hunters—when they feel warm.
We walked, walked, walked.
I made the tour of a small lake, armed with my gun, and
ready to fire, expecting at every instant to see a duck rise.
But—nothing! I was already asking myself whether I
should fire at the lizards that hopped about my feet, or at
Michel, who walked behind me, and whose admiring gaze
I could feel fixed upon me in my masculine attire.
I chose the happy medium and fired at a crow (killing
him instantly) that was perched upon the topmost branch
of an oak, suspecting nothing, the less so as his attention was
arrested by my father and Michel, who had thrown them-
selves on the ground in a clear space in the wood.
I pulled out its tail-feathers and made myself an aigrette.
The others did not shoot once; they did nothing but walk,
‘Io8 , OURAV4A, OF AZAR/E B-1S//K/RTSEFF. [1876.
Paul killed a thrush, and that was the whole of the
chase.
Friday, September 22.-O Rome! the Pincio, rising like
an island from the plain traversed by aqueducts; the Porta
del Popolo; the obelisk, the churches of Cardinal Gastolo,
at either side of the entrance to the Corso: the Corso itself,
the Palace of the Republic of Venice; and those dark and
narrow streets, those palaces black with the dust of Cen-
turies, the ruins of a little temple to Minerva, and finally
the Coliseum. I think I see them all before me now; I
close my eyes and I walk through the streets of the city, I
visit the ruins, I see—
It is not with me as it is with those who say “Out of
sight, out of mind.” A thing is no sooner out of my sight
than it acquires for me a double value; I dwell upon its
minutest details, I admire it, I love it.
I have traveled a great deal; I have seen many cities:
but two of them only have raised me to the highest pitch of
enthusiasm.
The first is Baden-Baden, where I spent two summers
when I was a child; I can still remember those delicious
gardens. The second is Rome—
I love Rome, only Rome.
And St. Peter's St. Peter's, where a ray of light enter-
ing through the roof falls upon the floor and casts there
shadows and tracks of light as regular as the architecture of
its columns and altars—a ray of light that, by the aid of
shadows only, creates in the midst of this marble temple a
temple of light.
With closed eyes I transport myself in imagination to
Rome, and it is night. And to-morrow the hippopotamus
will come from Poltava, and I must make myself beautiful,
and I shall be beautiful.
The country has done me a great deal of good; my
1876.] JOUA’.V.1 L OF MY-1A/E BASI/AAA' TS/E/F. Io9-
complexion was never fresher nor more transparent than
In OW.
Rome!—and I will not go to Rome! Why? Because I
will not go. And if you knew what it has cost me to come
to this resolution, you would pity me. Indeed I am
already in tears.
The first touch of cold weather has compelled me to make
use of my fur coat. Kept from the air as it has been, it
has preserved the odor of Rome, and this odor—this gar-
ment!—
Have you ever observed that it needs but a perfume, a
strain of music, a color, to transport one in imagination to
any particular place? To spend the winter in Paris—
oh, no!
Thursday, September 28.—I cry with ennui. I wish to
leave this place. I am unhappy here. I am losing my
time, my life! My faculties are rusting in inaction. I am
exasperated—yes, that is the word.
Friday, September 29.-I was in despair yesterday, for it
seemed to me as if I were chained down here for life. The
thought of this exasperated me, and I wept bitter tears.
Tuesday, October 17.— . . . “Pacha,” I said, “what
would you do to the person who had wounded me—cruelly
wounded me?”
“I would kill him,” he responded quite simply.
“You use very fine words, but you are laughing, Pacha.”
“And you?”
“I have been called a devil, a hurricane, a demon, a tem-
pest; I am all this since yesterday.” . .
When I grew a little calmer I began to give expression
to the most contradictory opinions regarding love.
My cousin has thoughts ideally lofty, and Dante might
have borrowed from him his divine love for Beatrice.
I IO JOURAAA OF AZAAAA, BASI/AIRTSEFF. [1876.
“I shall doubtless fall in love,” he said, “but I will
never marry.”
“What is that you are saying, young man? Do you
know that one deserves a beating for such words?”
“Because,” he continued, “I desire my love to endure
forever—at least in my imagination—in all its divine purity
and strength. Marriage often kills love, just as it may give
it being.”
“Oh! Oh!” I cried, indignantly.
“He is quite right,” said his mother, while the bashful ora.
tor blushed and grew confused, ashamed of his own words.
All this time I was looking at myself in the glass, cutting
the hair over my forehead, which had grown too long.
“There,” I said to the “young man,” throwing him a
handful of reddish gold hair, “I will give you that as a
remembrance.”
Not only did he take it, but his voice trembled and he
looked agitated as he did so; and when I would have taken
it from him he gave me a pleading look, like a child who
has got hold of a toy that appears to him a treasure, and
that he fears to lose.
I gave my cousin “Corinne’’ to read, after which he went
away.
Corinne and Lord Melvil were walking across the bridge
of Saint Ange. “It was in crossing this bridge,” said Lord
Melvil, ‘‘returning from the Capitol, that my thoughts for
the first time dwelt seriously on you.” I do not know what
there is in those words to affect me so powerfully, but when
I read them yesterday they actually made me feel faint.
And every time I come across them, on opening the book, I
have the same feeling.
Has not some one said words like those to me?
There is a sort of magic in some simple word, perhaps on
account of their very simplicity. Or is their power derived
rather from association?
1876.j yo URAA L OF MARIE BASHAVA. TSEFF. I I I
Monday, October 23.−Yesterday we got into a coupe
drawn by six horses and set out for Poltava.
The journey was a gay one. The tears shed on leaving
the paternal roof caused a general effusion of sentiment,
and Pacha declared he was madly in love.
“I swear that it is true,” he cried, “but I will not say
with whom.”
“If it is not with me,” I said, “you shall receive my
malediction.’’ *
I complained that my feet were cold; he took off his
pelisse and wrapped it about them.
“Pacha, swear to me that you will tell me the truth.”
‘‘I swear.’’
“With whom are you in love?”
“Why do you ask?”
“It concerns me to know; we are relations. And then,
I am curious; and then—and then—it amuses me.’’
“‘You see, it amuses you!”
“Without doubt, but you must not take the word in a
bad sense; you are a very good fellow.”
“You see you are laughing; you would ridicule me after-
wards.’’ -
“Here you have my hand and word that I will not ridi-
cule you.” But there was a smile upon my face while I
spoke. ſº
“With whom are you in love?”
“With you.”
“Truly?”
“On my word of honor. I am not given to many words,
as they say in novels. Must I fall upon my knees and talk
a lot of nonsense to prove it to you?”
“Oh, my dear fellow, you are following in the footsteps
of some one I know.’’
“As you will, Moussia; but I am speaking the truth.”
“But that is folly.”
:
:
:
wº
i
I I 2 JOUAEAVAZ O/C A/21/0// B.15//ÅZA' 7"S/EAA. [1876.
“Oh, not a doubt of it, that is what pleases me! I love
without hope, which is what I needed. I needed to suffer,
to torment myself, and then, when the object of my passion
is gone away, I shall have something to dream about, some-
thing to regret. I shall endure tortures, that will be my
happiness.”
“Young man!”
“Young man? Young man?”
“But we are brother and sister.’’
‘‘No, cousins.”
“It is the same thing.”
“Oh, no!”
Then I set myself to work to tease my lover—always the
lover I do not want.
Tuesday, October 24.—I never had a childhood, but the
house where I lived when I was a child, if not dear to me,
possesses an attraction for me. I am familiar with every-
thing and everybody there. The servants, grown old in our
service, are surprised to see me so tall, and I should enjoy
many sweet recollections if it were not for the anxieties that
poison my mind. . . .
My Agrippine gown had a great success. I walked up
and down while I sang to conquer the timidity that always
seizes me when I sing. ty
Why write? What have I to recount?
I must bore people to death. –Patienceſ
Sixtus V. was only a swineherd, and Sixtus V. became
Pope.
Sunday, October 29 (17).-It is not probable that I shall
ever again see Tcherniakoff. I spent a long time wan-
dering from room to room, and found a tender pleasure in
doing so. People laugh at those who associate sentiment
with pictures and articles of furniture, and who bid them
1876.] ſo(JRMAL OF MARIE BASHAZRTSEFF, II 3
farewell on going away; who find friends in those pieces
of wood and stuff that through their association with us
receive, as it were, something of our life, and seem to be a
part of our existence.
Laugh then, if you will! The finest feelings are the most
easily ridiculed, and where mockery enters, delicacy of
feeling disappears. -
Wednesday, AVovember 1.—When Paul had gone out I
found myself alone with that excellent and admirable being
called Pacha.
“Then you like me still?” I said.
“Ah, Moussia, how would you have me speak to you?”
“Quite naturally. Why this reserve? Why not be simple
and frank? I will not laugh at you, and if I should laugh,
it is only because I am nervous—nothing else. Then you
no longer like me?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Oh, because—because—I don’t remember now.”
“One cannot account for those things.”
“If you no longer like me, you may say so; you are
frank enough for that, and I-indifferent enough. Come,
is it my nose? Or my eyes?”
“One can see that you have never been in love.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because from the moment one begins to look critically
at the features—to ask whether the nose is more perfect
than the eyes, or the eyes more perfect than the mouth—it
is evident that one has never been in love.”
“That is quite true. Who told it to you?”
‘‘No One.’’
“Ulysses?”
“No,” he replied, “one can't tell what it is one likes—I
will be frank with you--it is your air, your manner, above
all your disposition.”
II 4 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHR/R7 SEAF. [1876.
‘‘It is amiable, is it not?”
“Yes, unless you are acting a part, and it would be
impossible to do that at all times.”
“Another truth. And my face?”
“It has beauties—it is a classic face.”
“Yes, I was aware of that. What more?”
“What more? There are women one sees passing by that
one calls beautiful, but that one does not give a second
thought to. But there are faces—that are beautiful and
charming, that create a lasting impression, that produce a
sensation that is delightful and agreeable.”
“Precisely so. What else?”
“How you question l’’
“I want to avail myself of this opportunity to learn a
little of what people think of me. I shall not easily find
another whom I can question in this way without compro-
mising myself. And how did all that take possession of
you? Did it come to you suddenly, or by degrees?”
“By degrees.”
“H'm, h’m.”
“That is the best way; the impression is a more lasting
one. What you conceive a sudden affection for you cease
to care for as suddenly, while the affection that comes by
degrees—”
“Endures forever.”
“Yes, forever.”
Our conversation lasted a long time, and I began to enter-
tain considerable respect for this man whose affection for
me is as reverent as a religion, and who has never profaned
its purity by a word or a look.
“Do you like to talk of love 2 ” I asked him sud-
denly.
“No ; to speak of it with indifference is a profanation.”
“It amuses one, though.”
“Amuses ' " he cried.
1876.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIA. TSEFF. II5
“Ah, Pacha, life is a wretched affair. Have I ever been
in love 2
“Never,” he answered.
“Why do you think so 2 ” -
“Because of your character. You could love only through
a caprice-to-day a man, to-morrow a gown, the day after
a cat.”
“I am delighted when people think that of me. And
you, my dear brother, have you ever been in love 2"
“I have told you so ; you know it very well; I have told
you so.”
“No, no, it is not that I am speaking of,” I said quickly;
“but before.”
“Never.”
“That is strange. Sometimes I think that I am deceived
in you, and that I take you for something better than you
are.” sº
We talked for a while on indifferent subjects, and then I
went to my room. Here is a man—no, let me not think too
well of him ; the disappointment would be too disagreeable.
He told me a short time since that he was going to become
a soldier.
“To fight for glory, I tell you frankly,” he added.
Well, these words, uttered out of the depths of his heart,
half-timidly, half-daringly, and true as truth itself, have given
me extraordinary pleasure. It may be that I flatter myself,
but I imagine that ambition was a feeling hitherto unknown
to him. I think I see now the effect produced upon him
by a few words I let fall in regard to ambition, one day,
while I was combing my hair. The “young man”* suddenly
rose to his feet and began to walk up and down the floor.
“I must do something; I must do something,” he cried.
Tuesday, AVozember 7.-I have broken my looking-glass
* Homme vert, in the original.
f 16 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHAIRTSEFF. [1876.
That portends some misfortune. This superstitious thought
freezes me with terror. I look out of the window, and all I
see is frozen too. It is long since I beheld a scene like this.
Pacha, with the eagerness natural to the young to show
new-comers novelties, ordered a little sleigh to be got ready,
and took me out in triumph for a drive. The sleigh is very
impertinent to call itself by that name, for it is nothing more
than a few miserable pieces of wood nailed together, stuffed
with hay, and covered with carpet. The horse, being quite
close to us, threw the snow into our faces, as well as into
my sleeves, my slippers, and my eyes.
“You asked me to go with you to Rome,” said the young
man, suddenly.
“Yes, and not through a caprice. You would confer a
favor upon me by coming—and you will not You do
nothing for me; for whom, then, would you do anything 2 °
“Oh, you know very well why I cannot go.”
“I do not.”
“Because—I love you.”
“But you would render me so great a service by
coming !”
“I render you a service P’’
“Yes | "
“No, I cannot go. I will think of you from afar. And
if you knew,” he continued, in gentle and touching accents,
“if you knew what I sometimes suffer, one must possess
as much moral courage as I do to appear always indifferent
and always calm. When I see you no longer—”
“You will forget me.”
“Never.”
“But—in that case ?”
My voice had lost all trace of raillery. I was touched.
“I don't know,” he answered. “I only know that this
state of things makes me too miserable.”
“Poor fellow !”
1876.] you'AAAL OF MARIAE BASHA IAE 7 SEFF. 117
I quickly recovered myself. This pity from me was an
insult. -
Why is it so delightful to listen to the confession of the
sufferings of which one is the cause ! The more unhappy
any one is for love of you the happier you are.
“Come with us,” I said. “My father does not wish to
take Paul. Come with us.”
& 4 I—”
“You cannot—I know it. Enough I will ask you no
more.” -
I assumed an inquisitorial air, like one who is preparing
to be amused by the confession of a folly.
“Then I have the honor of being your first love,” I said.
“Admirable !—You are a deceiver.”
“Because my voice does not change its tone, and because
I do not shed tears 2 I have an iron will, that is all.”
“And I wanted to give you—something.”
“What 2 '' -
“This.”
And I showed him a little image of the Virgin suspended
around my neck by a white ribbon.
“Give it to me.”
“You do not deserve it.
“Ah, Moussia,” he cried with a sigh, “I assure you that
I do deserve it. What I feel for you is like the attachment
of a dog for its master, a devotion without limit.”
“Come nearer, young man, and I will give you my bene-
diction.”
“Your benediction ?”
“Yes. If I have made you tall: in this way, it is because
I desire to know what those who are in love feel, for sup-
pose I should take it into my head to fall in love some day,
I should want to recognize the symptoms.”
“Give me that image,” said the young man, without
removing his eyes from it.
i 18 JOUAMAZ OF MAA'ZZ BASA/AIA’TSAEFF. [1876.
*
He knelt on the chair on the back of which I was lean-
ing, and tried to take the image in his hand, but I stopped
him. -
“No, no, around your neck,” I said.
And I put the ribbon around his neck, warm as it still
was from contact with mine.
“Oh ” he cried, “thanks for that thank you ! thank
you !”
And he kissed my hand only, for the first time.
Wednesday, AVožember 8.-This evening I sat down at the
piano to play the “Reading of the Letter of Venus,” a
charming morceau from “La Belle Hélène.”
But “La Belle Hélène " is a ravishing opera. Offenbach
had only just begun his career when he wrote it, and had
not yet debased his genius by writing insignificant oper-
etta S. -
I played for a long time—I cannot now remember what—
but something, I remember, that was slow and passionate,
tender and charming, as only Mendelssohn's “Songs Without
Words,” well rendered, can be.
Afterwards I drank four cups of tea, while we talked
about music.
“Music exercises a powerful influence over me,” said the
“young man.” “I feel something altogether strange while I
listen to it—it produces a-sentimental effect upon me, and
I say then things that I should never dare to say otherwise.”
“Music is a traitress, Pacha ; distrust her, she will cause
you to do a great many things you would not do in your
calmer moments. She seizes hold of you, twines herself
around you, makes you lose your senses—and then it is
terrible ” *
Afterward I spoke of Rome. Pacha listened and sighed,
in his corner ; and when he approached the light the
expression on his countenance told me more plainly than
1876.] JOURNAL OF AZARIAE BASI/ATA: 7 SEFF. 1 19
all the words in the world could have done, what the poor
fellow suffered.
(Observe this ferocious vanity, this eagerness to ascertain
the extent of the ravages one has caused I am a vulgar
coquette, or—no, I am a woman, nothing more.)
“We are rather melancholy this evening,” I said softly.
“Yes,” he answered ; “your playing, and then—I don't
know what the matter is, but I think I have a fever.”
“Go to sleep, my friend,” I said ; “I am going to my
room ; but first help me to carry my books.”
Thursday, Movember 9.—My sojourn here will at least
have given me an opportunity of becoming acquainted with
the splendid literature of my country. But what do her
poets and writers speak of 2 /he South.
And first let me mention Gogol, our humoristic star. His
description of Rome made me shed tears, and sigh ; one
can form no idea of him without reading his works.
Some day they will be translated ; and those who have
had the happiness to see Rome will then understand my
emotion. -
Oh, when shall I leave this country —gray, cold, arid,
even in summer, even in the sunshine. The foliage is sickly,
and the sky is less blue than—dozen yonder.
Ariday.—I have been reading until just now. I am dis-
gusted with my diary—troubled, disheartened.
Rome.—I can say nothing more. I remained fully five
minutes with my pen in my hand, without knowing what to
write, my heart was so full. But the time is approaching,
and I shall see A again. The thought of seeing A
again fills me with terror. And yet I believe that I do not
love him, I am even certain of it. But that memory, my
chagrin, my uncertainty regarding the future, the fear of
being slighted . A ! How often this name returns to
my thoughts and how hateful it is to me !
I 2 O JOURNAL OF MAR/E BASHAZR 7SEFF. [1876.
You think I wish to die P Fools that you are I love
life as it is, and the vexations, the tortures, the tears that
God has sent me—I bless them and I am happy.
In fact, I have so accustomed myself to the idea of being
unhappy, that when I think over my troubles alone in my
room, and far away from the world, I say to myself that per-
haps after all I am not so much to be pitied.
Why weep then 2 sº
Saturday, Mozember 1 1.-This morning at eight o'clock
I left Gavronzi, and not without some slight emotion
caused—by regret at leaving the place 2 No, by the inter-
ruption of a habit.
The servants were all assembled in the courtyard, and I
gave to each one of them some money, and to the house-
keeper a gold bracelet.
Wednesday, AVozember 15.-Last Sunday I set out on my
homeward journey, accompanied by my father. During
my last two days in Russia, I saw a good deal of Prince
Michel and the others.
There was no one at the station to see me off but the
members of my own family, but there were several strangers
there who looked with curiosity at our “traps.”
Alexander, Paul, and Pacha entered the compartment
with us; the ringing of the third bell announced the de-
parture of the train, and they all crowded around me.
“Paul Paul ” cried the young man, “let me at least
say good-by.”
“Let him come here," I said.
He kissed my hand, and I kissed him on the cheek, near
the eye. It is the custom in Russia, but I have never been
able to approve of it.
We were only waiting for the bell to sound, and it did
not delay long.
1877 ) JOURAVAL OF MAA'ZAE BASI/AIA TSEAEA. I 2 I
“Well ?” I said.
“There is still time enough,” said the young man.
The train began to move slowly, and Pacha began to talk
very fast, but without knowing a word of what he was
saying.
“Good-by, good-by,” I cried, “jump off.”
“Yes, farewell, good-by.”
And he jumped on to the platform after having once
more kissed my hand—the kiss of a faithful and obedient
dog.
“Come, come,” cried my father from our compartment,
for we were in the passageway of the coach.
I returned to him, but I was so troubled at the spectacle
of grief of which I was the cause, that I lay down at once
and closed my eyes to think and dream at my ease.
Poor Pacha Dear and noble boy If I regret anything
I leave behind me in Russia, it is this heart of gold, this
loyal character, this upright spirit.
Am I really troubled 2 Yes. As if it were possible to be
so insensible as not to feel a just pride in possessing such a
friend.
1877.
NICE, Wednesday, January 17.—When shall I know, then,
what this passion called love is, of which people talk so
much P
I could have loved A , but now I despise him. The
Duke of H I loved extravagantly when I was a child—
a love due to the effect produced on an excitable imagina-
tion by the wealth, the name, and the eccentricities of the
Ill all).
Tuesday, January 23.-Last night I was seized by a fit of
despair that found utterance in moans, and that finally
I 2.2 JOURNAL OF AZAA’ſ E BASI/ATA’ TSE/A. [1877.
drove me to throw the dining-room clock into the sea.
Dina ran after me, suspecting some sinister design on my
part, but I threw nothing into the sea except the clock. It
was a bronze one—a Paul, without the Virginia—in a very
becoming hat, and with a fishing-rod in his hand. Dina
came back with me into my room, and seemed to be very
much amused about the clock. I laughed, too.
Poor clock º
Thursday, February 1.—Mamma and I went out for an
airing. On reaching home I sat down to read Livy. The
heroes of antiquity, the classic folds of the toga, the Capitol,
the dome, the masked ball, the Pincio-Oh, Rome !
RoME, Thursday, February 8–I fell asleep at Vintimille,
and only woke up, mind and body, when we arrived at
Rome. Against my will I was obliged to remain there till
evening, as the train for Naples does not leave till 10 o'clock.
A whole day in Rome !
At twenty minutes past ten we left Rome. I fell asleep,
and we are now at Naples. My sleep was not so sound,
however, as to prevent my hearing an ill-tempered passen-
ger complaining to the conductor of the presence of Prater
in the coach. The gallant conductor took the part of
our dog.
But here is Naples. Does it happen to you as it does to
me? On nearing a great and beautiful city I grow restless,
my heart palpitates; I feel as if I should like to clasp the
city in my embrace.
It took us more than an hour to reach the Hôtel du
Louvre. There was an obstruction in the way—what cries,
and what confusion 1
The women here have enormous heads; they look like
the women they exhibit along with the tigers, serpents, and
other animals, at the menageries,
1877.] JOURNAL OF MAA'ſ E BASI/ATA’ TSEAF. I 23
º
In Rome I like only what is old ; at Naples there is noth-
ing to admire but what is new.
NAPLES, Monday, February 26–I continued my excur-
sions to-day. We visited San Martino, an ancient convent.
I have never seen anything more interesting. Museums, as
a general thing, give one a chill. That of San Martino
attracts and charms. The antique carriage of the Syndic,
and the gallery of Charles III., enraptured me; and those
corridors, with their mosaic floors, those ceilings with their
magnificent moldings | The church and the chapels are
something marvelous. As they are not large, every detail
of the workmanship can be fully appreciated. Polished
marbles, precious stones, mosaics on all sides, overhead and
underfoot, on the ceiling as well as on the floor . With the
exception of those of Guido Reni and of Spagnoletto, the
pictures are the most remarkable I have ever seen : the
patiently wrought works of Fra Buenaventura, the ancient
porcelains of Capo-di-Monte, the portraits on silk, and a
painting on glass representing the story of Potiphar's wife.
The court-yard of white marble, with its sixty columns, is of
rare beauty.
Our guide told us that there are but five monks remaining
in the convent—three brothers and two laymen, who dwell
somewhere upstairs, in a neglected wing of the building.
We went up into a sort of tower, with two balconies sus-
pended one above the other, and I felt as one might feel
looking over the edge of a precipice; the view is distract-
ingly beautiful. One sees the mountains, the villas, and the
plains of Naples through a sort of blue mist that is only an
illusion of the senses, produced by distance.
“What is going on at Naples to-day ?” I asked the guide,
as I listened to the noises that reached us from the city.
“Nothing; it is only the Neapolitan people,” he answered,
smiling.
I24 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHAZR 7SEFF. [1877.
“Is it always so *"
“Always.”
There rose up above this mass of roofs a clamor, a cease-
less sound of cries, like a series of shouts, of which one can
form no idea in the city itself. In truth, this noise that rises
up above the city with the blue mist produces a species of
terror in the mind, and, by making one strangely conscious
of the height at which one stands, causes a sensation of
vertigo.
The marble chapels charmed me. A country that pos-
sesses treasures such as there are to be found in Italy, is the
richest country in the world. To compare Italy with the
rest of the world is like comparing a magnificent painting
to a whitewashed wall. *
How did I dare to judge Naples a year ago 2 I had not
even seen it them.
Saturday, March 3, 1877.-I went to the chapel in our
hotel this evening. There is an infinite charm in letting the
thoughts dwell upon love when one is in a church. You see
the priest, the images, the glow of the tapers shining through
the obscurity—all this took me back to Rome ! Divine
ecstasy, celestial perfume, delightful transports—ah, how
describe them here ! Only in song could feelings such as
pervaded me be expressed.
Rome ! Its statues, its mosaics, its wonders of art, anti-
quity, the middle ages, its great men, its monuments of the
past, St. Peter's with its columns and its mysterious shad-
ows—I thought of all these.
What is to be gained by weeping 2 Tears will do no good.
Unhappiness is to be my destiny—that, and an artist's fame.
And what if I should fail 2
Make your minds easy ; I was not born to spend my life
in some obscure corner of the world, letting my faculties
rust through neglect,
1877.] JOURNAL OF MAAC/E BASHA IAE 7 SEAF. I 25
I will not now speak of love, for I once made use of that
word lightly ; I will no longer invoke the help of God ; all
I wish for is to die.
Lord God, Jesus Christ ; suffer me to die ' My life has
been a short one, but the lesson taught me has been hard.
Everything has been against me. I desire only to die.
My thoughts are as incoherent and disordered as the lines
I trace ; I hate myself, as I hate everything that is con-
temptible.
Let me die, my God | Let me die I have lived long
enough
A peaceful death ! To die while singing some beautiful
air of Verdi ; no rebellious feeling rises up within me at
the thought, as formerly ; then I desired to live that others
might not triumph and rejoice over me. Now all that is
indifferent to me ; I suffer too much. -
Sunday, April 1.-I am like the patient and untiring al-
chemist who spends whole days and nights beside his retorts
that he may not miss the moment he has longed for and
waited for. Every day it seems to me that it is going to hap-
pen. And I think of it and wait for it. And how do I know
whether it has happened or not ? I examine myself curi-
ously and with eager eyes in the glass, and I ask myself anxi-
ously if this be not perhaps it. But I have formed such an
opinion of it, that I have come to think it does not exist, or
rather that it has already happened, and that there was
nothing wonderful in it, after all.
But all my imaginings, then, and the novelists and the
poets? Would they with one accord have made their theme
a feeling that does not exist, solely for the purpose of dig-
nifying by its name the grossness of human nature ? No;
for in that case it would be impossible to account for our
preferences.
I 26 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHAARTSEFF. [1877.
Friday, May 1 1.—Have I mentioned that Gordigiani came
to see us ; that he gave me great encouragement, and pre-
dicted an artistic future for me ; that he found much to
praise in my sketches, and wished very much to paint my
portrait 2
FLORENCE, Saturday, May 12.-My heart is oppressed at
the thought of leaving Florence.
To go to Nice I look forward to it as I would to going
to live in a desert. I should like to shave my head that I
might not have the trouble of arranging my hair,
We have packed our trunks, we are going ! The ink
dries upon my pen while I try to write in vain, so oppressed
am I by grief.
NICE, Wednesday, May 16.—I have been running about all
the morning in search of a few trifles that I want for my
antechamber, but in this wretched place one can find
nothing. I went to the shop of a painter on glass, to a tin-
smith's, and I don't know where else.
The thought that my diary may not prove interesting, the
impossibility of making it interesting by preparing surprises
for the reader, torment me. If I wrote only at intervals I
might be able to do so, perhaps, but these notes written
down each day will be read with interest only by some
thinker, or some student of human nature. Whoever has
not the patience to read it all, will be able to read none of
it, and, above all, will be able to understand none of it.
I am happy in my comfortable and pretty nest in the
midst of my garden full of flowers. Nice no longer exists
for me ; I am in my country-house.
NICE, Wednesday, May 23.−Oh, when I think that we
have only a single life to live, and that every moment that
passes brings us nearer death, I am ready to go distracted
1877.] /OURNAL OF MARIE BASHAZRTSEAF. 127
I do not fear death, but life is so short that to waste it is
infamous.
One pair of eyes is not enough if one desires to accom-
plish anything. Reading and drawing fatigue me greatly,
and while I am writing these wretched lines at night I grow
sleepy.
Ah, what a happy time youth is
With what happiness shall I look back, in times to come,
on these days devoted to science and art | If I worked
thus all the year round—but a day, or a week, as the chance
may be Natures so richly endowed as mine consume
themselves in idleness.
I try to tranquillize my mind by the thought that I shall
certainly begin work in earnest this winter. But the thought
of my seventeen years makes me blush to the roots of my
hair. Almost seventeen, and what have I accomplished 2
Nothing ! This thought crushes me.
I think of all the famous men and women who acquired
their celebrity late in life, in order to console myself; but
seventeen years for a man are nothing, while for a woman
they are equal to twenty-three for a man.
To go live in Paris, in the North, after this cloudless sky,
these clear, calm nights | What can one desire, what can
one hope for, after Italy Paris—the heart of the civilized
world, of the world of intellect, of genius, of fashion—nat-
urally people go there, and remain there, and are happy
there ; it is even indispensable to go there, for a multitude
of reasons, in order to return with renewed delight to the
land beloved of God, the land of the blest, that enchanted,
wondrous, divine land of the supreme beauty and magic
charm of which all that one could say would never equal
the truth !
When foreigners come to Italy they ridicule its mean little
towns, and its lazzaroni, and they do this with some clever-
ness and not without a certain show of reason. But forget
I 28 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASI/AAA’ TSFFF. [1877.
for the moment that you are clever; forget that it is a mark
of genius to turn everything into ridicule, and you will find,
as I do, that tears will mingle with your laughter, and that
you will wonder at all you see.
Tuesday, May 29.-The nearer I approach to the time
when my youth shall be over, the more indifferent do I
become to everything. Few things affect me now, while
formerly anything had power to move me, so that in reading
over this record of the past I see, from the impression they
made upon me, that I attached too much importance to
trifles.
Trust in others, and that sensitiveness of feeling that is
the bloom of the character, are soon lost.
I regret the loss of this freshness of feeling all the more,
as when it is once gone it is gone forever. Without it one
is more tranquil, but one no longer enjoys as much. Dis-
appointment ought not to have come to me so early in life.
If it had not come, I feel that I might have achieved great
things.
I have just finished a book that has disgusted me with
love—the story of a charming princess who had fallen in
love with an artist. Fie! I do not say this with the stupid
intention of seeking to belittle the profession of an artist,
but—without knowing why, I have always had aristocratic
tendencies, and I believe as much in race where men as
where animals are in question. It is true that often—always,
indeed, in earlier times the foundation of a noble race was
based on moral and physicial training, the effects of which
were transmitted from father to son. And of what conse-
quence is the origin of a thing 2
On glancing through those pages of my journal that record
the A–– episode I am filled with wonder and admiration
for myself to see how just and true were my reflections con-
cerning it at the time it occurred, I had forgotten them,
:877..] ſo(JRMAZ OF MARIAE BASHAAR 7:SEFF. 129
and I was a little uneasy lest it might be theught that I had
entertained an affection (a past affection) for Count A––.
Fortunately, however, no one can think so now, thanks to
this dear journal. No, truly, I did not think I had made so
many just reflections at the time, and, above all, that I had
felt them. That was a year ago, and I feared I had written
a great deal of nonsense ; but no, I am quite satisfied with
myself. The only thing that I cannot understand is how I
could have behaved so foolishly and reasoned so wisely.
I must repeat to myself again that no advice in the world—
nothing but personal experience—could ever have kept me
from doing anything I wished to do. -
That is because the woman who writes these words and
the woman she is writing about are two different persons.
What do all these sufferings matter to me? I write them
down ; I analyze them ; I transcribe my daily life, but to
me, to me myself, all that is completely indifferent. It is my
pride, my self-love, my interests, my complexion, my eyes,
that suffer, that weep, that rejoice ; but Z, I take part in it
all only to observe, to narrate, to write about and reason
coldly concerning all these trifles, like Gulliver among the
Liliputians.
I have a great deal more to say in explanation of myself,
but enough for the present.
Monday, June 1 1.-While they were playing cards last
night I made a rough sketch of the players by the unsteady
light of the two wax candles, and this morning I transferred
the sketches to canvas.
I am delighted to have made a picture of persons sitting
down in different attitudes; to have copied the position of
the hands and arms, the expression of the countenance, etc.,
I had never before done anything but heads, which I was
satisfied to scatter over the canvas like flowers.
I 30 JOURA'A L OF MAA/E BASHAVRTSEAF. [1877.
PARIS, Saturday, July 7.-I think I may truly say that I
have been growing much more sensible for some time past ;
that I begin to see things now in a more natural light, and
that I have abandoned a great many illusions and a great
many regrets.
True wisdom can be learned only from personal ex-
perience.
Sunday, /u/y 15.—I am so weary of life that I should like
to die. Nothing amuses me, nothing interests me. I desire
nothing, I hope for nothing. Yes, there is one thing I wish
for—not to be ashamed of being as I am. I desire to be
able, in a word, to do nothing, to think of nothing, to live the
life of a plant, without feeling remorse for it.
Reading, drawing, music—but ennui / ennui / ennui / In
addition to one's occupations one requires some amusement,
some interest in life, and this is why I am weary of it.
I am tired of liſe, not because I have not married—no, I
am sure you think better of me than to imagine that—I am
tired of life because everything has gone wrong with me,
and because I am tired of it.
Paris kills me ! It is a café, a well-kept ſotel, a bazar.
I must only hope, however, that when winter comes, what
with the opera, the Bois, and my studies, I shall be able to
accustom myself to it.
7'uesday, July 17.-I have spent the day looking at veri-
table marvels of artistic and antique embroidery, gowns
that are poems, all sorts of splendors that have given me a
glimpse of a luxury I had scarcely an idea of before.
Ah, Italy –If I devoted a month twice a year there to
my wardrobe, I had no need to think of it again. Dress is
so stupid when one makes it a matter of special study.
Wednesday, July 18.-The mere word “Italy "causes me
1877.] /OURNAL OF MARIE BASHAIR TSEFF. I31
an emotion such as no other word, such as no one's presence,
has ever done.
Oh, when shall I be there !
It would annoy me exceedingly if any one were to sup-
pose I wrote these Ah's and Oh's through affectation.
I don't know why this should be the case, however; and,
besides, I affirm and declare that all I say, stupid and dis-
agreeable though it may be, is the truth.
The thing is that I wish to write now in a different style,
quite simply ; and I fear that on comparing this with my
former exaggerated way of saying things, people will no
longer be able to understand what I want to say.
I want to express myself quite naturally, and if I make
use of a few figures of speech, do not think it is for orna-
ment ; oh, no it is simply for the purpose of describing as
nearly as possible the confusion of my thoughts.
It vexes me greatly to be able to write nothing that is
pathetic. I long so much to make others feel what I feel !
I weep, and I say I Zweep / That is not what I want. I
want to make you feel the whole thing—I want to touch
your hearts
That will come, and other things will come with it, but it
must not be sought after.
Thursday, July 26–I have spent almost the whole day
drawing ; in order to rest my eyes I played for a while on
the mandolin ; then again came drawing, then the piano.
There is nothing in the world to be compared to Art; and
it is as much a source of happiness for the beginner as for
the master. One forgets everything in one's work; one
regards those outlines, those shadings, with respect, with
emotion—one is a creator, one feels one's-self almost great.
Through fear of injuring my eyes I have given up read-
ing at night for some little time past. I begin to see things
blurred, even at so short a distance as from the carriage to
&
i 32 /OURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIR 7 SEFF. [1877.
the sidewalk. This troubles me. What if, after losing my
voice, I should be obliged to give up drawing and reading
also In that case I should no longer complain, for that
would mean that in all my other sufferings no one was to
blame, and that they were the will of God.
Monday, July 30.-Fauvel has stopped my excursions to
Engheim, and will perhaps send me to Germany, which
would again turn everything upside down. Walitsky is a
skillful doctor and understands a great deal about sickness ;
I was in hopes he was mistaken in wishing me go to Soden,
but it seems that Fauvel is of the same opinion.
Sunday, August 5.--When one is in want of bread, one
does not ask for sweets ; therefore it is that I am ashamed
to speak of my artistic hopes at present. I no longer dare
to say that I would like such or such an arrangement made
to enable me to work better, or that I want to go to Italy to
study. To say such things now would cost me a great
effort.
Even if I were to have everything I desire, I think it
would no longer make me happy as it might have done
before.
Confidence, once lost, can never be restored ; and to
lose this—as is the case with every irrevocable loss—is an
inconsolable sorrow.
I am disenchanted with life ; I take notice of nothing,
and no one interests me ; I wear an anxious look, instead
of my former confident expression, thus depriving my coun-
tenance of its principal charm ; I sit silent and apart while
others are conversing around me ; my friends look at me
with astonishment at first, and then leave me to myself.
Then I try to be amusing, and I am only odd, extrava-
gant, impertinent, and stupid.
1877.] /OURNAL OF MARIE BASHA'IAE 7 SEAF. I33
Monday, August 6.--Do you suppose that the condition
of Russia causes me no anxiety 2 Who is there so unhappy
or so contemptible that he forgets his country in her hour
of danger ?
Do you think one hundred thousand slaughtered Rus-
sians would now be lying dead if my prayers could have
availed to save them, or my anxious thoughts to protect
them 2
Tuesday, August 7.-I have been stupefying myself at the
Bon Marché, which pleases me, as everything else does that
is well arranged. We had some friends to supper ; they
laughed, still—I am sad, wretched. . . . So then, IT IS IM-
PossIBLE | Horrible word ' Hideous, maddening word
To die, my God, to die ' To die and leave nothing behind
To die like a dog—to die as a hundred thousand other
women have died whose names scarcely survive upon their
tombstones | To die —
Mad creature, who will not see what it is that God desires |
God wishes me to renounce everything and to devote my-
self to art In five years to come I shall still be young,
still beautiful perhaps. But what if I become only a medi-
ocre artist such as there are already too many of 2
With other things to interest one, that might do, but to
devote one's life to it and not to succeed
What is life without society 2 What can one who leads a
solitary existence hope to accomplish ! This thought makes
me hate the whole world, my family, myself ; it makes me
blaspheme ! To live To live Holy Mary, Mother of
God, Lord Jesus, help me !
But if, I wish to devote my life to art, I must go to Italy |
Yes, to Rome.
This is the wall of granite against which I dash my head
at every instant
I will remain here.
134 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHAZRTSEFF. [1877.
Sunday, August 12.-I have sketched the portrait of An-
toinette, our chambermaid. She has a charming face, with
large, bright blue eyes of an exquisitely sweet and innocent
expression. The sketch is always a success with me, but
to finish a portrait one must have studied.
Ariday, August 17.—I am convinced that I cannot live
outside.of Rome. In fact my health is visibly deteriorating,
but at least I have no wish in the matter. I would give
two years of my life never to have been in Rome.
Unhappily, one learns how to act only when there is no
ionger need for action.
The thought of painting enrages me. Because there are
the materials in me to accomplish wonders, and yet, so far
as study is concerned, I am less fortunate than any poor
boy whom some benevolent person sends to school because
he has been discovered to possess talent. I hope, at least,
that posterity, in revenge for the loss of the pictures I might
have painted, will decapitate every member of my family.
Do you fancy I still wish To Go INTO SOCIETY 2 No, no ;
I am soured and disappointed, and if I wish to become an
artist, it is for the same reason that malcontents become
republicans.
I think, after all, Islander myself in saying this.
Saturday, August 18.--When I was reading Homer I com-
pared my aunt, on One occasion, when she was angry, to
Hecuba at the burning of Troy. No matter how much
ashamed we may be to confess our admiration for the class-
ics, no one, I think, can escape in secret from the charm
exercised over the mind by the ancient writers. No mod-
ern drama, no romance, no sensational comedy of Dumas or
of George Sand, has left so clear a recollection or so vivid -
and profound an impression upon me as the description of
the fall of Troy.
1877.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHRIA TSEFF. I35
I almost feel as if I had witnessed those horrors; as if I
had heard those cries, and seen those flames, with Priam’s
family, unhappy ones, seeking refuge behind the altars of
their gods, to be followed there by the flames and delivered
by them at last from their sufferings.
I have thrown aside in disgust the “Journal d’un Diplo-
mate en Italie.” This French elegance of style, this polite-
ness, these hackneyed phrases of admiration, are an insult
to Rome. When a Frenchman is describing anything I
always picture him to myself as dissecting it with a long
instrument held delicately between his fingers, and eye-
glasses on his nose.
Rome should be, as a city, what I imagined I should be as
a woman; any expression of admiration uttered in the pres-
ence of others, where we are concerned, is a profanation.
Sunday, August 19.-I have just finished reading “Arca-
dia,” by Ouida. This book has left a sad impression on
me, yet I almost envy the lot of Gioja.
Gioja grew up to womanhood under the joint influence of
Homer and Virgil; after her father's death she went on
foot to Rome, and received there a terrible disappointment,
for she had expected to see the Rome of Augustus.
For two years she studied in the studio of Marix, the most
celebrated sculptor of the time, who secretly loved her.
But she had no thought for anything except her art until
the appearance of Hilarion, a poet whose poems drew tears
from every one, and who himself turned everything into
ridicule; a millionnaire—as beautiful as a god, and who was
adored by all who knew him. While Marix worships her in
silence, Hilarion causes Gioja to fall in love with him to
gratify a whim.
The ending of the romance saddened me, yet I would
accept without hesitation the lot of Gioja. First, she wor-
shiped Rome, then she experienced the delight of an absorb-
136 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHAIRTSEAEF. [1877.
ing passion. And if she was deserted, it was by him; if
she suffered, it was through him ; and I cannot picture to
myself how one can be unhappy because of anything that
comes from the man one loves—as she loved, and as I shall
love, if I ever love! &
She never discovered that he had sought to make her love
him for a whim.
“He has loved me,” she says, “it is I who have been un-
able to retain his affections.”
She won fame; her name, uttered in accents of admira-
tion mingled with wonder, was on every one's lips.
She mezer ceased to Joze him ; he never descended in her
eyes to the rank of common men; she believed him always
to be perfect, almost divine; she did not wish to die then,
because he lived. “How can one kill one's self,” she says,
“while the man one loves still lives?”
And she died in his arms, hearing from his lips the words,
“I love you.”
But in order to love thus, one must find a Hilarion. The
man one loves thus must belong to no obscure family;
Hilarion was the son of a noble Austrian and a Greek prin-
cess. The man one loves thus should never know what it
is to be in want of money; he should never falter in any of
his undertakings, nor be afraid of anything or of any one.
This man, finally, must never find the door of a palace
or of a club barred to him; he must never find himself
obliged to hesitate regarding the purchase of a statue he
desires to possess, or the propriety of any one of his actions,
however foolish it may be. He must be superior to the
slights, the annoyances, the difficulties of other men. He
must be a coward only in love, but a coward like Hilarion
who could break a woman’s heart with a smile, and who
would weep to see a woman want for anything.
Such a man should find, wherever he travels, a palace of
his own in which he may repose, a yacht to transport him
1877.] JOUAMAL OF JARIAE BASHAIRTSEFF. I 37
wherever his fancy may lead him, jewels, servants, horses,
flute-players even, if he should desire them.
Zhursday, August 23.−I am in Schlangenbad!
Fauvel has ordered me to rest, as he says. I do not
think myself cured yet, however, and in the matter of dis-
agreeable things I never deceive myself.
I shall soon be eighteen. Eighteen years are not a great
many to one who is thirty-five, but they are a great many to
me, who in the brief period of my existence as a young girl
have had few pleasures and many griefs.
Art! If I had not that magic word before me in the dis-
tance I should have died already.
But for Art one has need of no one; we depend entirely
upon ourselves, and if we fail, it is because there was noth-
ing in us, and that we ought to live no longer. Art! I
picture it to myself like a great light shining before me in
the distance, and I forget everything else but this, and I
shall press forward to the goal, my eyes fixed upon this
light. And now—oh, no, no! now, my God, do not terrify
me! Some horrible thought tells me that—Ah, no: I will
not write it down, I will not bring bad luck upon myself!
My God!—I will make the attempt, and if— Then there
will be no more to be said, and—let God’s will be done!
I was at Schlangenbad two years ago. What a difference
between then and now ! .
Then I hoped all things; now I hope for nothing. . . .
Thanks to my habit of carrying a “heap of useless things”
about with me I can make myself at home anywhere by the
end of an hour—my dressing-case, my writing materials,
my mandolin, a few good big books, my foot-warmer, and
my photographs—that is all. But with those any room in
an inn may be made comfortable. What I am most
attached to are my four large red dictionaries, my Livy,
bound in green, a small copy of Dante, a medium-sized
138 JOURAA L OF MAR/E BASHAZR 7SEFF. [1877,
Lamartine, and my likeness, cabinet size, painted in oil and
framed in dark blue velvet, encased in a Russia leather
case. With this my bureau assumes at once an air of ele-
gance, and when the light of the two wax candles falls on
these warm and pleasing colors, I feel almost reconciled to
Germany.
Dina is so good, so amiable! How I should like to see
her happy!
And a word in regard to that; what a vile humbug the
life of certain persons is
Monday, August 27.-I have added a clause to my even-
ing prayer—these five words: My God, protect our armies!
I, eighteen years old—it is absurd ' My talents still un-
developed, my hopes, my passions, my caprices, will be
ridiculous at eighteen. To begin to learn to paint at eigh-
teen, when one has had the pretension of being able to do
everything quicker and better than other people!
There are people who deceive others, but I have deceived
myself.
Saturday, September 1,–I spend a great deal of my time
alone, thinking and reading, without any one to direct me.
Perhaps this is well, but perhaps also it is ill.
Who will assure me that my head has not been filled with
erroneous notions, and my judgment distorted by false
methods of reasoning? That is a question that will be
decided when I am dead.
Forgive, forgiveness: here are a verb and a noun exten-
sively used in the world. ‘Christianity commands us to for-
give.
What is forgiveness?
It is the renunciation of vengeance or of the desire to
inflict punishment for an offense received. But when we
have had neither the intention of taking vengeance nor of
1877.] JOURNAL OF AZAAAAE BASI/ATA TSEAF. I 39
inflicting punishment, can we be said to forgive? Yes, and
no. Yes, because we assure ourselves and others that we
have forgiven; and we act as if the offense had never existed.
No, because one is not master of one's memory, and so
long as we remember we have not forgiven.
I have spent the whole of the day in the society of my
family, and I mended with my own hands a Russia leather
shoe belonging to Dina ; then I washed a large wooden
table, as any chambermaid might do, and set to work to
make on this table warenki (a paste made of flour, water,
and fresh cheese). My people were amused to see me
kneading the paste with sleeves turned up, and a black
velvet cap upon my head, like Faust.
Sunday, September 2.—How can people who are free to do
as they choose go to spend a day at Wiesbaden P
We went there nevertheless, in order to see the most
ridiculous people in the world celebrate the defeat of the
most cultured.
Zhursday, September 6.—I will stay in Paris. This is
what I have definitively resolved to do, and my mother also.
I spent the whole evening with her. Everything would have
gone very well if she had not been ill, as she was, particu-
larly toward night. She has not left her bed since.
Z have resolved to remain in Paris, where I will pursue my
studies, going to a zeatering-place in the summer for relaxation.
All my caprices are exhausted. Acussia was what Z needed,
and I am now completely reformed. And / feel that the
moment has at last come to pause in my course. With my
abilities, in favo years / 3/a///have made up for lost time.
So, them, in the name of the Father, of the Son, and of the
Aſoly Ghost, and may the divine protection be with me. This is
not a resolution made to be broken, like so many former ones,
ôut a final one,
I 4o JOURNAL OF MAA’ſ E BASHAZRTSEFF. [1877.
PARIS, Wednesday, September 19.-I don't know why ex-
actly, but I think I shall like to live in Paris. It seems to
me that a year in the atelier /u/ian will lay a good founda-
tion.
Tuesday, October 2.--To-day we removed our belongings
to 7 I Champs Elysées. Notwithstanding the confusion I
found time to go to the atelier Julian, the only one of any
note here for women. The hours of work are from eight
in the morning till noon, and from one in the afternoon to
fi tra
To-day not being the fourth, which is an unlucky day for
me, I was eager to begin work on as many things as possible.
I sketched a three-quarter head in crayon in ten minutes
at the studio, and Julian told me he had not expected any-
thing so good from a beginner. I left the studio early, as
all I wanted was to make a beginning to-day. We went to
the Bois. I plucked five oak-leaves there and took them to
Doucet, who in half an hour made me a charming little blue
scapular. But what shall I wish for 2 to be a millionnaire?
To get back my voice P To obtain the Prix de A'ome under
the guise of a man 2 To marry Napoleon IV 2 To go into
the great world 2
I wish more than anything to get back my voice.
The day passes quickly when one draws from eight in the
morning till noon, and from one in the afternoon to five.
Only to go to the studio and back takes almost an hour and
a half. To-day I arrived a little late, so that I worked but
six hours.
When I think of the entire years that I have lost it makes
me angry enough to give up everything ! But that would
only make matters worse. Come, be miserable and hateful
as you will, but be satisfied, at least, to have at last suc-
ceeded in making a beginning. And I might have begun at
thirteen 2 Four entire years lost
：
The Three LAUGHs

1877.] yovKNAZ OF MARIE BASHAZRTSEFF. I 4 I
I might be painting historical pictures by this time if I
had begun four years ago. All that I have done is worse
than nothing; it must be undone again.
At last I am working with artists—real artists, who have
exhibited in the Salon, and whose pictures are bought—who
even give lessons themselves.
Julian is satisfied with the beginning I have made. “By
the end of the winter,” he said to me, “You will be able to
paint very good portraits.”
He says some of the women pupils give as much promise
as the men ; I would have worked with the latter but that
they smoke, and then there is no difference in the work.
Formerly the women pupils did not draw from the nude, but
since they have been admitted to the Academy there is
no difference made in that respect between them and the
men. -
The servant at the studio is just like one of those they
describe in novels. -
“I have always lived among artists,” she says, “and I am
not by any means one of the bourgeoisie ; I am an artist.”
I am happy, happy!
Friday, October 5.-“Did you do that by yourself 2 ” M.
Julian asked me on entering the studio to-day.
“Yes, Monsieur.”
I grew as red as if I had told a falsehood.
“Well, I am satisfied with it, very well satisfied with it.”
“Truly 2 ”
“Very well satisfied.”
In the studio all distinctions disappear. One has neither
name nor family ; one is no longer the daughter of one's
mother, one is one's self, an individual,—and one has be-
fore one art, and nothing else. One feels so happy, so free,
so proud 1
At last I am what I have so long wished to be. I have
I42 JOURNAL OF MAA'ZZ AASI/ATA TSEAF. [1877.
wished for it so long that I scarcely believe it now to be
true.
Apropos, whom do you think I saw in the Champs
Elysées to-day ?
None other than the Duke of H
all by himself.
The handsome, vigorous young man with yellow locks
and a delicate mustache now looks like a big Englishman ;
his face is very red, and he has little red whiskers that grow
from the tip of the ear to the middle of the cheek.
Four years, however, change a man greatly ; at the end
of half an hour I had ceased to think of him.
occupying a fiacre
Sic transit gloria Ducis.
The sense of shame disappears in the presence of perfect
beauty, for supreme beauty leaves room in the mind for no
other feeling than admiration.
And so with other things. The music that allows the
defect of the stage-setting to be noticed is not perfect. An
act of heroism that, after it has taken place, has left the
judgment free, is not the heroic act you have dreamed
of. . . .
To be supreme of its kind a thing must occupy the mind to
the exclusion of every feeling that is not connected with it.
Thursday, October 1 1.-M. Julian told the servant at the
studio that Schoeppi and I were the pupils who gave great-
est promise of being artists. Schoeppi is a Swiss. M.
Julian added that I may become a great artist.
The weather is so cold that I have taken cold, but I can
forgive all that provided only I can learn to draw.
To draw 2 And why
To compensate me for everything I have been deprived
of since the day I was born ; to supply the place of every-
thing I have ever longed for, and everything I still long for;
1877.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHAIRTSEFF. I43
to enable me to achieve success by my genius, by—by any-
thing you choose, provided only that I achieve success
Saturday, October 13.−It is on Saturday that M. Tony
Robert-Fleury comes to the studio. He is the artist who
painted Ze ZXernier /our de Corinthe, which was purchased
by the State for the Luxembourg. The most distinguished
artists of Paris come to the studio from time to time to give
us the benefit of their advice.
When he came to me and proceeded to pronounce judgment
I interrupted him, saying:
“I beg your pardon, Monsieur, but I began only ten days
ago.”
“Where did you draw before ?” he asked, examining my
drawing.
“Nowhere.”
“How, nowhere 2"
“Yes, I took thirty-two lessons in painting for my own
amusement.”
“But that is not studying.”
“No, Monsieur, for that reason—”
“You had never drawn from nature before coming
here P’’
“Never, Monsieur.”
“That cannot be possible.”
“But I assure you—”
And as he appeared still incredulous, I added :
“I will give you my word of honor that it is as I say, if
you wish.”
“Well, then,” he said, “you have extraordinary talent for
painting ; you are specially gifted, and I advise you to work
hard.”
Let me go on with and conclude the history of my suc-
CCSS,
I44 JOURNAL OF AZAAVE BASI/AIRTSEFF. [1877,
“How is this, Mademoiselle 7" said Julian this evening,
standing in front of me with his arms folded.
I felt something like fear, and asked him, reddening, what
the matter was. sº
“Why, this is splendid,” he said ; “you work all day
long on Saturdays, when every one else is taking a little
relaxation ”
“Why, yes, Monsieur, I have nothing else to do ; I must
do something.” -
“This is fine. Do you know that M. Robert-Fleury is
not at all dissatisfied with you ?”
“Yes, he has told me so.”
“This poor Robert-Fleury | He is still somewhat in-
disposed.”
And the master, installing himself beside me, began to
chat with me—a thing he very seldom does with any of his
pupils, and which is very much appreciated.
Minne. D dined with us to-day; I was quiet, reserved,
silent, scarcely amiable, indeed. I had no thought for any-
thing but art.
As I am writing, I stop and think of all the labor that
will be necessary—the time, the patience, the difficulties
that will present themselves.
It is not as easy to become a great painter as it is to say
the words; even if one has the genius, there exists still the
necessity for the indispensable mechanical labor.
And a voice within whispers to me : “You will feel
neither the time nor the difficulties that may present
themselves; you will achieve success before you are aware
of it.”
And I believe this voice It has never yet deceived me,
and it has too often predicted misfortune for it to speak
falsely this time; I hear it, and I feel that I am justified in
believing it.
I shall take the Py is de Rome A
1877.] /OURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. I45
Tuesday, October 16.—M. Robert-Fleury came to the
studio this afternoon and honored me with his special
attention.
I spent all the morning at the studio, as usual, from nine
till half-past twelve. I have not yet succeeded in arriving
there at eight precisely.
At noon I come home to breakfast and return to the
studio at twenty minutes past one, to remain till five, and
again in the evening at eight to remain till ten. That gives
me nine hours a day.
This does not fatigue me in the least ; if it were physi-
cally possible for me to do more, I would do it. There are
people who call this work ; I assure you that for me it is
play, and I do not say this in order to boast of it. Nine
hours are so little, and to think that I cannot work even so
long as that every day, the distance is so great from the
Champs Elysées to the Rue Vivienne, and very often there
is no one to accompany me in the evening.
It will be dark at four o'clock in winter; I will go to the
studio in the evenings then at all costs.
We drive to the studio in a coupé in the morning, and in
a landau in the latter part of the day. &
You see the question is to accomplish in one year the
work of three. And, as I am making rapid progress, these
three years' work in one will be equal to six years of work
for a person of ordinary ability.
I am talking now like the fools who say, “What it would
take another two years to accomplish she will accomplish in
six months.” . There can be no more mistaken way of rea-
soning than this.
The question is not one of time; if that were the case,
there would be nothing to do but work for so many years.
Doubtless with patience any one might achieve a certain
amount of success. But what I will accomplish in a year
or two the Danish girl will never accomplish. Whenever I
146 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHAZR 7 SEAF. . [1877.
undertake to correct the mistakes of humanity I become
confused and irritated, because I never have the patience
to finish a sentence completely.
In brief, if I had begun three years ago, I might be sat-
isfied with six hours' study daily; but as it is, I need nine,
ten, twelve—as many hours as I can devote to it, in short.
Of course, even if I had begun three years ago, I would
still do well to work as many hours as possible, but—what
is past, is past !”
Thursday, October 18.-Julian, speaking of my drawing
from the nude to-day, said that it was extraordinary, re-
markable, for a beginner. And the fact is, if it is not re-
markable, at least the composition is good, the torso is not
bad either, and the drawing is very well for a beginner.
All the pupils got up and came over to look at my drawing,
while I blushed to the roots of my hair.
Heavens, how happy I am
Last night's drawing was so bad that M. Julian advised
me to do it over. Wishing to make it too good, I spoiled it
this evening. It was better before I retouched it.
Saturday, October 20.-Breslau received a great many
compliments to-day from Robert-Fleury, and I not one.
The drawing from the nude was good enough, but the head
was bad. I ask myself with terror when I shall be able to
draw well.
I have been working just two weeks, taking out the
Sundays. Two weeks
Breslau has been working at the studio two years, and she
is twenty ; I am seventeen ; but Breslau had taken lessons
for a long time before coming here.
And I, miserable creature that I am 2
I have been taking lessons only two weeks
How well that Breslau draws |
1877.] JOURNAZ OF MARIE BASHAZR 7 SEAF. 147
Monday, October 22.-The model to-day was an ugly one,
and every one refused to draw. I proposed that we should
all go to see the Prix de Rome, on exhibition at the School
of Fine Arts. Half the party went on foot, and Breslau,
Madame Simonides, Zilhardt, and I in a carriage.
The exhibition had closed yesterday. We walked on the .
quays for a while ; we looked at the old books and engrav-
ings, we discussed art. Then we drove in an open ſacre to
the Bois. Do you understand what that means ? I did
not want to say anything—it would have been to spoil their
pleasure. They were so amiable and behaved with so much
decorum, and we were just beginning to feel at ease with
one another. In short—things were going on very well,
when we chanced to meet the landau containing my family
which followed our fiacre.
I made a sign to our driver not to take the lead ; they
had seen me and they knew it, but I did not care to speak
to them in the presence of my artist-friends. I wore my
little cap, my hair was in disorder, and I looked confused.
My family, naturally, were furious, and, worse than that,
ashamed.
I was terribly embarrassed.
Altogether a disagreeable event.
Wednesday, October 24.—M. Robert-Fleury came to the
studio last night, and told me I had done wrong in absenting
myself from the lesson, as I was one of the best of the
pupils. M. Julian repeated this to me in a sufficiently
flattering manner.
It was already flattering to have my absence noticed by a
professor like Robert-Fleury.
And when I think that I might have begun to work four
years ago at least—at least ! And I never cease to think of it.
Saturday, Mozember 3–M. Robert-Fleury had already
148 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKJR 7"SEFF. [1877.
corrected all the drawings when I arrived at the studio to-
day. I gave him mine and hid myself behind his seat, as
usual. Well, I was forced to come out from my place
of concealment, he had so many pleasant things to say
to me.
“There is still a crudeness in the outlines, indeed, but
the freedom and truth of the drawing are admirable,” he
said. “The action of this is really very good. Of course
it is true that you are wanting in experience, but you have
that which is not to be learned. Do you understand 2
That which is not to be learned. What you do not yet pos-
sess is to be learned, and you will learn it.”
“Yes," he repeated, “it is admirable, and if you'will only
study hard you will do very well—and remember it is I who
say so.”
“And I say so too,” I answered.
Thursday, November 8.—There is only one thing that
could have taken me away from the studio for the whole
afternoon, and that is Versailles.
On the stairs I came face to face with Julian, who was
surprised to see me leaving so early. I explained to him
how it was, and said that nothing but Versailles could have
taken me away from the studio. He said that was so much
the more to be commended, as I had so many temptations
in the way of amusements.
“I find pleasure nowhere but here, Monsieur,” I said.
“And you are right ; you shall see how glad you will be
that it is so two months hence.”
“You know my desire is to be a great artist, and that I
am not learning drawing as—an amusement.”
“I should hope so | That would be to put a bar of gold
to the same use as a bar of copper, and that would be a
crime ; I assure you that with your ability—I see evidence
of that in the admirable things you have already done—
1877.] yovka AL OF MAR/E BASHR/RTSEFF. I49
you do not need more than a year and a half to accom-
plish wonders.”
{{ Oh ! y 9
“I repeat it, wonders . "
“Take care, Monsieur, I shall go away enchanted.”
“I speak the truth, you shall see for yourself; by the end
of this winter you will be able to draw very well. I give
you six months in which to familiarize yourself with colors,
without neglecting your drawing—to accomplish wonders,
in a word.”
Merciful Heaven | During the drive home I did nothing
but laugh and cry for joy ; and I already began to indulge
in dreams of receiving five thousand francs for a portrait.
So much happiness makes me afraid. A year and a half
for portraits, but for a picture ? Let us say two or three
years more—we shall see.
Saturday, Movember Io.—M. Robert-Fleury was tired and
indisposed to-day, and corrected scarcely half of our draw-
ings. No one received a compliment from him, not even / ;
I was a little surprised at this, as Julian had thought my
work very good. Yes, but I was dissatisfied with it myself.
I am disgusted.
Afterwards I made some sketches; one of them, a sort
of caricature, turned out a success. Julian made me put my
name to it, and placed it in his album.
How much more easily we are affected by disagreeable
things than by pleasant ones
For a month past I have heard nothing but words of
commendation, with the exception of one occasion, a fort-
night ago. This morning I was scolded, and I have for-
gotten everything but the scolding. But it is so always. A
thousand persons applaud; a single one hisses, and his voice
drowns the voices of all the others.
I5o JOUAMAL OF AZAA/E BASF/X/AE 7 SEAF. [1877.
Wednesday, Movember 14.—To-day I went to look for
Some books and plaster casts in the neighborhood of the
School of Medicine. I was delighted ; the streets were full
of students coming out of the various schools—those narrow
streets with shops where musical instruments are sold. I
was enchanted with everything. Ah sapristi / I can
understand now the magic charm, if one may say so, of the
Latin Quarter.
Talk to me now of the Latin Quarter if you will—that is
what reconciles me to Paris; one might fancy one’s-self in
another country—almost in Italy ; it is another sort of life
altogether, something that I cannot describe.
My mother was horrified to see me go to a shop where
“one sees such things—oh, such things naked peasants.”
Bourgeoise ! Wait till I shall have painted a fine picture—
When the flower is in bloom, the fruit ripe, no one thinks of
the soil from which they have sprung.
I think only of the end in view, and I press on to that
end without pausing or turning aside.
I love to go to workshops and to places where, thanks to
my modest costume, I am taken for a Breslau, as it were ;
they look at me in a certain benevolent, encouraging fashion,
altogether different from before.
I can never forgive myself for not knowing as much as
Breslau. The thought that troubles me is this : I have
learned a little of everything, but nothing thoroughly, and I
am afraid the same thing may happen in this case. But no, by
the way in which I am progressing, this is going to be serious.
That one has not done a thing before is no reason why one
should never do it. But each first time I am incredulous.
Friday, Movember 23–That miserable Breslau has com-
posed a picture—“Monday Morning, or the Choice of the
Model.” Every one belonging to the studio is in it—Julian
standing between Amelie and me.
1877.] yo (JAMAZ OF MAR/E BASA/AIRTSAFF. 1 5 I
It is correctly done, the perspective is good, the like-
nesses—everything.
When one can do a thing like that, one cannot fail to be-
come a great artist.
You have guessed it, have you not 7 I am jealous. That
is well, for it will serve as a stimulus to me.
But it is six weeks since I began to draw. Breslau will
be always in advance of me, because she began before me.
No ; in two or three months more I shall be able to draw
as well as she does—that is to say, very well. It pleases
me, besides, to have found a rival worthy of me ; if there
were only the others I should go to sleep.
Grandpapa is ill, and Dina is at her post, devoted and
attentive. She has grown much prettier, and she is so good
Monday, Movember 26.-I took my first lesson in anatomy
at four o'clock to-day, just after my drawing lesson. It
lasted till half-past four.
M. Cuyer is my teacher; he was sent to me by Mathias
Duval, who has promised to obtain permission for me to
visit the School of Fine Arts. I began with the bones, of
course, and one of my bureau drawers is full of vertebrae—
natural ones. *
This is frightful when one thinks that the other two con-
tain perfumed paper, visiting cards, etc.
Sunday, ZXecember 9.--Dr. Charcot has just gone. I was
present during the consultation and listened to what the
doctors said afterward, for I am the only self-possessed
person in the house, and they treat me as if I were a doctor
like themselves. At all events they do not expect a fatal
result at present.
Tuesday, December II.-Grandpapa can no longer speak.
It is horrible to see this man, who so short a time ago was
f 52 JOURNAL OF MARVE BASHATR 7SEAEF. [1877.
stili strong, energetic, young—to see him lying there almost
a Corpse.
Wednesday, December 12.-At one o'clock the priest and
the deacon came and administered the last sacraments to
grandpapa. Mamma wept and prayed aloud ; after their
departure I went to breakfast. How much of the animal
there still, of necessity, remains in man.
Saturday, ZXecember 15.—As was to be expected, Breslau
has met with a great success; that is because she draws
well. As to me, they found my head very good, and my
drawing from the nude not bad.
I am—I don’t know what. Breslau has been drawing for
three years, and I for only two months; no matter, it is
abominable ! Ah, if I had begun three years ago—only
three years ago, that is not so long—I should be famous
to-day.
Saturday, December 22.-Robert-Fleury said to me to-
day: “One must never be satisfied with one’s-self.” Julian
said the same thing, and as I have never been satisfied with
myself, these words have given me food for reflection. And
when Robert-Fleury said a great many agreeable things to
me afterward, I told him it was well he did so, for that
I was altogether dissatisfied with myself, disheartened,
despondent—which made him open his eyes wide with
astonishment.
And I was in truth disheartened. From the moment I
cease to be admired I grow discouraged ; that is unfor-
tunate.
After all I have made unheard-of progress. He repeated
to me that I had extraordinary talent. I “catch the like-
ness.” I “group well.” I “draw correctly.” “What more
would you have, Mademoiselle 2 Be reasonable,” he ended.
1877.] /OURAVAL OF AZAR/E BAS//Å/AE 7 SEAF. I 53
He remained a long time standing beside my easel.
“When one can draw like that,” he said, pointing first to
the head and then to the shoulders, “one has no right to
draw shoulders like those.”
The Swiss girls and I went, disguised, to Bonnat, to ask
him to receive us in the men's studio.
Naturally, he explained to us that those fifty young men
not being under any surveillance whatever, it would be
impossible for him to do as we asked. Afterward we went
to see Munkacsy—I don't know if I spell the name cor-
rectly—a Hungarian painter, who has a magnificent house,
and who is a great genius.
Saturday, ZXecember 29.-M. Robert-Fleury was very well
pleased with me to-day. He stood for at least half an hour
before a pair of feet, life size, that I had drawn, and asked
me again if I had never painted before ; if I indeed wished
to make a serious study of painting; and how long I
intended to remain in Paris 2 He expressed a desire to see
the first things I had done in colors, and asked me how I
had come to do them. I told him I had done them for my
own amusement. As he stayed talking so long they all came
behind him to listen, and in the midst (I dare to say it) of
the general amazement he declared that if I wished I might
begin to paint at once.
To this I replied that I was not dying to paint, and that
I should prefer to perfect myself first in drawing.
Sunday and Monday, December 30 and 31.-I feel very
melancholy ; we are not keeping the Christmas holidays
this year, and that makes me sad. I went to see the Christ-
mas-tree at the house of the Swiss girls; it was very gay
and pretty, but I was sleepy, as I had worked till ten
o'clock. We had our fortunes told. Breslau is to receive
wreaths; I the A2, ix de Rome,
I54 JOURNAL OF MARIE B.4 SHAIR TSEFF. [1878.
1878.
Friday, January 4.—How strange it is that my old
nature should lie so completely dormant. Scarce a trace of
it is to be seen. Occasionally some souvenir of the past
reawakens the old bitterness, but I immediately turn my
thoughts to—to what 2 To art. This is amusing.
Is this, then, the final transformation ? I have so long
and so eagerly pursued this aim, this means of contriv-
ing to live without passing the day cursing myself or the
rest of the creation, that I can scarcely believe that I have
found it.
Dressed in my black blouse, there is something in my
appearance that reminds one of Marie Antoinette at the
Temple.
I begin to become what I desired to be, confident in my
own powers, outwardly tranquil. I avoid quarrels and in-
trigues; I am scarcely ever without some useful occupa-
tion.
In short, I am gradually perfecting my character. Under-
stand what I mean by perfection ; perfection, that is to say,
for me. gº
Oh, time ! Time is required for everything.
Time is the most terrible, the most discouraging, the
most unconquerable of all obstacles, and one that may
exist when no other does.
Whatever may happen to me, I am better prepared for it
now than I was formerly, when it enraged me to have to
confess that I was not perfectly happy.
Sunday, January 6.-Well, then, I agree with you ; time
is passing, and it would be infinitely more amusing to spend
it as I formerly desired to do, but, since that is impossible,
1878.] yo UR.V.4 L OF AZAR/E BASI/ATA TSEFF. I55
let us await the results of my genius; there will still be time
enough for the other.
We have changed our place of residence; we are now
living at 67 Avenue de l'Alma. From my windows I can
see the carriages on the Champs Elysées. I have a salon-
studio of my own.
Monday, January 7.-Am I, or am I not to believe in my
future as an artist 2 Two years are not a lifetime, and
when twoºyears are passed I can return, if I wish, to a life
of idleness, of amusement, of travel. What I want is to be
famous !
I will be famous !
Saturday, January 12.—Walitsky died at two o'clock this
morning.
When I went to see him last night he said to me, half-
jestingly, half-sadly, “Addio, Signorina,” in order to remind
me of Italy.
Perhaps this is the first occasion during my life on which
I have shed tears free from egotism or anger.
There is something peculiarly affecting in the death of a
being altogether inoffensive, altogether good ; it is like see-
ing a faithful dog die that has never done harm to any one.
As he felt slightly better toward one o'clock the women re-
tired to their own rooms; only my aunt remained with him.
Then his breath failed him so that it was necessary to dash
water into his face.
When he had recovered himself a little he rose, for he
desired at all hazards to bid adieu to grandpapa, but he
had scarcely gone into the hall when his strength failed
him ; he had only time to cry out in Russian, “Adieu ! ”
but in so strong a voice that it wakened mamma and Dina,
who ran to his assistance, only to see him fall into the arms
of my aunt and Triphon.
156 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHA IA 7'SEAEF. [1878.
I have not yet been able to realize it; it is so terrible !
It seems impossible !
Walitsky is dead It is an irreparable loss; one would
never suppose that such a character could exist in real
life.
We read of people like that in books. Well, then, I de-
sire that he may now be conscious of my thoughts; that
God may concede him the power to know what I say and
think of him. May he, then, hear me from whatsoever be
his place of abode, and, if he has ever had reasoh to com-
plain of me, he will pardon me now because of my profound
esteem and sincere friendship for him, and because of the
sorrow for his loss which I feel in the innermost recesses of
my soul |
Monday, January 28.-To-morrow the prizes are to be
awarded. I so much fear being badly placed
Tuesday, January 29.-I had such a terror of the concours
that poor Rosalie was obliged to make superhuman efforts
to make me get up.
I expected either to receive the medal or to be classed
among the very last.
Neither the one nor the other was the case. I am just in
the same place that I was two months ago.
I went to see Breslau, who is still sick.
They sang “Traviata" at the Italiens to-night, with Albani,
Capoul, and Pandolfini in the cast—great artists all of
them ; but I was not pleased. In the last act, however, I
felt, not the desire to die, but the thought that I was destined
to suffer thus and to die thus, just as all was going to turn
out happily.
This is a prediction that I make concerning myself.
I wore a baby-waist, which is very becoming when one is
slender and well made. The white bows on the shoulders
1878.] JOUR.VA / OF J/.1 K/E BASI/AAA’ TSEAF. I 57
and the bare neck and arms made me look like one of Velas-
quez's infantas.
To die? It would be absurd ; and yet I think I am going
to die. It is impossible that I should live long. I am not
constituted like other people ; I have a great deal too much
of some things in my nature, a great deal too little of others,
and a character not made to last. If I were a goddess, and
the whole universe were employed in my service, I should
still find the service badly rendered. There is no one more
exacting, more capricious, more impatient, than I am.
There is sometimes, perhaps even always, a certain basis of
reason and justice in my words, only that I cannot explain
clearly what I want to say. I say this, however, that my
life cannot last long. My projects, my hopes, my little vani-
ties, all fallen to pieces ! I have deceived myself in every-
thing !
Wednesday, February 13–My drawing does not progress,
and I feel as if some misfortune were about to happen to
me ; as if I had done something wrong and feared the con-
sequences, or as if I anticipated receiving an insult.
Mamma makes herself very unhappy through her own
fault; there is one thing I beg and implore her not to do,
and that is to touch my things or put my room in order.
Well, no matter what I may say, she continues to do so, with
a pertinacity that resembles a disease. And if you only
knew how exasperating this is, and how it increases my
natural impatience and my inclination to say sharp things,
which stood in no need of being increased
I believe that she loves me tenderly. I love her tenderly,
also, but we cannot remain two minutes together without
exasperating each other, even to the extent of shedding
tears. In a word, we are very uncomfortable together, and
we should be very unhappy apart.
I will make every sacrifice that may be required of me
158 JOUAMAZ OF MARIAE BASHAVA 7'SZFA. [1878.
for the sake of my art. I must bear in mind that that is
myself.
Therefore, I will create for myself an independent exist-
ence, and what must come, let it come.
Saturday, March 16.-‘‘I have noticed for some time past,”
said Robert-Fleury to me this morning, “that there is a
certain limit beyond which you cannot go ; that is not as it
should be. With your really great ability you should not
stop short at easy things, the more as you succeed in the
more difficult ones.”
I know it well ! But next Monday you shall see that I
will cross the limit of which Robert-Fleury speaks. The
first thing is to convince one's-Self that one must succeed,
and that one will succeed.
Saturday, March 23.-I promised that I would cross the
limit of which Robert-Fleury spoke.
I have kept my word. He was greatly pleased with me.
He repeated that it was worth while to work hard with such
ability as I possessed; that I had made astonishing progress,
and that in a month or two more—
Saturday, April 6.—Robert-Fleury really gives me too
much encouragement ; he thought the second place was my
due, he said, and it did not surprise him at all that I should
receive it.
And to think that M-- on leaving our house to-night
probably went home to dream of me, and imagine, perhaps,
that I am dreaming of him—
Whilst I, en des/abille, with my hair in disorder and my
slippers thrown off, am asking myself if I have not suc-
ceeded sufficiently in bewitching him, and, not satisfied with
asking myself, am asking Dina also.
And yet—O Youth !—I might once have thought that this
1878.] JOURNAL OF JAA/E BASHAZAC TS/E/F. I 59
was love. Now I am more sensible, and I understand that it
is merely an amusement to feel that you are causing some one
to fall in love with you, or rather to perceive that some one
is falling in love with you. Z'he love one inspires and the love
one ſee/s are two distinct sentiments which I confounded
together before.
Good Heavens ! and I once thought I was in love with
A , with his long nose that makes me think of that of
M——. How frightful
How happy it makes me to be able to clear myself from
this suspicion—how happy No, no, I have never yet
loved, and if you could only picture to yourself how happy
I feel, how free, how proud, how worthy—of him who is
to come !
Aºriday, April 12.—Julian met Robert-Fleury at the café
yesterday, and the latter said I was a truly remarkable and
interesting pupil, and that he expected great things of me.
It is such words as these that I must constantly bear in
mind, especially when my spirit is invaded by a species of
inexplicable terror, and I feel myself sinking in an abyss of
doubt and of torturing thoughts of all kinds, for none of
which are there any real grounds.
It has happened very often, for some time past, that they
have put three candles in my room together, that signifies
a death.
Is it I who am to depart for the other world 2 I think
so. And my future ? And the fame that awaits me 2 Ah,
well, they would be of no value to me in that case.
If there were only a man on the scene, I should fancy
myself in love, so restless am I; but, besides there being no
one, I am disgusted with the whole thing.
I begin to believe that I have a serious passion for my
art, and that reassures and consoles me. If it were not for
this restlessness and this terror, I might be happy
16o JOURNAL OF MARIE BASI/AAA’ TSEFF. [1878,
Z remember that in my childhood / had a superstitious fear
somewhat similar to the feeling / have at present. I thought
A should never be able to learn any other language but French;
that the other languages were not to be learned. Well, you
See there was absolutely nothing in it; yet that was as much a
Superstițious ſear as my present feeling is.
Saturday, April 20.-I glanced through a few pages in my
journal before closing it last night, and came by chance
across A 's letter.
This made me think of the past, and I sat dreaming of it,
and smiling and dreaming again. It was late when I went
to bed, but the time spent thus was not lost ; such moments
are precious, and cannot be had at will ; there are no mo-
ments lost when one wills it except when we are young ;
we must make the most of them and be grateful for them,
as for everything else that God has given us.
Owing to Robert-Fleury I was unable to go to confession
before mass to-day, which has obliged me to defer taking
communion until to-morrow.
My confession was a peculiar one ; it was as follows:
“You have committed some sins, no doubt,” said the
priest, after the customary prayer. “Are you prone to
idleness 2''
“Not at all.”
“To pride?”
‘‘Very much so.”
‘‘You do not fast?’”
‘‘Never.”
“Have you injured any one?”
‘‘I do not think so—perhaps; in trifles it may be, father,
but not in anything of importance.”
“Then may God grant you pardon, my daughter.”
I have recovered my mental balance. I proved this to-
night by conversing with the others without running into
1878.] ſo URNAL OF MARIE BASHAZR 7 SEAF. 161
exaggerations of speech; my mind is tranquil, and I have
absolutely no fear, either physical or moral. It has often
happened to me to say: “I am terribly afraid” of going to
such a place, or of doing such a thing. This is an exag-
geration of language which is common to almost every one
and which means nothing. What I am glad of is that I am
accustoming myself to talk with every one. It is necessary
to do that if one desires to have a pleasant salon. Formerly
I would single out one person to converse with, and neglect
the others entirely, or almost entirely.
Saturday, April 27; Sunday, April 28.-I foolishly took
the notion into my head to invite some men to attend the
midnight mass at our church. On our right were the Am-
bassador and the Duke de Leuchtenberg and Mme. Aken-
kieff, his wife. The Duke is the son of the Grand Duchess
Marie, who died at Florence, and the nephew of the Empe-
ror. This couple were at Rome when I was there, and
Mme. Akenkieff was not then received at the Embassy. At
present, however, she plays the part of Grand Duchess to
perfection. She is still beautiful and has a majestic car-
riage, though she is almost too slender.
The husband is devoted in his attentions to the wife; it
is admirable and altogether charming.
The Embassy gave an Easter supper, which took place at
two in the morning, after the mass. It was given in the
priest's house, which was chosen for the purpose on account
of its proximity to the church. It was the Ambassador,
however, who issued the invitations and received the guests,
so that we had an opportunity to sit at the same table as the
Grand Duke and his wife, the Ambassador, and all the best
people of the Russian colony in Paris.
I was not very gay, though in reality not sad at heart; for
this will send me back to my studies with renewed ardor.
Why does not Prince Orloff, who is a widower, fall in
162 JOURAVAZ OF MAA'ZZ BASI/AIA 7 SEAF. [1878.
love with me and marry me? I should then be Ambassa-
dress in Paris, almost Empress. M. Anitchkoff, who was
ambassador at Teheran, married a young girl for love when
he was fifty-five.
I did not produce the effect I had intended. Laferrière
disappointed me, and I was compelled to wear an unbe-
coming gown. I had to improvise a chemisette, as the gown
was decollette and that would not do. My gown affected my
temper, and my temper my appearance—everything.
Monday, April 29.-There is no better way of spending
the time from six in the morning till eight in the evening,
taking out an hour and a half for breakfast, than in some
regular occupation.
Changing the subject: I will tell you that I think I shall
never be seriously in love. I invariably discover something
to laugh at in the man, and that is the end of it. If he is
not ridiculous, he is stupid, or awkward, or tiresome; in
fine, there is always something, if it were only the tip of
his ear.
Yes, until I have found my master nothing else shall cap-
tivate me; thanks to my readiness in discovering the defects
of people, not all the Adonises in the world could tempt me
to fall in love.
Friday, May 3.-There are moments when one would
give up all the intellectual pleasures in the world, glory and
art itself, to live in Italy a life of sunshine, music, and love.
7%ursday, May 9.-I might possess a beautiful hand if
my fingers had not been vilely disfigured by playing on
stringed instruments, and by biting my nails.
My form like that of a Greek goddess, my hips too much
like those of a Spanish woman, perhaps; my bust small and
perfect in shape; my feet, my hands, and my childlike
countenance—of what use are they, since no one loves me?
1878.] /OURNAL OF MARIE BAS//KIA. TSEFF. 163
Zhursday, May 3o.—As a general thing, the family and
friends of great men do not believe in their genius: in my
case it is too much the other way; that is to say, that it
would not surprise my family if I were to paint a picture
as large as Medusa's raft, and receive the cross of the
Legion of Honor for it. Is this a bad sign? I hope not.
\
Friday, May 31.-The hardest thing to bear is to be con-
tinually disappointed in those nearest to us. To find a
serpent where one had expected to find flowers, that is
indeed horrible. But these constant shocks have produced
in me at last a species of indifference to them. No matter
what is passing around me I take no notice now. I put my
head out of the door only to go to the studio.
You think, perhaps, that this is the resignation of despair;
it is the result of despair, but it is a sweet and tranquil feel-
ing, although a sad one.
Instead of being rose-colored my life is gray, that is all.
I have accepted my fate and I am resigned to it.
My character has changed completely, and the change
seems to be a permanent one; I no longer have need even
of wealth; two black blouses a year, a change of linen that
I could wash myself on Sundays, and the simplest food,
provided it does not taste of onions and is fresh, and—the
means to work; these are all I want.
No carriages; the omnibus or to go on foot: at the stu-
dio I wear shoes without heels.
But why live at all then? In the hope that better days
will come, and that is a hope that never abandons us.
Everything is relative: thus, compared to my past tor-
tures the present is ease; I enjoy it as an agreeable change.
In January I will be nineteen: Moussia will be nineteen.
It is absurd; it is impossible; it is frightful. :
Sometimes I am seized with a fancy to dress myself, to go
out for a walk, to go to the opera, to the Bois, to the Salon,
I64 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHA'IA 7'SEFF. [1878.
to the Exhibition; but I say to myself, “What for?” and I
sink back again into my former state of apathy.
For every word I write I think a million thoughts; I ex-
press my thoughts only by fragments.
What a misfortune for posterity
It may not be a misfortune for posterity, but it prevents
me from being able to make myself understood.
I am jealous of Breslau; she does not draw at all like a
woman. Next week I will work so hard —you shall see.
The afternoons shall be devoted to the Exhibition, and the
Salon. But the week after— I am resolved to be a great
artist, and I will be one.
Monday, June 3.−In heart, soul, and thought I am a
republican.
Let titles be preserved, but let there be equality of rights
before the law; any other sort of equality than this is im-
possible.
Let ancient families continue to be respected, foreign
potentates honored; let arts and all that contributes to the
comfort and the elegance of life be protected. The repub-
licans are reproached with having in their ranks a few mis-
erable wretches. And where is the party that has not had
such *
If France were to become altogether Legitimist or alto-
gether Imperialist, would every one then be pure and virtu-
ous 2–Good-night—I write so fast that what I am saying
is little better than the ravings of a lunatic.
Wednesday, June 12-To-morrow I resume my work,
which I have neglected since Saturday. My conscience
reproaches me for it, and to-morrow everything will return
to its accustomed order. . . . .
M. Rouher surprised me in many things. I was surprised
at myself for employing so much tact and so much delicate
1878.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASA/AIRTSEAF. I65
flattery. Gavini and the Baron evidently approved of me
unreservedly, and M. Rouher himself was pleased. They
talked of votes, of laws, of pamphlets, of loyalists, of traitors,
before me. Did I listen ? You may well believe it. It was
like the opening of a door into Paradise.
I am sorry I am a woman, and M. Rouher is sorry he is a
man. “Women,” he said, “are exempt from the annoy-
ances and the cares that we have.”
“Will you permit me to remark, Monsieur,” I said, “that
men and women alike have their cares and their annoy-
ances; the only difference is that the cares of men bring
with them honors, fame, and popularity ; while the cares of
women are attended by no advantage whatever.”
“You believe, then, Mademoiselle, that our cares always
bring us those compensations 2 "
“I think, Monsieur,” I answered, “that that depends
upon the man.”
It must not be supposed that I entered all at once into
the conversation like this ; I remained quietly in my corner
for fully ten minutes, embarrassed enough, for the old fox
did not seem to be charmed at the presentation.
Shall I tell you something 2
I was enchanted.
Now I have a mind to repeat to you all the fine things I
said, but I must not. I will only say that I did my best not
to use hackneyed phrases, and to appear full of good sense;
in that way you will think my speeches finer than they
really were.
Gavini remarked that the Bonapartists were happy in
having the sympathies of all the pretty women with them,
bowing to me as he said so.
“Monsieur,” I answered, addressing myself to M. Rouher,
“I do not give my sympathies to your party as a woman, I
give them as an honest man might do.”
f G6 JOURNAL OF AZARIAE BASHA IA TSEAF. [1878.
Wednesday, July 3.—M came to say good-by, and as
it was raining, he proposed to accompany us to the Exhi-
bition.
We accepted ; before we went, however, he and I being
alone together for a moment, he entreated me not to be so
cruel. *
“You know how madly I love you,” he said, “and how
much you make me suffer. If you could but know how
terrible a thing it is to see only mocking smiles, to hear
only words of raillery when one truly loves . "
“You only imagine all that.”
“Oh, no, I swear it to you ; I am ready to give you the
proofs of it—the most absolute devotion, the fidelity and
the patience of a dog Say but a word say that you have
some confidence in me—why do you treat me as a buffoon,
as a being of an inferior race 2 °
“I treat you as I treat everybody.”
“And why 2 since you know that my affection is not like
that of everybody—that I am heart and soul devoted to
you ?”
“I am accustomed to inspiring that sentiment.”
“But not such a love as mine. Let me believe that your
feelings toward me are not altogether those of hatred.”
“Of hatred 2 Oh, no ; I assure you they are not that.”
“The most terrible feeling of all for me would be indif-
ference.”
“Ah, well —”
“Promise me that you will not forget me in the few
months I shall be away.”
“It will not be in my power to do so.”
“Let me remind you from time to time that I am still in
existence. Perhaps I may amuse you, perhaps I may make
you laugh. I.et me hope that sometimes, occasionally, you
will send me a word—a single word.”
“What is it you are saying 2"
1878.] /OURNAL OF j/AA’//E BASI/ATA 7'SEFF. 167
“Oh, without signing your name ; simply this: ‘I am
well '; only this, and that will make me so happy.”
“Whatever I write I sign my name to, and I never deny
my signature.”
“You will grant me your permission to write 2 ”
“I am like Figaro; I receive letters from all quarters.”
“God if you but knew how maddening it is never to
be able to obtain a serious word—to be always scoffed at 1
Let us talk seriously. You will not let it be said that you
had no pity for me in the moment of my departure | If I
might only hope that my devotion, my regard for you, my
love—impose any conditions you choose, put me to the
test. If I might only hope that one day you will be kinder,
that you will not always mock me 2"
“As far as tests are concerned,” I replied very seriously,
“there is only one test that can be relied upon.”
“And that ? I am ready to do anything.”
“That is time.” .
“Be it so, then. . Put my affection to the test of time;
you shall see that it will stand it.”
“That would cause me great pleasure.”
“But tell me, have you confidence in me?”
“How, confidence 2 I have conſidence enough in you to
entrust you with a letter with the certainty that you will not
open it.”
“No not that but an absolute confidence.”
“What grand words !”
“And is not my love for you something grand 2" he
said softly:
“I ask nothing better than to believe it; such things
flatter a woman's vanity. And, stay, I should really like to
have some confidence in you.”
“Truly 2”
“Truly.”
This is enough, is it not 2 We went to the Exhibition,
168 JOURAV4 L OF MAA'/AE BASI/ATA 7'SE/FA. [1878.
and I was vexed to see that M was in high Spirits, and
made love to me as if I had accepted him.
I experienced a feeling of genuine satisfaction this even-
ing. I find that M--'s love produces precisely the same
emotions in me as did that of A . You see, then, that
I did not love Pietro ! I was not even for a moment in
love with him, though I came very near being so. But you
know what a horrible disinchantment that was.
You understand that I have no intention of marrying
M
“True love is always a sentiment to be respected,” I said
to him ; “you have no reason to be ashamed of yours; only
don't get foolish notions into your head.”
“Give me your friendship.”
“Vain Word ' '’
“Then your—”
“Your demands are exorbitant.”
“But what am I to say, then P You are not willing that
I should try to gain your affection by degrees—that I
should begin by friendship—”
“Friendship ! A chimera !”
“Love, then P’’ *
“You are mad.”
“And why?”
“Because I hate you !”
Friday, ///y 5. . . . After the concert my aunt took the
arm of Etienne, Dina Philippini's, and I the other's. The
night was so lovely that we walked home. M , who
was restored to good-humor, spoke to me of his affection
for me. It is always thus ; I do not love him, but the fire
of his love warms me ; this is the same feeling that I mis-
took for love two years ago -
I was touched by the words he spoke ; he even shed
tears. As we approached the house I grew more serious ;
1878.] /O C.R.V.1/ OF ..]/.1/č// B.15//KIA TSEFF. I69
I was moved by the beauty of the night and by those melo-
dious words of love. Ah, how delightful it is to be loved
There is nothing in the world so delightful as that. I know
now that MI loves me. One does not act a part like
that. And if it were my money he wanted, my disdain
would have caused him to abandon his pretensions before
this ; and there is Dina, whom every one believes to be as
rich as I, and plenty of other girls he might marry if he
chose. M is not a beggar ; he is in every sense a
gentleman. He could have found, and he will find, some
one else to love.
M is very amiable. Perhaps it was wrong of me to
let him hold my hand in his as long as he did when we were
about to part. He kissed it; but I owed him that much ;
and then he loves me and respects me so much, poor fellow!
I questioned him as if he were a child. I wanted to know
how it had happened, and when. He fell in love with me
at first sight, it seems. “But it is a strange kind of love,”
he said ; “other women are to me only women, but you
are a being Superior to the rest of humanity ; it is a
curious sentiment. I know that you treat me as if I
was a hump-backed buffoon; that you have no feeling,
no heart ; and yet I love you. And I–at the same
time that I adore you I know that our characters are not
congenial.”
I listened to all he had to say, for to tell the truth a
lover's speeches are more amusing than all the plays in the
world, unless when one goes to them to show herself. But
that, too, is a sort of adoration ; you are looked at, you are
admired, and you feel your being expand like the flower
under the rays of the sun.
Soden, Sunday, July 7.-We left Paris for this place at
seven. . . . Imagine yourself transported from Paris to
Soden. “ The silence of death '' feebly describes the calm
I 7 O JOUA.V.1 L OF J/.1A// B.1 S//A/A / S/AA. [1879.
that reigns at Soden. I am confused by it as one is con-
fused by too much noise.
Dr. Tilenius has just gone. He put the necessary ques-
tions to me regarding my illness, but did not say after-
wards, like the French doctor :
“Very good ; this is nothing ; in a week we shall have
you well, Mademoiselle.”
To-morrow I am to begin a course of treatment.
The trees here are beautiful, the air is pure, the landscape
sets off my face. At Paris I am Only pretty, if I am that
here there is in my appearance a certain poetic languor
my eyes are larger, and my cheeks less rounded.
y
y
SODEN, 7 uesday, ///y 9.-How tired I am of all these
doctors / I have had my throat examined—pharyngitis,
laryngitis, and catarrh Nothing more
I amuse myself reading Livy and taking notes of what I
read in the evening. I must read Roman history.
7'uesday, /u/y 16.--I am resolved on being famous,
whether it be as an artist or in any other way. Do not
think, however, that I am studying art only through vanity.
Perhaps there are not many persons more completely artis-
tic in their natures than I—a fact which you, who are the
intelligent part of my readers, must have already perceived.
As for the others, I regard them with contempt. They will
find me only fantastic, because, without desiring to be so,
I am peculiar in everything.
IWednesday, July 24.—Dr. Tomachewsky, who is physi-
cian to the Opera-troupe at St. Petersburg, must know
something ; besides his opinion is the same as that of Dr.
Fauvel and the others ; and then I know myself that the
waters at Soden, from their chemical composition, are
hardly at all suited to my disease. If you are not very
1878.] JOC'A'A'.1 / OF .1/21/, //, /3.1S//ÅA. Z'S//-/. I 7 I
ignorant, you must know that they send only convalescents
and consumptives to Soden.
At six O'clock this morning my aunt and I, accompanied
by Dr. Tomachewsky, went to Ems, to consult the doctors
there.
We have just returned.
The Empress Eugenie is at Ems. Poor woman
Friday.—For some days past I have been thinking of
Nice. I was fifteen when I was there, and how pretty I
was My figure, my feet, and my hands were not perhaps
as perfect as now, but my face was ravishing. It has never
been the same since. On my return to Rome, Count Lau-
renti almost made a scene about me.
“Your face has changed,” he said ; “the features, the
coloring are as before, but the expression is not the same.
You will never again be like that portrait.”
He alluded to the portrait in which I am represented
resting my elbows on the table and my cheek on my clasped
hands.” “You look as if you had fallen naturally into that
position, and with your eyes fixed upon the future, were
asking yourself, half in terror, ‘Is that what life is like P’’
At fifteen there was a childlike expression in my face
that was not there before, and has not been there since, and
this is the most captivating of all expressions.
IWednesday, August 7.-My God, ordain that I may go to
Rome. If you only knew, my God, how I long to go there !
My God, be merciful to your unworthy creature My
God, ordain that I may go to Rome ! No doubt it will not
be possible for me to go, for that would be to be too happy
It is not Livy who has been putting these thoughts into
my head, for I have neglected my old friend for Several
days past.
* See Frontispiece.
I 72 JOUA'.V.4 L OF ..]/.1A/B. B.4 SI/ATA’ 7 SEAF. [1878.
No ; but only to remember the Campagna, the Piazza del
Popolo, and the Pincio, with the rays of the setting sun
shining upon it !
And that divine, that adorable morning twilight, when
the rays of the rising sun begin to give form and color
to surrounding objects—what a blank everywhere else !
And what sacred emotions the remembrance of the won-
drous, the enchanted city awakens ! Nor am I the only one
whom Rome inspires with these feelings, which no words
can be found to express—feelings due to the mysterious
influence exercised over the mind by the blending of the
traditions of the fabulous past with the sanctified associa-
tions of the present, or perhaps—But no, I cannot explain
what I would say. If I were in love, it is in Rome, in the
presence of the Setting sun, as its last rays fall upon the
divine dome, that I would make the avowal to him I loved.
If I were to receive some crushing blow, it is to Rome I
would go to weep and pray with my eyes fixed upon that
dome. If I were to become the happiest of human beings,
it is there, too, that I would go.
PARIS, Saturday, August 17.—This morning we were still
at Soden.
I detest Paris. I do not deny that it may be possible to
live there happier and more contented than elsewhere ; that
one may lead there a completer, a more intellectual, a more
renowned existence. But for the kind of life I lead one
needs to love the city itself. I find cities, like individuals,
sympathetic or antipathetic to me, and I cannot succeed in
liking Paris.
I am afflicted with a terrible disease. I am disgusted with
myself. It is not the first time I hate myself, but that does
not make it the less terrible.
To hate another whom one may avoid is bad enough, but
to hate one's-self—that is terrible,
1878.] yO CA.V.A L OF JA.1/0// B.15//A/R 7 SE//. I 7
3
7%ursday, August 29.--I don't know by what providen-
tial chance I happened to be late this morning, but they
came at nine, before I was yet dressed, to tell me that
grandpapa was worse. Mamma, my aunt, and Dina were
crying. . . . At ten the priest arrived and in a few minutes
all was over.
Wednesday, September 4.—Kant has said that the material
world exists only in the imagination. That is going too
far, but I accept his system when the domain of feeling is in
question. In effect, our feelings are caused by the impres-
sions produced on us by things or persons; but, since
objects are not objects—in other words, since they possess
no objective value and exist only in our minds— But in
order to follow up this train of argument, it would be neces-
sary for me not to have to hurry to bed, and think at what
hour in the morning I must begin my picture to have it
finished by Saturday. . . .
I have a passion for all those learned, patiently conducted,
abracadabrante follies—these arguments, these deductions,
so logical, so learned. There is only one thing about them
that grieves me, and that is that I feel them to be false,
though I have neither the time nor the inclination to find
out why.
I should like to have some one to discuss all these matters
with. I lead a very lonely life. But I declare beforehand
that I have no desire to impose my own opinions on other
people, and that I would willingly acknowledge the justness
of their arguments when I saw them to be in the right.
Without wishing to be thought ridiculous by the preten-
sion, I long to listen to the discourse of learned men ; I
long, oh, so much, to penetrate into the precincts of the
intellectual world ; to see, to hear, to learn. But I neither
know how to set about doing so myself, nor whom to ask
advice of ; and I remain here in my corner, dazed and won-
I 74 JOCA'.V.1 / OZ’ J/.1/0// B.15//AIA' 7"S/E/F. - [1878.
dering, not knowing what direction to take, and catching
glimpses on all sides of treasures of art, of history, of lan-
guages, science—a whole world in short. I long to see
everything, to know everything, to learn everything !
Friday, September 13–I am not in my right place in the
world. . . . There are statues that are admirable, set on
a pedestal in the middle of a grand square, but put them in
a room and you will see how stupid they look, and how
much they are in the way. You will knock your head or
your elbow against them a dozen times a day, and you will
end by finding detestable and unbearable that which, in its
proper place, would have excited the admiration of every
Ol) e.
If you find “statue" too flattering a word for me, change
it for—whatever word you choose.
When I have finished Livy I shall read Michelet's history
of France, and afterward the Greek authors, whom I know
only from allusions to them or quotations from them in other
books, and then—My books are all packed away, and we
must take a more settled lodging than our present one
before unpacking them.
I have read Aristophanes, Plutarch, Herodotus, a little
of Xenophon, and that is all, I think. And then I am very
familiar with Homer, and slightly so with Plato.
Thursday, October 3.—We spent almost four hours to-day
at a dramatic and musical international entertainment.
They gave scenes from Aristophanes in hideous cos-
tumes, and so abridged, arranged, and altered that it was
frightful.
What was superb, however, was a dramatic recitation —
Ch?istopher Columbus—in Italian, by Rossi. What a
voice What intonation | What expression | What truth
to nature . It was better than the music. I think One
1878.] yo (A.V.A Z O/ J/4 A.A. B.15//AIA Z SE/F. I75
could feel the charm of it even without understanding a
word of Italian.
I almost worshiped him as I listened.
Ah, what a power lies in spoken words, even when they
are not our own words, but those of another! The hand-
some Mounet-Sully recited afterward, but I shall say noth-
ing of him. Rossi is a great artist; he has the Soul of an
artist; I saw him talking with two men at the door of the
theater, and he had a common air. He is an actor, it is
true, but so great an actor as he is should have a certain
greatness of character even in every-day life. I noticed
his eyes; they are not those of a common man, though the
charm exists only while he speaks. Then it is wonderſul!
What nihilists are those who despise the arts!
What a frightful existence mine is ' If I possessed genius
I might be able to change it, but my genius must be taken
on trust; you have nothing but my word for it. Where
have I given any proof, any evidence of genius?
Monday, October 7.-Stupid people may fancy that I want
to be another Balzac. I have no such intention; but do you
know why he is so great? It is because he describes with
naturalness, without fear, and without affectation all that he
has felt. Almost every intelligent person has had the same
thoughts, but who has expressed them as he has?
No, it is not true that almost every one has had the same
thoughts, but in reading Balzac one is so struck with his
truth, with his naturalness, that one thinks one has. It has
happened to me a hundred times in conversation, or in re-
flection, to be horribly tormented by thoughts that I had
not the power to disentangle from the frightful chaos of my
mind. * >
I have also another pretension; it is this: when I make
any just or profound observation I fear people may not
understand me,
176 JOUR.V.4 L OF AZAR/E BASI/ATA 7'SEFF, [1878.
Perhaps, indeed, they do not understand me as I wish to
be understood.
Good-night, good people.
Sunday, October 20.-I ordered the carriage at nine
o'clock this morning, and accompanied by my demoise//e
d'honneur, Mlle. Elsnitz, went to visit Saint-Philippe's, the
church of St. Thomas Aquinas and Notre Dame. I went
up into the tower and examined the bells just as any English-
woman might have done. Well, there is a Paris to be ad-
mired—it is old Paris; and one might be happy there, but
only on condition of keeping away from the boulevards and
the Champs Elysées; in fine, from all the new and beautiful
quarters of the city which I detest, and which irritate my
nerves. In the Faubourg Saint-Germain, however, one feels
altogether different.
We went afterward to the School of Fine Arts; it is
enough to make one cry out with rage.
Why can I not study there? Why can I not have a
course of instruction as complete as that? I went to see the
exhibition of the Prix de A'ome. The second prize was
awarded to a pupil of Julian's. Julian is consequently
very happy. If I am ever rich I will found a school of arts
for women.
Saturday, October 26.-My painting was much better
than the previous ones, and my drawing from the nude very
good. M. T distributed the prizes at the concours—
Breslau first, I second.
In short, I ought to be satisfied.
Sunday, AVovember 3.−Mamma, Dina, Mme. X and
I went to-day to take an airing together. They want to
marry me, but I told them plainly, so as not to be made use
of to enrich some monsieur, that I was quite willing to
1878.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASI/AIRTSEFF. 177
marry, but only on condition that the person should be
either rich, of a good family and handsome, or else a man
of genius, or of note. As for his character, if he were
Satan himself, I will take charge of that.
Saturday, Movember 9.-It is a shameful thing! There
was no medal at all! All the same, I am first; I think I
should have been so even if Breslau had exhibited, in which
case they would have made two firsts. This has nothing to
do with the matter, however, the fact is the same.
Wednesday, AVovember 13.−Robert-Fleury came to the
studio this evening. It would be useless to repeat the
words of encouragement he spoke after giving me a long
lesson; if what they all say be true, you will know by the
time you read this what opinion to entertain of me.
It is a happiness, all the same, however, to find that peo-
ple take you altogether in earnest. I am very silly; I en-
tertain the greatest hopes with regard to myself, and when
people tell me I have realized them I am transported with
joy, as if I had never had any hopes at all. I am as much
surprised at my good fortune, and as delighted with it, as a
monster might be with whom the most beautiful woman in
the world had fallen in love.
Robert-Fleury is an excellent teacher: he leads one on-
ward by degrees, so that one is conscious at every step of
the progress one is making. To-night he treated me some-
what like a pupil who has learned her scales and to whom
for the first time a piece of music is given to play. He has
lifted the corner of the veil and disclosed to me a vaster hori-
zon. It is a night that will hold a place apart in my studies.
In the matter of drawing I am the equal of Breslau, but
she has had more practice than I. Now, I must give my-
self a certain number of months to paint as she does, for,
if I cannot do that, there is nothing extraordinary in my
178 JOURNAL OF AZAR/E BASI/ATA TSE/F. [1878.
work. But she will not stand still during the eight or ten
months I shall allow myself. I should therefore be obliged
to progress so fast as to make up this time in the eight or
ten months we shall continue working together, which does
not seem to me probable. Well, by the grace of God, we
shall see.
I looked all of a sudden so beautiful, after I had taken
my bath this evening, that I spent fully twenty minutes
admiring myself in the glass. I am sure no one could have
seen me without admiration; my complexion was absolutely
dazzling, but soft and delicate, with a faint rose tint in the
cheeks; to indicate force of character there was nothing but
the lips and the eyes and eyebrows.
Do not, I beg of you, think me blinded by vanity: when
I do not look pretty I can see it very well; and this is the
first time that I have looked pretty in a long while. Paint-
ing absorbs everything.
What is odious to think of is that all this must one day
fade, shrivel up, and perish !
Thursday, AVovember 21,–Breslau has painted a cheek so
true to nature, so perfect, that I, a woman and a rival artist,
felt like kissing it.
Ariday, AVovember 22.-I am terrified when I think of
the future that awaits Breslau; it fills me with wonder and
sadness.
In her compositions there is nothing womanish, common-
place, or disproportioned. She will attract attention at the
Sa/o/, for, in addition to her treatment of it, the subject
itself will not be a common one. It is stupid, indeed, of
me to be jealous of her. I am a child in art, and she is
a woman. For the moment the light seems hidden, and
everything is dark before me.
Ariſay, Oecember 27.-This week has been lost to me for
1878.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHAIRTSEFF. 179
study. For the past three days I have wanted to write
down some reflections—what about, I do not exactly know ;
but, distracted from my purpose by the singing of the
young lady on the second story, I began to glance through
the account of my journey in Italy, and afterward some
one came to interrupt me, and I lost the thread of my
ideas, together with that feeling of gentle melancholy in
which it is so pleasant to indulge.
What surprises me now is to see what grandiloquent
words I employed to describe the simplest incidents.
But my mind was full of lofty sentiments, and it irritated
me to have no wonderful, startling, or romantic situations
to describe, and I inſey'ſ refed my feelings. Artists will
know what I mean. This is very well; but what I cannot
understand is how a girl who pretends to be intelligent did
not better learn to estimate the value of men and things. I
say this because the thought has just suggested itself to me
that my family ought to have enlightened me on such sub-
jects, and told me, for instance, that A was a person of
no worth, and one on whose account one should not give
one’s-self the slightest trouble. It is true that they took a
mistaken view of the matter altogether, my mother having
even less experience of the world than I, but that is only
by the way, and, as I had so high an opinion of my own
intelligence, I should have made some use of it, and treated
him as I did others, instead of bestowing so much attention
on him, both in my journal and elsewhere.
But I was burning with the desire to have something
romantic to record, and, fool that I was things could not
have turned out less romantic than they did. In a word, I
was young and inexperienced ; notwithstanding all my folly
and all my boasting, this is the confession I must make at
last, no matter what it costs me to do so.
And now I think I hear some one say : “A strong-minded
18o JOUR.V.4 L OF WAR// B.1S//K/K 7"SEPA'. [1878.
woman such as you should never have occasion to retract
her words.”
Sunday, December 29.-I have lost my hold on art, and I
cannot take up anything else in its place. My books are
packed up, I am losing my knowledge of Latin and of
classic literature, and I am growing altogether stupid.
The sight of a temple, a column, or an Italian landscape
fills me with loathing for this Paris, so cold, so learned, so
wise, so polished. The men here are ugly. This city,
which is a paradise for superior natures, has no charms for
me. Ah, I have deceived myself : I am neither wise nor
happy. I long to go to Italy, to travel, to see mountains,
lakes, forests, seas. In the company of my family, with
parcels, recriminations, annoyances, the petty disputes of
every day 2 Ah, no ; a hundred times no 2 To enjoy the
delights of travel one must wait for And the time is
passing. Well, so much the worse. I might marry an
Italian prince at any time, if I wished to do so. Let me then,
wait.
You see if I married an Italian prince I might still be an
artist, since the money would be mine. But then I should
have to give him some of it. Meantime I shall remain here
and work on at my painting.
On Saturday they thought my drawing not at all bad.—
You understand that it is only with an Italian I could live
in France, where I wish to live, according to my own ideas;
and in Italy—ah ! what a delightful life I shall spend
my time between Paris and Italy.
1879.] /OURNAL OF MARIAE BASHA'IAE 7SEFF. 181
1879.
Thursday, January 2.-What I long for is to be able to go
out alone ! To come and go ; to sit down on a bench in
the Garden of the Tuileries, or, better still, of the Luxem-
bourg; to stand looking into the artistically arranged shop
windows ; to visit the churches and the museums ; to stroll
through the old streets of the city in the evening.
Friday, January 1o.—Robert-Fleury came to the studio
this evening. . . .
If my art does not soon bring me fame, I shall kill my-
self, and end the whole matter at once. This resolution I
took some months ago. When I was in Russia I thought
of killing myself, but the fear of a hereafter deterred me. I
shall give myself till thirty, for up to that age one may still
hope to acquire fortune, or happiness, or glory, or what-
ever it is one desires. So then that is settled, and if I am
sensible, I shall torment myself no more either now or in
the future.
Saturday, /anuary II.-They think at the studio that I go
a great deal into society; this, together with the difference in
station, separates me from the other pupils, and prevents
my asking them any favors as they do among themselves;
as, for instance, to accompany me to the house of an artist
or to a studio. º
I worked faithfully all the week up to ten o'clock on
Saturday night, then I came home and sat down to cry.
Heretofore I have always asked the help of God in my
troubles, but as He does not seem to listen to me at all, I
scarcely believe in Him any longer.
Those who have experienced this feeling will understand
all the horror of it.
182 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHRIAE 7 SEAF. [1879.
7'uesday, January.—I did not awake this morning till
half-past eleven. The prizes were awarded by the three
Professors, Lefebvre, Robert-Fleury, and Boulanger. I did
not go to the studio until one o'clock, to learn the result.
The first words I heard on entering were :
“Well, Mlle. Marie, come and receive your medal.”
Wednesday, /anuary.—I have been dreaming all day of a
blue sea, white sails, a luminous sky.—On entering the
studio this morning I found P− there. He goes to Rome
in a week, he says, and while we were talking he mentioned
Katorbinsky and others of our friends; and I-I felt my-
self grow faint, before the vista opened up to me by his
words, of sculptured stones, of ruins, of statues, of churches.
And the Campagna, that “desert,”—yes, but I adore that
desert. And there are others, thank Heaven who adore it
to O.
Sunday, February 16.-Yesterday I received a scolding.
“I do not understand how it is that with your talent you
find it so difficult to paint,” said Julian.
Nor I either, but I seem paralyzed ; there is no use in
keeping up the struggle any longer. There is nothing left
me but to die. My God, my God Is there, then, nothing
to be hoped for from any one What is detestable to think
of is, that l have just filled up the fire-place with wood with-
out any necessity for it, for I was not at all cold, while there
are miserable creatures who are at this very moment, perhaps,
crying with cold and hunger. It is reflections such as these
that are most effectual in drying the tears I love to shed.
And yet I sometimes think that I would as soon be at the
lowest depths of misery as where I am ; for when one has
touched bottom, there is nothing further to be feared.
Tuesday, February 18.-I threw myself on my knees be-
side my bed just now to implore God for justice, pity, or
1879.] /OURNAL OF AZAA/E BASI/ATA TSZFF. 183
pardon . If I have not merited the tortures I endure, let
Him grant me justice If I have committed evil deeds, let
Him grant me pardon . If He exists, and is such as we
are taught to believe Him to be, He should be just, He
should pity, He should pardon. I have only Him left me ;
it is natural therefore that I should seek Him and entreat
Him not to abandon me to despair ; not to lead me into sin;
not to suffer me to doubt, to blaspheme, to die.
Doubtless my sufferings are no greater than my sins; I
am continually committing petty sins that amount to a
frightful total in the end.
Just now I spoke to my aunt harshly, but I could not
help it. She came into my room while I was crying, with
my face buried in my hands, and calling on God to help
me. Ah, misery of miseries
No one must see me weep ; it might be thought my tears
were caused by disappointed love, and that—would make
me shed tears of rage.
Wednesday, February 19.-I must do something to amuse
myself. I say this from the stupid habit we have of repeat-
ing what we read in books. Why should I amuse myself;
I still find pleasure in being miserable ; and then I am not
like other people, and I detest doing the things other people
do to preserve their moral or their physical health, for I
have no faith in them.
NICE, Friday, February 21.-Well, I am at Nice
I had a longing to luxuriate in pure air, to bask in the
sunshine, and to listen to the sound of the waves. Do you
love the sea 2 I love it to distraction ; it is only in Rome
that I forget it—almost.
I came here with Paul. We were taken for husband and
wife, which annoyed me exceedingly. As our villa is rented.
we put up at the Hôtel du Parc-Our old Villa d'Acqua-
184 JOURNAL OF A/AA"// B.1.S//X/AE 7 SEAF. [1879.
Viva, that we occupied eight years ago. Eight years —This
is a pleasure trip. We are going to dine at London House.
Antoine, the maître-d'hôteſ, came to pay his respects to me,
as did several of the shop women also ; and all the drivers
Smiled and bowed, and the one we selected complimented
me on my height—he recognized me ; and then another of -
fered his services, saying he had served Mme. Romanoff;
and afterward I met my friends of the Rue de France. All
this is very agreeable, and these good people have given me
a great deal of pleasure. -
The night was beautiful, and I stole out alone and did
not return to the house until ten o'clock. I wanted to
wander on the sea-shore, and sing to the accompaniment of
the waves. There was not a living soul near, and the night
was enchanting, especially after Paris. Paris |
Saturday, February 22.-What a difference between this
place and Paris | Here I awake by myself; the windows
remain open all night. The room I occupy is the one in
which I used to take drawing-lessons from Binsa. I see the
first rays of the sun gilding the tops of the trees beside the
fountain in the middle of the garden, as I used to see them
then every morning. My little study has the same paper
on the walls as then—the paper I chose myself. Probably
it is occupied by some barbarian of an Englishman. I was
able to recognize it only by the paper, for they have made
a new corridor that confuses me.
We will dine at London House while we remain at
Nice. One sees every one there, especially during the
Carnival.
Sunday, February 23.−Yesterday we went to Monaco.
This nest of cocoſſes is more hateful to me than I can find
words to express. I remained in the place only ten minutes,
but that was enough, as I did not play.
1879.] yo URMAL OF JAA/E B21S//KIA. TS/2 FA. 185
Monday, February 24.—I am always happy when I can
take a solitary walk. The sea was unspeakably beautiful
to-night; before going to hear Patti I went to listen to the
sound of the waves. It had been raining, and the air was
delightfully fresh and pleasant. How soothing it is to the
eyes to let them rest on the deep blue of the sky and of the
sea at night !
PARIs, Monday, March 3.—We left Nice yesterday at
noon. The weather was superb, and I could not help shed-
ding tears of genuine regret at leaving this delightful and
incomparable country. From my window I could see the
garden, the Promenade des Anglais, and all the elegance of
Paris. From the corridor I could see the Rue de France,
with its old Italian ruins, and its lanes, with their pictur-
esque lights and shadows. And all the people who knew
me—“That is Mademoiselle Marie,” they would say, when
I passed by.
I should now like to leave Paris. My mind is distracted,
and I have lost all hope. I no longer expect anything ; I no
longer hope for anything ; I am resigned, with the resigna-
tion of despair. I grope my way darkly in search of light,
but find none. I breathe a sigh that leaves my heart more
oppressed than before.—Tell me, what would you do in my
place 2 º
Wednesday, March 5.--To-morrow I begin to work again!
I will give myself another year—a whole year, during which
I will work harder than ever. What good will it do to des-
pair 2 Yes, we can say that when we are beginning to get
out of our difficulties, but not while we are in the midst of
them.
Saturday, June 2 I.-For almost thirty-six hours I have
done nothing but cry, and last night I went to bed exhausted.
I86 JOUA'A'.4 L OF A/21/0// B.4 S/ZAZA 7'SZAF. [1879.
As I was about to leave the studio at noon yesterday,
Julian called to the servant through the speaking-tube ;
she put her ear to the tube, and then said to us with some
emotion:
“Ladies, M. Julian desires me to tell you that the Prince
Imperial is dead.”
I gave a cry and sat down on the coal-box. Then as
every one began to talk at once, Rosalie said :
“A moment's silence if you please, ladies. The news is
official ; a telegram has just been received. He has been
killed by the Zulus ; this is what M. Julian says.”
The news had already begun to spread ; so that when
they brought me the AEsſayette, with the words in capital
letters, “Death of the Prince Imperial,” I cannot express
how much I was shocked.
And then, no matter to what party one may belong,
whether one be a Frenchman or a foreigner, it is impossible
to avoid sharing in the feeling of consternation with which
the news has been everywhere received.
One thing I will say, however, which none of the papers
has said, and that is that the English are cowards and as-
sassins. There is something mysterious about this death ;
there must be both treachery and crime at the bottom of it.
Was it natural that a prince on whom all the hopes of his
party were fixed should be thus exposed to danger, an only
son 2 I think there is no one so devoid of feeling as not to
be moved at the thought of this mother's anguish. The
most dire misfortune, the cruelest of losses, may still leave
some gleam of hope in the future, some possibility of conso-
lation. This leaves none. One may say with truth that
this is a grief like no other. It was because of her that he
went ; she gave him no peace ; she tormented him ; she
refused to allow him more than five hundred francs a
month—a sum upon which he could hardly contrive to live.
The mother and son parted on bad terms with each other
1879.] JOURNAL OF AZAR/E BASI/KIRTSEFF, 187
Do you perceive the horror of the thing 2 Can you un-
derstand how this mother must feel ?
England has treated the Bonapartes shamefully on every
occasion when they were so blind as to ask the help of
that ignoble country, and it fills me with hatred and rage
to think of it.
Sunday, August 3.—My dog Coco II. has disappeared.
You cannot conceive what a grief this is to me.
Monday, August 4.—I could not sleep last night thinking
of my poor little dog. I even condescended to shed a few
tears for him, after which I prayed to God that I might find
him again. I have a special prayer that I repeat to myself
whenever I want to ask for anything. I cannot remember
ever to have said it without receiving some consolation.
This morning they wakened me to give me my dog,
which had been found, and the ungrateful creature was so
hungry that he showed scarcely any joy at seeing me.
Mamma exclaims that it is a miracle to have found him,
as we have already lost four dogs and never found any of
them before. She would not be so surprised, though, if I
were to tell her of my prayer. I confide it only to my diary,
however, and I am not quite satisfied with myself in doing
even this. There are secret thoughts and prayers which to
repeat aloud makes one seem foolish or ridiculous.
Saturday, August 9.-Shall I go or stay ? The trunks are
already packed. My physician does not appear to believe in
the efficacy of the waters of Mont-Dore. No matter, I
shall have rest there. And when I come back I shall lead
a life of incredible activity. I will paint while there is day-
light, and model in the evening.
Wednesday, August 13.—At one o'clock yesterday we
arrived at Dieppe.
I88 JOCA.V.1 L OF AZAR/E BA1S//AIA 7. SAEFF. [1879.
Are all seaport towns alike 2 I have been at Ostend, at
Calais, at Dover, and now I am at Dieppe. They all Smell
of tar, of boats, of ropes, and of tarpaulin. It is windy ;
one is exposed to the weather on all sides, and one feels
miserable. It is like being sea-sick. How different from
the Mediterranean There one can breathe freely and there
is something to admire ; one is comfortable, and there are
none of the vile smells that are here. I would prefer a
little green nest like Soden or Schlangenbad, or what I
imagine Mont-Dore to be, to this place.
I have come here to breathe good air, ah, well ! doubt-
less outside the city and the port the air is better. None of
these Northern sea-ports please me. From none of the
hotels, below the third story, is a view of the sea to be had.
O Nice O San Remo O Naples O Sorrento you
are not unmeaning names ; your beauties have not been ex-
aggerated, nor profaned by guide-books You are indeed
beautiful and delightful cities
Saturday, August 16.-We laugh a good deal, though I
find this place very tiresome ! but it is in my nature to
laugh; it is something altogether independent of the humor
I am in.
In former times, when I was at any watering-place I took
pleasure in watching the passers-by ; it amused me.
I have grown completely indifferent to all that now ; it is
all the same to me whether men or dogs be around me.
Painting and music are still what I most enjoy. I ex-
pected to play a very different part in the world from the
one I am playing ; and since it is not what I thought it
would be, what it is matters little.
Tuesday, August 19.—I took my first sea-bath to-day, and
the whole thing disgusted me so much that I would have
been glad of an excuse to cry. I would rather wear the
1879.] yo URMAL OF MARIE BASI/ATA: Z'SEFF. 189
dress of a fisher-girl than clothes that look common ; my
disposition is, besides, an unfortunate one. I crave an ex-
quisite harmony in all the details of life; very often things
that are thought by others beautiful or elegant shock me
by their lack of artistic grace. I would like my mother to
be elegant or spirituelle, or at least dignified and majestic.
Life is a wretched affair, after all. In truth, it is not right
that people should be made to suffer thus.
These are trifles, you say ? Everything is relative, and
if a pin wounds you as sharply as a knife, what have the
sages to say in the matter 2
Wednesday, August 20.—I think I can never experience
any feeling into which ambition does not enter. I despise
insignificant people.
Ariday, August 29.-Fatalism is the religion of the lazy
and the desperate. I am desperate, and I can assure you
that I am entirely indifferent to life. I would not make
use of this hackneyed phrase, if this feeling were a tran-
sitory one ; but I am so always, even when I am most
happy. I have a contempt for death ; if there is nothing
beyond—the thing is quite simple ; and if there is, I com-
mend myself to God. But I do not think that in any case
I shall be in Paradise; the unhappiness I suffer here will
find a continuance there ; I am doomed to it.
Monday, September 1.-I hope you have noticed the great
change that has been taking place in me for some time past.
I have become serious and sensible ; and then, too, I can
better appreciate certain ideas now than formerly. Many
things in regard to which I had no settled convictions I now
begin to understand. I can see, for instance, how one may
cherish as profound a sentiment of devotion to an idea, and
entertain for it a passion as strong, as for an individual,
IQo JOURNAL OF A/ARIAE BASI/ATA’ TSE FF. [1879.
Devotion to a prince, or to a dynasty, is a sentiment that
might arouse my enthusiasm, that might move me to tears,
and even impel me to action under the influence of some
powerful emotion, but there is a secret feeling within me
that makes me distrust these fluctuating emotions. When-
ever I consider, in regard to great men, that they have been
the slaves of other men, all my admiration for them vanishes.
Perhaps it may be because of a foolish vanity on my part, -
but I look upon all these servants as little less than contemp-
tible, and I am only truly a royalist when I put myself in
the place of the king.
As far as I myself am concerned, I might be willing to
bow the head before a king, but I could neither love nor
esteem a man who would do so.
I might accept a constitutional monarchy like that of
England or of Italy, but even in those there is much to ob-
ject to. It disgusts me to see those salutes to the royal
family ; they are a useless humiliation. Where the ruler is
in sympathy with the people, as was the case with Victor
Emmanuel, who was the exponent and advocate of a great
idea, or with Queen Margaret, who is both amiable and
good, this may be tolerated ; but it is much better to have
a ruler who is chosen by the people, and who, as a conse-
quence, will always be in sympathy with them.
The old order of things is the negation of progress and
of intelligence.
PARIs, Wednesday, September 17.—To-day, Wednesday,
which is a lucky day of the week for me, and the 17th, a
lucky day of the month, I made my arrangements to begin
modeling. -
Wednesday, October 1.—The papers have come, and I have
just finished reading the two hundred pages that make the
first number of Mme, Adam's review. This disturbed me
I879.] JOCA'.V.1 / OF ..]/.1 K// B.15A/AIA TS/AF. I9 I
a little, and at four o'clock I left the studio to go for a
walk in the Bois. I wore a new hat which attracted a good
deal of attention. Now, however, I have become indiffer-
ent to such things. Mme. Adam has reason to be very
happy, I think.
7%ursday, October 30.—France is a delightful country and
an amusing one ; the country of riots, of revolutions, of fash-
ion, of wit, of grace, of elegance——of everything, in a word,
that gives animation, charm, and variety to life. But we
must look for neither a stable government, a virtuous man—
virtuous, that is to say, in the antique sense of the word—a
marriage based upon love, or true art. The French paint-
ers are very good, but, with the exception of Géricault, and
at present of Bastien-Lepage, the divine spark is wanting.
And never, never, never, will France produce works equal
to those which England and Holland have produced, in a
certain style.
France is a delightful country, where pleasure and gal-
lantry are concerned, but how about other things It is
always this, however ; and other countries, with all their
respectabie and solid qualities, are very often dull. And
then, if I complain of France, it is because I am unmarried.
France for young girls is an infamous country—the word is
not too strong a one. Trade, traffic, speculation, are hon-
orable words in their proper place, but applied to marriage
they are infamous ; yet they are the only words that can
justly be applied to French marriages.
Monday, AVozember 10,–I went to church yesterday. I
go Occasionally, so that I may not be thought a nihilist.
Friday, AVovember 14.—If I have written nothing here for
some days past, it is because I have had nothing interesting
to say.
I 92 JOURAWA L OF AZ.4A/E BASI/ATA’ TSAEAEF. [1879.
Thus far, I have always been charitably disposed toward
my fellow-beings ; I have never spoken ill of others, nor
repeated the evil I have heard spoken of them ; I have al-
ways defended any one who was slandered in my presence,
no matter who it might be, in the selfish expectation that
Others would do as much for me in return ; I never seriously
entertained the idea of injuring any one, and if I have de-
sired fortune or power, it has not been from selfish motives,
but rather with the purpose of performing such acts of gen-
erosity, of goodness, of charity, as it now astonishes me to
think of—although in regard to this last particular, I have
not been very successful ; I shali always continue to give
twenty Sous to a beggar in the street, because such people
bring tears to my eyes—but I really fear now that I am
growing wicked.
And yet it would be a noble thing to remain good, em-
bittered and unhappy as I am. It would be amusing, how-
ever, to be wicked—to injure others, to speak evil of them—
since it is all the same to God, and He takes cognizance of
nothing. Beside, it is very evident that God is not what
we imagine Him to be. God is, perhaps, nature ; and all
the events of life are directed by chance, which sometimes
brings about those strange coincidences and events that
make us believe there is a Providence. As to our prayers
to God, our communion with Him, our faith in Him, I have
learned to my cost that there is nothing in them.
To feel within one's-self the power to move heaven and
earth and to be nothing ! I do not proclaim this thought
aloud, but the anguish of it may be read upon my counten-
ance. People think such thoughts are of no consequence
so long as one does not utter them aloud, but feelings like
these always come to the surface.
Wednesday, November 19–Robert-Fleury came to see me
this evening, and, besides the profit I derived from the
1879.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHAZA 7'SEFF. I93
good advice he gave me, we spent a pleasant evening to-
gether in my studio beside the samovar ; he explained very
clearly to me how it was necessary to arrange the light.
Fleury neither receives pay nor has he any selfish interest
in the matter ; besides, he is a person whose words are to
be relied upon, and he repeated to me this evening what he
told Mme. Breslau—that her daughter and myself are the
only pupils in the studio who have exceptional talent for
drawing. The others are worth nothing. He passed them
all in review, and I was amused to see how unceremoni-
ously he treated their pretensions.
In short, he has taken me absolutely under his wing. So
to compensate him in some way for this, I have given him
an order for a portrait of myself, small size, and this has
already begun to detract from my pleasure in his society,
on account of the expense.
Saturday, AVozember 21.-As I expressed a great deal of
admiration to-day for a sketch he had made for the ceiling
of the Luxembourg, he (Tony) offered it to me in the most
amiable manner possible, saying it gave him pleasure to
present it to one who knew as much about art as I did, and
who could appreciate it so well.
“But there must be a great many,” I said, “who appre-
ciate your painting.”
“No, no, it is not the same thing, it is not the same
thing,” he replied.
I am already more at my ease with him, and am scarcely
at all afraid of him now. After seeing flim for two whole
years at the studio, once or twice every week, it seems very
odd to chat with him and have him help me on with my
pelisse. A little more and we shall be good friends. If it
were not for the portrait, I should be well contented, for
my master is as amiable with me as possible.
194 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHAVA 7 SEFF. [1879.
Monday, AVovember 23–We went to-day to invite Julian
to dine with us, but he made a thousand excuses, saying
that, if he accepted the invitation, it would take away all
his authority over me, and that then there would be no
means of getting on, particularly as the least mark of com-
plaisance toward me on his part was regarded as favoritism.
They would say I could do as I liked at the studio because
he dined with us, because I was rich, etc. The good man
is right.
7'uesday, AVovember 24.—The studio at No. 37 has been
taken and is almost arranged.
I spent the whole day there ; it is a very large room,
with gray walls. I sent there two rather shabby Gobelins
which conceal the side of the wall furthest from the entrance,
a Persian carpet, some Chinese matting, a large square
Algerian'seat, a table for modeling, a number of pieces of
stuff, and some Satinette draperies, of a warm, undecided
color.
I also sent a number of casts—the Venus of Milo, the
Venus of Medicis, and the Venus of Nîmes; the Apollo, the
Neapolitan Faun, an écorché, some bas-reliefs, a portman-
teau, an urn, a looking-glass that cost me four francs
twenty-five centimes, a clock that cost thirty-two francs, a
chair, a stove, an oak chest of drawers, of which the upper
part serves as a color box, a tray with everything necessary
to make tea, an inkstand and some pens, a pail, a jug, and a
number of canvases, caricatures, studies, and sketches.
To-morrow I shall unpack some drawings—but I fear that
they will make my paintings appear still worse than they
are—an arm and a leg, natural size, of an écorché, a lay-
figure, and a box of carpenter's tools ; the Antinois is still
to be sent.
Wednesday, December 30.-I think that I am going to be
1880.] /OURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIR 7'SEFF. i Q5
ill. I am so weak that I cry without any cause. On leav-
ing the studio to-day I went to the Magasin du Louvre.
It would take a Zola to describe this excited, busy, disgust-
ing crowd, running, pushing, with heads thrust forward, and
eager eyes. I felt ready to faint from heat and weakness.
What a melancholy ending to the year ! I think I shall
go to bed at eleven and sleep while waiting for midnight—
to have my fortune told.
I88O.
Thursday, January 1.—I went to the studio this morning;
so that by working on the first day of the year I may work
the whole year through. We made some visits afterward,
and then went to the Bois.
Saturday, January 3.—I cough continually but for a
wonder, far from making me look ugly, this gives me an air
of languor that is very becoming.
Monday, January 5–Well, things are going badly.
I have begun to work again, but as I did not take a com-
plete rest, I feel a languor and a lack of strength such as I
never felt before. And the Saſon so near ! I have talked
it all over with Julian, and we are both agreed that I am
not ready.
Let me see : I have been working for two years and four
months, without deducting time lost, or spent in traveling—
little enough, yet after all it is a good deal. I have not
worked hard enough, I have lost time ; I have relaxed my
efforts, I—in a word, I am not ready. “The constant prick-
ing of a pin would drive one mad,” Edmond has said,
“ but a blow from a club, provided it were not given in a
vital part, might be courageously borne.” It is true ; the
i 96 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHA'IRTSEFF. [1880.
same eternal comparison—Breslau. She began in June,
1875, which gives her four years and a half, with two years
at Zurich or Munich ; total, six years and a half, without
deducting either time spent in travel or time lost from study,
as in my case. She had been painting a little more than
two years when she exhibited. I have been painting a year
and four months, and I cannot exhibit with as much credit
as she can.
As far as I myself am concerned, this would not matter ;
I could wait. I am courageous; if I were told I had to
wait a year, I could answer from my heart, “Very well.”
But the public, and my family—they would believe in me
no longer. I might send a picture, but what Julian desires
is that I should paint a portrait, and this I could do only
indifferently well. See what it is to be of importance ;
there are pupils in the studio who have exhibited, who can-
not paint a fifth as well as I, and no one has said anything
about it. But when it is I who am in question—“Why do
it 7” they say. “You do not want to teach, nor to be paid
fifty or a hundred francs for a picture ; what you want is
fame. To exhibit such a thing as the others might very
well do, would be unworthy of you.”
This is my own opinion, too ; but the public and my
family, and our friends and relations in Russia, what will
they say ?
Saturday, January 17.-The doctor would have me believe
that my cough is a purely nervous one, and it may be so,
for I have not taken cold ; neither my throat nor my chest
hurts me. I simply experience a difficulty in breathing,
and I feel a pain in the right side. Be that as it may, I
came home at eleven, and, all the time wishing that I might
fall suddenly ill so as not to have to go to the ball, dressed
myself for it. I looked beautiful.
1880.] ſo URMAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. I 97
Tuesday, /anuary 20.--When I came home from the
studio to-day I found that Mme. G–– had been here,
expecting to find me in my room, and that she was furious
because I do not take care of myself just as if I were an
old woman. And then, the tickets we were promised for
to-morrow have been given to Mme. de Rothschild.
Oh, not to have to ask for tickets To be independent
Saturday, /anuary 31.—I went to-night to a concert and
ball, given for the benefit of the suffers by the inundations
in Murcia, at the Continental Hotel, under the patronage
of Queen Isabella, who, after listening to the concert,
descended to the ball-room, where she remained an hour.
I am not very fond of dancing, and to whirl around in
the arms of a man does not seem to me to be very amusing.
On the whole, though, it is a matter of indifference to me,
for I could never understand the feeling of the Italians
with respect to the waltz.
When I dance I think of nothing but the persons who
are observing me.
I should like to do every day as I have done to-day : to
work from eight until noon ; and from two until five ; at
five to have the lamp brought in and draw till half-past
Seven.
At half-past seven to dress; to dine at eight, read until
eleven, and then go to bed.
To work from two till half-past seven, however, without
stopping, is a little fatiguing.
For this year's Salon I have thought of this : A woman
seated at a table reading, her elbow resting on the table,
and her chin in the palm of her hand, while the light falls on
her beautiful blonde hair. Title—The Divorce Question,
by Dumas. This book has just appeared, and the subject
is one that is agitating the whole world. The other picture
is simply Dina in a white crêpe-de-chine, seated in a large
198 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHR/RTSEFF. [1880.
antique easy-chair, her hands in her lap, and her fingers
loosely interlaced. The attitude is so easy and graceful
that I hastened to make a sketch of her one evening she
had seated herself thus by chance, while I was trying to
pose her. It is somewhat in the style of Mme. Recamier,
and in order that the waist may not look too immodest I
shall add a colored sash.
To-day, I float in air, I feel myself a superior being,
great, happy, capable of all things. I have faith in my
future.
Monday, February 16.-We went to the Théâtre Fran-
çais to night to see the first representation of “Daniel
Rochat,” by Sardou. It was a really important event.
We had an excellent box containing six seats. There was
a splendid house ; every one of any importance, socially or
politically, being there. º
As to the play itself I must see it again. I thought it
in some parts diffuse and tiresome ; but the audience
shouted, applauded, and hissed so much, some approving,
others condemning, that I could scarcely hear half of the
piece. The hero is a great Orator, a sort of atheistic
Gambetta. The heroine is a young girl, an Anglo-Amer-
ican Protestant, extremely liberal in her views, and a repub-
lican, but a believer.
You can imagine what might be made out of such ma-
terials at the present time.
Wednesday, March 3.—I must give up going out in the
evening for the present, so that I may be able to rise re-
freshed in the morning and begin my work at eight o'clock.
I have only sixteen days left in which to complete my
picture.
Friday, March 12.-If mamma goes away to-morrow,
1880.] JOUAMAZ OF MARIE BASI/KIA. TSEFF. I99
Dina will accompany her ; there are only seven days left
now, and I shall never be able to find a model ; even if I
succeed in finding one to-morrow, there will be only six
days, then, and it would be impossible to finish my picture
in that time. I must therefore give up the hope of exhibit-
ing this year, and I will not conceal from you the fact that
I have shed tears of rage, not only on account of that, but
also at the thought that nothing succeeds with me. I con-
ceive an idea for a picture—a sensational subject that
would produce an effect, whatever shortcomings there
might be in the execution, and give me in a day the reputa-
tion I could scarcely hope to acquire otherwise in a year
and now there is an end to everything. The labor of so
many days is lost, and lost without hope of a return. This
is what may be called a misfortune. Think of me as you
will, but while Paul's romantic sorrows left me unmoved,
this sorrow of my own exasperates me and plunges me into
despair. Yet there is something more in this feeling than
selfishness, though what it is I cannot explain. And even
if there were nothing in it but selfishness, I am unhappy
enough, and forlorn enough, to excuse my being selfish.
Friday, March 19.-At a quarter-past twelve Tony arrived.
Why had I not begun sooner? he asked; the picture was
charming, enchanting, he declared: what a pity it was that
it was not finished On the whole, he consoled me, but he
said that I must ask for more time.
“You might send it as it is,” he added, “but it would
not be worthy of you; this is my sincere opinion; ask for
more time, and you will produce something really good.”
Then he turned up his sleeves, took the palette and
brush, and dashed in a stroke here and there to show where
more light was wanted. But I will retouch it all—if they
grant me the time. He stayed more than two hours. He is
a charming fellow; he entertained me greatly, and I was in
2OO JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIR 7SEFF. [1880.
such good-humor that it mattered little to me what became
of the picture. Those dashes of the brush were in fact an
excellent lesson.
I had already recovered my spirits even before I knew
the result of mamma's efforts with Gavini, who had written
to Turquet. Well, I am to receive my six days’ grace.
I do not know precisely whom to thank for this, but we
went to the opera with the Gavinis to-night, and I thanked
the elder Gavini. It is to him, I think, that I owe it. I
was radiant, triumphant, happy.
A/onday, March 22.--Tony is surprised to see how much
I have accomplished in so short a time. All the same, with
the exception of the background, the hair, and the flesh,
the painting has a muddy look. There is no freshness
about it. I might have done better. This is Tony's opin-
ion also; he is satisfied with it, however, and says that, if
there were any possibility of its being refused at the Saſon,
he would be the first to tell me not to send it. He says he
is surprised to see how much I have accomplished. “It is
well conceived, well composed, and well executed; it is full
of harmony, of charm, of grace.”
Ah, yes, but I am dissatisfied with the flesh. And to
think they will say this is my manner! It is like parch-
ment' I shall be obliged to have recourse to glaze I who
adore freshness and simplicity in painting, who have always
made it my aim to secure the effect at the first stroke! I
can tell you that it costs me not a little to exhibit a thing
the execution of which falls so far short of what I should
like it to be—a thing so different from my ordinary work.
It is true that I have never done anything that has altogether
pleased me, but this is muddy, it is a daub. Tony says
that Breslau shows the influence of Bastien-Lepage in her
painting this year. She shows his influence as I show hers.
Tony is as good as he can be. And to say that I might
1880 | JOURNAL OF J/ARIAE BAS//KIA. TSEFF. 20 I
have done better! Miserable self-depreciation; miserable
want of self-confidence ' If I had not begun to hesitate
and to say to myself, “To be, or not to be '''-But let me
not commit the folly of grieving for a thing that is past.
I cannot tell why my mind should dwell on Italy to-
night. This is a subject that awakens torturing though's
within me, and one that I seek to avoid thinking of as far
as possible. I have given up reading Roman history; it
excited my imagination too much, and I have fallen back
on the French Revolution and the history of Greece. But
when I think of the Italian sunshine, the Italian air, when
I think of Rome, I grow wild!
Even Naples—Ah, Naples by moonlight! And what is
curious is that there is no man in the case. When I think
that I might go there if I chose, I am almost mad.
Thursday, March 25.-I have given the final touches to
my picture: there is nothing now to be done to it, unless to
do it all over again. It is finished, as far as so wretched a
thing can be finished.
This is my debut; my first independent public act. At
last it is accomplished; my number is 9091, “Mademoiselle
Marie-Constantin Russ.” I hope it will be accepted; I
will send the number to Tony.
Wednesday, April 7.-I must not forget to say that Julian
announced to me this morning that my picture has been
accepted. Curiously enough, I experienced no feeling of
satisfaction at the news. Mamma's delight irritates me;
this kind of a success is unworthy of me.
We spent the evening at Mme. P 's, Hamiable people,
but surrounded by a curious set; the dresses were of another
century; no one of any note was there: I was sleepy and
cross. And poor mamma left her seat to present to me the
Mexican, or the Chilian, “who laughs.” He makes fright-
2O2 JOURNAL OF JA.1/C/E B.1 SI/ATA: 7 SEF/. [1880.
ful grimaces which give him a habitually sneering expres-
sion. It is a nervous affection, and along with it he has a
round, Smooth face!' He has twenty-seven millions, and
mamma has taken it into her head that I might marry this
man—it would be almost as if I were to marry a man with-
out a nose! Horrible! I might marry an old man, an
ugly man—they are all alike to me—but a monster, never!
Of what use would his millions be to me with this laughing-
stock attached to them. There were several people there
we knew, but it was enough to put one to sleep—amateurs
who made faces and showed their teeth while they sang, a
violinist who could not be heard, and a handsome man who,
after sweeping his audience with a triumphant glance, gave.
us Schubert’s “Serenade,” with his hand resting on the piano.
But for that matter I cannot understand how a gentleman
can thus make an exhibition of himself in public.
The women, their heads dressed with that white powder
that gives the hair so dirty an appearance, looked as if they
had just been stuffing mattresses or threshing straw. How
foolish, how disgusting a practice it is!
Thursday, April 29.-We dine with the Simonides this
evening. Everything about their ménage is curious (I
made the acquaintance of the wife at Julian's); the husband
is young and handsome, the wife is past her thirty-fifth year,
though still beautiful; they are very much attached to each
other. They live in retirement, seeing no one with the ex-
ception of a few artists, and produce the most extraordinary
drawings and paintings, something after the style of the
Renaissance, and on subjects surprising by their naïveté!
“The Death of Beatrice,” “The Death of Laura” (the woman
who concealed her lover's head in a flower-pot, from which
flowers sprouted afterward), and all in the manner of cent-
uries ago. Madame wears costumes of the time of Boccaccio;
to-night she wore a soft Japanese crêpe, with, long, narrow
1880.] JOUAE.V.1/ OF AZ.4A/AE BASI/AIAE 7 SEFF. 2O3
sleeves, such as the Virgin is represented wearing, fastened
behind, and a plain skirt hanging in straight folds; a gir-
dle of antique galloon, which made her look rather short-
waisted; a bouquet of lilies of the valley in the corsage,
pearls around her neck, and earrings and bracelets of gold
of antique workmanship. With her pale complexion, her
black wavy hair, and her gazelle-like eyes, she looked like
a fantastic apparition. If she only had the sense to dress
her hair simply, instead of tumbling it up and making her
head look like a fright, she would be very striking.
Friday, April 30,—My little American friend, whose
name is Alice Brisbane, came at ten, and we left the house
together. I had set my mind on going alone or with but a
single companion to see how my picture was hung. I went
to the Salom, then, very nervous, and imagining the worst
that could possibly happen, so that I might not be disap-
pointed. None of my forebodings were realized, however,
for my picture was not yet hung.
As for Bastien-Lepage, his picture produces on the be-
holder, at the first glance, the effect of space—of the open
air. Jeanne d'Arc-the real Jeanne d'Arc, the peasant
girl—leans against an apple-tree, of which she holds a
branch in her left hand, which, as well as the arm, is of
extreme perfection ; the right arm hangs loosely by her
side ; it is admirable—the head thrown back, the strained
attitude of the neck, and the eyes that look into the future—
clear, wonderful eyes; the countenance produces a striking
effect ; it is that of the peasant, the daughter of the soil,
startled and pained by her vision. The orchard surround-
ing the house in the background is nature's self; but there
is a something—in a word, the perspective of it is not good ;
it seems to crowd forward on the view, and spoils the effect
of the figure.
The figure itself is sublime, and it produced on me So
2O4. JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHR/RTSEFF, [1880.
strong an impression that I can scarcely restrain my tears
as I write.
This was what most interested me in the Salom. Now
for myself : We were all going to visit the Salon together,
after breakfast, or at least so I thought. . . . But no ; my
aunt went to church, instead, and mamma wanted to go
too, and it was only when they saw that I was astonished
and offended, that they decided to accompany me, and then
with a very bad grace. I do not know if it was the modest
place I occupied that displeased them, and made them un-
willing to go, but it is really very hard to have such a
family Finally, ashamed of her indifference, or whatever
else it may have been, mamma went with me, and Dina
also, and we met at the Salom, first, the whole studio, then
Some acquaintances, and finally Julian.
Saturday, May 1.—One of the most stupid, unlooked-for,
and annoying things imaginable has just happened to me !
To-morrow is Easter Sunday, and we were to go to-night
to high mass, at which the whole Russian colony, beginning
with the embassy, was to be assembled—all the beauty and
elegance and vanity of the colony in the front seats. The
Russian women and their gowns were of course to be passed
in review and commented upon by everybody.
Well, at the last moment they brought me my gown, and
it looked like nothing but a heap of old gauze. I went,
however, but no one shall ever know the secret rage I. felt.
My waist was hidden by a badly made corsage, all askew;
my arms were cramped by ill-fitting sleeves, much too
long ; altogether I presented a ridiculous appearance, and,
in addition to all this, the gauze, that I had seen only by
daylight, looked positively dirty at night.
Friday, May 7.—Mme. Gavini came again to-day to tell
mamma that I am wearing myself out ; that is true, but it
1880.] yovK.VAL OF MARIE BASI/KIRTSEFF. 2O5
is not with painting ; to avoid wearing myself out it would
be only necessary for me to go to bed every night at ten or
eleven o'clock, while, as it is, I stay up till one, and waken
in the morning at seven.
Last night it was that idiot S who was the cause of
this. I was writing and he came over to speak to me ; then
he went to play cards with my aunt ; then I waited up in
order to hear a few silly words of love from him. And
twenty times he bade me good-night, and twenty times I
told him to go, and twenty times he asked permission to kiss
my hand ; and I laughed and said at last, “Very well, it is
all the same to me.” Then he kissed my hand, and I am
Sorry to have to confess that this kiss gave me pleasure, not
because of the person who bestowed it, but—for many rea-
sons. And after all, one is only a woman. -
I could still feel this kiss upon my hand this morning,
for it was not a kiss bestowed simply through politeness.
Ah, what creatures young girls are
Do you suppose I am in love with this young man with
the long nose 2 No, you do not? Well, the A affair
was nothing more than this. I had been doing my best to
fall in love, and the Cardinals and the Pope lent their as-
sistance ; my imagination was excited ; but as for love—
Oh, no ! Only as I am not now fifteen, and, besides, am
not as silly as I was then, I exaggerate nothing, and relate
the occurrence just as it took place. (J
The kiss upon my hand troubled me especially because I
saw that it had given me pleasure. Consequently, I have
resolved to treat S with coldness in the future ; but he
is such a good fellow, and so simple-minded, that it would
be stupid of me to act a part; it would not be worth while ;
it is better to treat him as I did Alexis B , which is
What I do. Dina, he, and I remained together to-night till
eleven o'clock, S and I reading verses and making
translations from the Latin, and Dina listening. I was
206 JOUAAWAL OF A/ARIE BASI/KIA 7 SEAF. [1880.
surprised to see that this young fellow knows a great deal,—
at least a great deal more than I. I have forgotten a good
deal of what I knew, and he is just fresh from his studies
for his degree of bachelor of arts. Well, I should like to
make a friend of him—but, no, he does not please me well
enough for that, but—a friendly acquaintance.
Saturday, May 8.--When I am spoken to, even in a loud
tone of voice, I cannot hear ! Tony asked me to-day if I
had seen anything of Perugino, and I answered “No,”
without understanding what he said.
Thursday, May 13.—I have such a buzzing in my ears
that I have to make the greatest efforts to prevent the dis-
tress it causes me from being perceived.
Oh, it is horrible ! With S it is not so much matter,
because he sits near me, and whenever I wish I can tell
him that he bores me. But the G S raise their voices
when they speak to me ; and at the studio they laugh at
me, and tell me I am growing deaf. I pretend that it is
only absent-mindedness, and make a jest of it, but it is
horrible !
Sunday, May 16.—I went to the Salon alone early this
morning; only those who had cards of admission were
there, I looked for a long time at the Jeanne d'Arc, and
still longer at the “Good Samaritan " of Morot. I seated
myself in front of the Morot, with a lorg.nette in my hand, so
as to study it carefully. It is the picture that, of all I have
seen, has given me the greatest pleasure. There is nothing
cramped in it; all is simple, true, natural ; every object in
it is copied from nature, and there is nothing that recalls
the hideous conventional beauty of the school. It is charm-
ing to look at ; even the head of the ass is perfect; the
landscape, the mantle, the very toe-nails, Everything is
1880.] JOUAMAZ OF ..]/AAC/A, BASI/AAA’ 7SA.A.F. 2O7
harmonious, everything is correct, everything is as it
should be. &
The head of the Jeanne d'Arc is sublime. These two
paintings are in two adjoining rooms. I went back and
forth from the one to the other. I was looking through
my lorgnette at the Morot and thinking of that poor fellow
S , when he passed in front of me, without seeing me,
however, and when I was going away I again saw him from
the garden pointing out my picture to another person who
looked like a journalist.
Friday, June 18.—I have worked, all day to-day at my
painting. In the evening S came. I attributed his
evident depression to his being in love, but there was
Something more than this the matter. He goes to Buch-
arest or to Lille as director of his brother's bank. But,
besides this, and above all, he desires to get married ; ah,
his heart is set upon it ! . As for me, I smiled and told him
he was bold and presumptuous, and explained to him that I
had no dowry, as all my dowry would be no more than
enough for pin-money, and that he would have to lodge
me and feed me, and provide me with amusement at his
OWn COSt.
Poor fellow, I felt sorry for him all the same.
He kissed my hands a hundred times, entreating me to
think of him sometimes. “You will think of me sometimes 2
Speak, I entreat you ; tell me you will sometimes think of
me,” he said.
“Whenever I find time.”
But he begged so hard that I was obliged at last to give
him a hasty yes. Ah, our adieus were tragic—at least on
his side. We were standing near the door of the drawing-
room, and I gave him my hand to kiss, so that he might
carry away with him a romantic recollection of our parting,
and then we gravely shook hands. -
208 JOURNAL OF AZAA"/E BASI/AIA 7 SEFF. [1880.
I remained pensive for a full minute after he had gone.
I shall miss this boy. He is to write to me.
Sunday, June 20.-I spent the morning at the Salon,
which closes this evening. The “Good Samaritan " has
received the medal of honor.
The landscape of Bastien-Lepage is not perfect, it spoils
the figure; but what an admirable figure | The head is
a piece of art that stands absolutely unrivaled. I found
Morot's picture almost tiresome to-day, while Bastien-
Lepage I admired more than ever. I went from the one
to the other, and then to a “Sleeping Head,” of Henner, and
a little nymph by him also. Henner is grace itself. It is
not altogether nature, but—but no, it must be nature; it is
adorable. His “ Nymphs by Twilight" is incomparable
and inimitable. He nevers varies, but is always charming.
His nude figures at the Luxembourg are not so good as his
later work. His last year's picture is the best of his work
that I have seen. I longed passionately to buy it. I look
at it every day. Ah, if I were only rich The effect the
Morot produces on me is a singular one. I find him tire-
some beside Bastien-Lepage and Henner. Henner —his
charm is inexpressible !
MONT-DORE, Tuesday, /uly 20.-I went to Julian's yester-
day with Villevielle, to get my keys, which I had forgotten.
This man encourages me greatly, and I leave Paris in good
spirits. One consolation is that I am no longer afraid of
Breslau. “The thing with her ” (meaning me), Julian
says, “is that it is not painting, but the object itself; and
even when she does not quite reach it, you can see that the
effort has been in that direction.”
We are badly lodged, the house is full, and the cooking
atrocious.
Wednesday, /uly 21.—I have begun a course of treat-
1880.] /OURNAL OF MAR/E BASHAVRTSEFF. 209
ment. They come for me with an air-tight sedan-chair,
and a costume of white flannel trousers reaching to the
feet, and a cloak with a hood.
Then follow a bath, a douche, drinking the waters, and
inhalations. I agree to everything. This is the last time
I shall submit to all these things, and I should not do so
now, if it were not for the fear of growing deaf. My deaf-
ness is much better ; almost well, in fact.
Ariday, July 23.—Who will restore me my youth—my
squandered, stolen, vanished youth ! I am not yet twenty,
and the other day I pulled out three gray hairs. I am
proud of them ; they are the terrible proof that I have
exaggerated nothing. If it were not for my childish
figure I should look like an old woman. Is this natural at
my age 2 -
I had a wonderful voice ; it was a gift from God, and I
have lost it. Song for a woman is what eloquence is for a
man—a power without limit.
In the park which my window overlooks I saw Mme.
Rothschild to-day, with her horses, her grooms, etc. The
sight of this fortunate woman gave me pain ; but I must be
brave. Besides, when suffering becomes too severe there
comes deliverance from it. When it reaches a certain
point then we know it must begin to diminish ; it is while
awaiting this crisis of the heart and soul that we suffer ;
when it has once come, then our sufferings begin to admit
of consolation—then one can call Epictetus to one's aid,
or one can pray; but there is this about prayer: it stirs the
emotions.
Tuesday, July 27.-I tried to paint a landscape to-day,
but it ended in my flinging away the canvas; there was a
little girl of about four years old standing beside me watch-
ing me while 1 painted, and instead of looking at my land-
2 IO JOURNAL OF MARIE BASI/AIR 7SEFF. [IS80.
scape I looked at the child, who is to sit for me to-morrow.
How can any other subject be preferred to the human
form 2
I have such a pain running from the right ear down the
neck that it almost drives me crazy. I have said nothing
about it—it would only trouble my aunt ; and then I know
it is caused by my sore throat.
Here I have been for the last twenty-four hours suffer-
ing tortures. I find it impossible to sleep, or to do any-
thing else whatever. Even my reading I have to leave off
at every moment. I think it is this pain that makes every-
thing look black around me. Misery of miseries :
Saturday, July 31.-Before I left Paris I read “Indiana,”
by Georges Sand, and I can assure you I did not find it
amusing. As I have only read “La Petite Fadette,”
“Indiana,” and two or three other novels of hers, perhaps
I ought not to express an opinion on the subject; but so
far I do not enjoy this author at all.
I thought of taking a ride to-day, but I have no mind
for anything, and when I spend the day without working I
suffer the most frightful remorse, and there are days when
I can do nothing ; on such occasions I say to myself that I
could work if I tried, and then follow self-reproaches, and
it ends by my exclaiming, “Better give it all up ! Life is
not worth the trouble !” And then I sit down and smoke
cigarettes and read novels.
Tuesday, August 17.-I have never had the perseverance
to finish any piece of writing. Something of interest takes
place ; it occurs to me to write an article about it; I sketch
this out, and on the following day I see in one of the
papers an article resembling mine, or at least one that
renders mine useless. My studies in art have taught me
that in order to succeed in anything persistent effort in the
1880.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHAARTSEFF. 2 i I
beginning is indispensable. “The first step is the most
difficult one.” This proverb never struck me so forcibly
aS 1) OW. - s
And then there is the question also, and above all, of en-
zironment. Mine may be characterized, notwithstanding
the best will in the world, as stultifying. The members of
my family are, for the most part, ignorant and common-
place. Then there is Mme. G , who is a worldly
woman, par exce//ence ; and you know who our habitués are.
M and some insignificant young people. So that I can
assure you if it were not for my own companionship, and
my reading, I should be even less intelligent than I am.
Wednesday, August 18.-We took a long ride to-day,+
five hours on horseback, and with this debilitating treat-
ment, and I am literally tired to death.
I fear the result of the treatment will prove this stupid
doctor here, who pretended that I was weak, to be in the
right. It is true that he assured me, when I had got
through with it, that in order to have borne twenty-one
baths as well as I did, I must have been very strong. Med-
icine is a sorry science.
We ascended to the summit of Sancy; the mountains
that frame in the horrible Mont-Dore, seen from this
height, appear flat. The spectacle from the top of Sancy
is truly sublime ; I should love to see the sun rise from
there. The far horizon has a bluish tint that reminded me
of the Mediterranean, and that is all there is that is beauti-
ful about the place. The ascent on foot is very fatiguing,
but when one has reached the top one seems to dominate
the world.
Thursday, August 19.—I am good for nothing this morn-
ing ; my eyes are tired, my head aches. And to think I
shall not leave here till Saturday ! To-day it is too late,
2 I 2 JOURNAL OF MAR/E BASHAIRTSEFF. [1880.
to-morrow is Friday, and if I were to travel on Friday, I
should think all the stupid things that invariably happen to
me on such occasions happened on that account.
PARIS, Sunday, August 29, eight o'clock.--How comfort-
able and pretty my studio looks
I have been reading the illustrated weekly papers, and
some pamphlets. Everything goes on in the same routine
as before, just as if I had not been away.
Z'wo o'clock. —I console myself by thinking that my trou-
bles are only the equivalent of the troubles of other kinds
that other artists have to suffer, as I have neither poverty
nor the tyranny of parents to bear—for it is those, is it not,
that artists have chiefly to complain of 2
I make some good resolution, and then on a sudden I
commit some folly, as if I were acting in a dream | I de-
spise and detest myself, as I despise and detest every one
else, including the members of my own family. Oh, one's
family My aunt employed a dozen little stratagems on
the journey to make me sit on the side of the car on which
the window did not open. Tired of resisting I at last con-
sented, on condition that the window on the other side
should be opened ; and no sooner had I fallen asleep than
they closed it again. I woke up exclaiming that I would
break open the window with my heels, but we had already
arrived. And then at breakfast, afterward, such frowns,
such looks of anguish, because I did not eat. Evidently
these people love me, but it seems to me that when people
love one they should be able to understand one better.
Just indignation renders one eloquent.
And then—mamma is always talking about God : “If
God wills it”; “With the help of God.” When one in-
vokes the name of God so often it is only as an excuse for
leaving a number of petty duties undone.
This is not faith, nor even religion ; it is a mania, a vice,
1880.j ſo URNAL OF MARIE BASHAARTSEFF. 2 I 3
the cowardliness of laziness, of incapacity, of indolence.
What can be more unworthy than to seek to cover all one's
shortcomings by the word “God.” It is not only unwor-
thy, it is criminal, if one believes in God. “If it is written
that such a thing is to happen, it will happen,” she says,
so as to avoid the trouble of exerting herself, and—re-
II].OTS62.
If everything were ordered beforehand, God would be
nothing more than a constitutional president, and free will,
vice, and virtue idle words.
Tuesday, September 7.-It is raining ; all the most disa-
greeable events of my life pass in review before me, and
there are some of them, far back in the past, that to think
of makes me start in my chair and clinch my hands as if a
physical pain had suddenly seized me.
In order that I should grow better, it would be necessary
for me to change all my surroundings; I know beforehand
all that mamma or my aunt will say or do in such or such
circumstances, what they will wear receiving visitors,
when they go out to take an airing, when they are in the
country—and all this irritates me frightfully; it produces
the same effect upon me as it would to listen to the cutting
of glass.
It would be necessary for me to change my surround-
ings completely, and then, when my spirit was more
tranquil, I should no doubt love them as they deserve to
be loved. Meantime, however, they worry me to death.
When I refuse any dish at table they wear the most fright-
ful looks ; they employ every device to avoid the use
of ice at table, as they fancy it might hurt me. When I
open a window they steal to it like thieves to close it again ;
and do a thousand other silly things of the kind that irritate
my nerves. But I am possessed with a hatred for every-
thing belonging to this house. What gives me most
2 I 4 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASI/KIRTSEAF. [1880.
uneasiness is that my faculties are rusting in this solitude ;
all these somber colors tinge my thoughts with gloom and
throw my mind back upon itself. I fear that these dark
Surroundings may leave a lasting impression upon my
character, and render it sour, morose, and embittered. I
have no wish that this should be so, but I fear that it will
be the case, owing to the efforts that I am compelled to
make to prevent the rage with which they are continually
inspiring me, from appearing on the surface.
Friday, September Io.—A profound emotion for my aunt
to-day ! Dr. Fauvel, who examined my lungs a week ago
and found nothing the matter with them then, examined
them again to-day and discovered that the bronchial tubcs
are affected. He seemed serious, moved, and somewhat
confused at not having foreseen the gravity of the disease ;
then followed prescriptions for the remedies used by con-
sumptives—cod-liver oil, painting the chest with iodine, hot
milk, flannel underwear, etc., and finally he advised me to
consult Dr. Sée or Dr. Potain, or to call them in in consul-
tation with him. You may imagine the expression in my
aunt's countenance For my part all this amuses me; I
have suspected something of the kind for a long time past;
I have been coughing all the winter, and I cough still, and
experience difficulty in breathing besides. The wonder
would be if nothing were the matter with me; I should be
well pleased if something were the matter, so as to be done
with it. My aunt is terrified ; I, delighted. The thought
of death does not frighten me. I should not dare to kill
myself, but I should like to be done with life. If you but
knew—I shall wear no flannel and I will not stain my chest
with iodine. I have no desire to get well. I shall have life
enough and health enough without that for all I want to do.
Friday, September 17.-I went again yesterday to see the
1880.] /OURNAL OF MARZZ BASA/KIA. TSEAF. 215
doctor who was treating me for my deafness. He con-
fessed to me that he had not thought the trouble so serious,
and told me that I shall never again be able to hear as well
as formerly. I was completely overwhelmed by his words.
It is horrible I am not deaf, it is true, but my ear per-
ceives sound only through a mist, as it were. For instance,
I can no longer hear, and perhaps shall never be able to
hear again, the tick-tick of my alarm clock, unless by put-
ting my ear close to it. This, indeed, may be called a mis-
fortune. In conversation many things escape me. Well,
let me thank Heaven, that I have not also became blind or
dumb.
Tuesday, September 28.-Since last night I have been
happy. I dreamed of /ai/l. He was ill, and he looked
ugly, but that did not matter; I know now that love is not
dependent for its existence on the possession of beauty by
the beloved object. We talked together like two friends as
we used to do, as we would do now if we were to meet
again. All I asked for was that our friendship might not
transgress the limits beyond which it would become subject
to change.
This was the dream I cherished in my waking hours, also.
In a word, I have never been so happy as I was last night.
Wednesday, September 29.—Since yesterday my complex-
ion has been wonderfully fresh and clear and beautiful, and
my eyes brilliant and animated. Even the contour of my
face is more delicate and more perfect than before. Only
it is a pity that this is at a time when there is no one to see
me. It is a silly thing to say, but I remained standing for
half-an-hour before the glass for the pleasure of looking
at myself; it is a long time since this has happened.
Ariday, October 1 —Oh, Frenchmen who complain that
2 16 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1880.
you are neither free nor happy . The same state of things
exists now in Russia as existed in France during the Reign
of Terror—by a word, a gesture, one may bring ruin on
one’s-self. Ah, how much there still remains to be done
that men might be even approximately happy -
Sunday, October 3.−I am very sad to-day. §
No, there is no help for me. For four years I have
been treated by the most celebrated doctors for laryngitis,
and my health has been going from bad to worse during all
that time.
For the last four days I was able to hear well ; now, how-
ever, the deafness is beginning again.
Well, I will make a prediction :
I am going to die, but not just yet—that would be too
much good fortune—that would be to end my sufferings at
Once. I shall go on dragging out a miserable existence for
a few years longer with my cough, my colds, fevers, and
other ailments.
Monday, October 4.—I wrote to my music-teacher at
Naples, a short time since, for some music for the mando-
lin. I have just received his answer. I confess, notwith-
standing my realistic tendencies (a word very little under-
stood) and my republican sentiments, I am very sensible to
the charm of the flowery style of these Italians.
And why should not the two things go together ?
But this style must be left to the Italians; in others it
appears ridiculous. Ah, when shall I be able to go to
Italy 7
How tame every other place is after Italy | Never has
any other country, never has any one's presence produced
in me so strong an emotion as the mere recollection of Italy
now awakens within me.
Why should I not return there 2 And my painting Do
188o.] ſo UAE.VAZ OF AZAR/E BASI/AAA’ TS/E/F. 2 I 7
I know enough to go on in the right direction without
further instruction ? I cannot say.
No, I will remain in Paris this winter. I will go to spend
the Carnival in Italy. The winter of 1881–1882 I will spend
at St. Petersburg. If I do not marry a rich man then, I
shall return to Paris or to Italy in 1882 or 1883. And then
I will marry a nobleman with fifteen or twenty thousand
francs a year, who will be very glad to accept my income
and myself. Am I not wise to allow myself three years of
liberty before capitulating 2
Tuesday, October 5.-There is nothing left me to do but to
resign myself to the inevitable; or rather to summon all my
courage, and, standing face to face with myself, ask myself
if this be not, after all, a matter of indifference. To have
lived in one manner or in another, what does it matter?
I must learn to conquer my sensations, and to say with
Epictetus that it is in one's own power to accept evil as a
good, or rather to accept with indifference whatever hap-
pens. One must have suffered horribly to be reconciled to
this species of death as a way out of life, and it is only after
one has endured indescribable sufferings, after one has sunk
into a state of complete despair, that one begins to compre-
hend how it is possible to lead this living death. And yet,
if one were to make the effort one might learn to accept
one's fate with calmness at least. This is not a vain delu-
sion ; it is something possible.
When one has reached a certain point in physical suffering
one loses consciousness, or else falls into a state of ecstasy.
The same thing takes place in the case of mental suffering.
When it has reached a certain point the soul soars superior
to it, one regards as insignificant one's former sufferings,
and goes forward to one's fate with head erect, as the mar-
tyrs did of old.
For the fifty years or so I may still have to live, of what
2 18 JOUAEAVAL OF MAA’ſ E BASI/AAA’ Z'SZAFF. [1880.
Consequence would it be whether they were passed in a
prison or in a palace, among people or in solitude 2 The
end would be the same. What I am troubled about, then,
is the Sensations experienced during this period, and which,
when they have passed, leave no trace behind P But what
does a thing matter which is of short duration, and which,
when it is past, leaves no trace of its existence 2 What it
concerns me to do, since I have the power, is to utilize my
life in the pursuit of art—this may give evidence of my
existence after I am dead.
Saturday, October 9.—I have done nothing this week, and
inaction has made me stupid. I glanced through the
account of my journey to Russia, and it interested me
very much.
Georges Sand is a writer with whom I have no sympathy;
and she does not even possess, in the same degree as Gau-
tier, the vigor, the audacity, that inspire one with admira-
tion, if not with liking, for him. Georges Sand—well, she is
well enough. Among contemporary writers I like Daudet
best. His works, it is true, are only novels, but they are
full of just observations, of truth to nature, of genuine feel-
ing ; his characters live.
As for Zola, I am not on very good terms with him. He
has thought fit to attack, in Figaro, Ranc, and others of the
Republican party, with a virulence that is both in bad taste
and unbecoming alike to his great genius and his high liter-
ary position.
But what do people see in the writings of Georges Sand 2
Novels beautifully written, yes; but what more ? As for
me, I find her novels tiresome, which is never the case with
Balzac, the two Dumas, Zola, Daudet, or Musset. Victor
Hugo, in his most wildly romantic prose-writing, is never
tiresome ; one feels the spell of his genius. But Georges
Sand . How can any one have the patience to read three
1880.] JOUAMAZ OA A/ARIAE B21S//AIRTSEAF. 2 I 9
hundred pages filled with the sayings and doings of Valen-
tine and Benedict, the uncle, a gardener and so on. Her
theme is always the same : the equalizing of classes by
means of love—which is an ignoble one.
Let Social distinctions be abolished—well and good ; but
let it be done by a more dignified means than this.
To present the picture of a countess in love with her
valet, and to write long dissertations on the subject—in
this does the genius of Georges Sand consist. She has writ-
ten some good novels, it is true, containing some very pretty
descriptions of country life ; but I require in a writer some-
thing more than this.
I am reading “Valentine '' at present, and the book irri-
tates me, because, while it is interesting enough to make me
wish to finish it, every time I lay it down I find that it has
left nothing in my mind but a vaguely disagreeable impres-
sion. I feel as if I lowered myself by this species of read-
ing ; I dislike the book, and yet I go on reading it and
shall go on with it to the end, unless it should prove as tire-
some as the “Dernier Amour,” of the same author. “Val-
entine,” however, is the best of Georges Sand's novels that
I have read ; the “Marquis de Villemer,” too, is good. I
believe there is no groom in love with a countess in it.
Sunday, October Io.--I spent the morning at the Louvre,
and was dazzled by what I saw there. I see now that I
never had a clear understanding of art before ; I looked,
and admired in set phrases like the great majority of people.
Ah, when one can feel and comprehend art as I do now,
one has no ordinary soul. To feel that a thing is beauti-
ful, and understand why it is beautiful—this is a great
happiness.
Monday, October 11.-I set to work on my picture to-day,
full of yesterday's excitement. It is impossible not to
22 O JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHATR 7SEFF. [1880.
achieve success when one has had revelations such as I had
yesterday.
Tuesday, October 19.-Alas! All this will end, after drag-
ging out a few more years of miserable existence, in death.
I have always felt that it must end in this way. One
could not live long with a brain like mine. I am like those
too precocious children who are doomed to an early death.
I required too many things for my happiness, and circum-
stances were such that I was deprived of everything, even
physical well-being.
Two or three years ago—even six months ago—each time
I went to a new doctor in the hope of recovering my voice,
he would ask me if I did not feel such and such a symptom,
and when I answered no, he would say: 8° No, there is
nothing in the bronchial tubes or the lungs; it is the larynx
only that is affected.” Now I begin to feel all the symp-
toms the doctors imagined I had then. Therefore the
bronchial tubes and the lungs must now be affected. True
it is nothing as yet, or almost nothing. Fauvel ordered
iodine and a blister; naturally I cried out in horror ; I
would rather break an arm than suffer myself to be blistered.
Three years ago a doctor at one of the watering-piaces in
Germany found some trouble—I don't know just what—in
the right lung, under the shoulder-blade. This made me
laugh heartily. And again at Nice, five years ago, I felt
something like a pain in the same spot. The only thing I
feared, however, was that I was going to become hump-
backed, as two of my aunts, sisters of my father, were ;
and now again, a few months since, the doctors asked me if
I felt anything there. I answered, no, without thinking.
When I cough now, or even when I draw a full breath, I
feel the pain there, in the right lung, at the back. All these
things together make me believe that there may be really
something there. I take a sort of pride in showing that I
1880.] yO CRAVAZ OF AZAA/E BASI/AIAE 7 SEFF. 22 I
am ill, yet I am scarcely pleased at it. It is an ugly death—
a very slow one, four, five, ten years perhaps, and one grows
so thin, and loses all one's good looks.
I have not as yet grown much thinner ; I am just as one
ought to be ; the only thing is that I look tired. I cough
a great deal, and I find difficulty in breathing. And yet for
the past four years I have been under the care of the most
celebrated doctors; I have taken the waters they have
ordered, yet not only have I not recovered my beautiful
voice—so beautiful that it almost makes me cry to think of
it—but I grow worse and worse every day, and, let me write
the horrible word, a little deaf.
Provided death come quickly, however, I shall not com-
plain.
Friday, October 22—It is raining, and the weather is
cold,—bitterly, frightfully cold. So I am in sympathy with
the weather, and I cough without ceasing. Ah, what mis-
ery, and what a horrible existence is mine ! At half-past
three there is no longer light enough to paint, and if I read by
artificial light my eyes are too fatigued to paint on the
following day. The few people I might see I shun through
the fear of not being able to hear what they say. There are
some days when I can hear very well, and others when I can
scarcely hear at all, and then I suffer nameless tortures. It
cannot be that God will allow this state of things to con-
tinue. I am ready to suffer every kind of misery, however,
provided only I am not asked to see any one. Every time
the bell rings I shudder. This new and horrible misfortune
makes me dread everything that I had before desired.
Think what it must be for me who am by nature gay and
fond of jesting ! I laugh as much as Mlle. Samary of the
Théâtre Français; but this is rather from habit than
any wish to conceal my feelings. I shall always laugh.
All is over with me ; not only do I believe that all is over,
2 22 JOURNAL OF MAA'ſ E BASHAZA' 7 SEAA. [1880.
but I desire that it should be so. There are no words with
which to express my dejection.
Monday, October 25.—I am reading “Les Chatiments";
Yes, Victor Hugo is a genius. Perhaps I do wrong even
to suspect that I have found certain of his lyrical transports
extravagant, not to say tiresome. No, it is not the case;
he is beautiful, he is sublime, and, notwithstanding the -
exaggerated expressions he at times makes use of, he is
human, he is natural, he is charming. But I like his passages
of touching simplicity best—the last act of Hernani, for
instance, where Doña Sol pleads with the old man for pity;
and the words of the old grandmother whose grandchild had
received two bullets in the brain.
Monday, November 1.-Our studio now enjoys the same
advantages as the studio of the men, that is to say, we draw
from the nude every day from the same model in the same pose
as they do ; consequently we can now paint compositions
of more importance than before. This would have been use-
less to me for the last few months, but I have now reached
the point at which I am able to profit by it. We are only
eight in the studio now ; the other pupils, to the number
of twenty-two, have gone to Julian's new studio, 51 Rue
Vivienne, which is on the same basis as this was formerly.
Tuesday, Movember 2.—For a week past I have had my
breakfast brought from the house to the studio. This is
much more sensible than to run back and forth between
the Rue Vivienne and the Champs Elysées, and thus lose
the best hours of the day. In this way I am able to work
from eight o'clock till noon, and from one till four.
Wednesday, November Io. —It is horrible to have worked
without ceasing for three years, only to find out at the end
of them that one knows nothing.
1880.]. yOCA'.VAZ OA. AAA/E BASI/AIRTSZAF. 223
Tuesday, Movember 16.-I fear that I spoke of the church
with some exaggeration the other day. I afterward felt some
compunction in the matter, and it depended on the merest
chance whether I should get up out of bed or not, to make
the amende honorable. For it cannot be denied that the
church has been the means of diffusing a truer knowledge
of God, it has greatly ameliorated the condition of human
Society, and it has carried the name of God and civilization
among Savage nations. Without meaning any offense to
religion, I think the work of civilization might have been
carried on without the aid of Catholicism, but—on the whole,
the church has been a useful institution, as the feudal system
was, and, like it too, it has served, or almost served, its turn.
There are too many things in Catholicism that shock the
understanding, without being therefore odious, however—
sacred things mixed up with childish legends. The world
is too enlightened now for these holy falsehoods to be any
longer respected. But we are passing through a transition
period, and unhappily the masses are not yet sufficiently
enlightened to be able to dispense with these idle Supersti-
tions, that bring contempt upon religion and conduce to
atheism.
True, there are men who are sincerely religious, but are
there not also men who are sincere monarchists 2–for there
are people who believe that monarchical institutions are
necessary to the prosperity of certain countries. Stay, I
did not think of this the other day, when I said one needed
to have the soul of a lackey to advocate a monarchical form
of government.
Sunday, December 5.--Dr. Potain came this morning, and
he wishes me to spend the winter in the south, at least until
March ; otherwise I shall not be able to breathe at all soon,
or even to leave my bed. Truly I am getting on finely
For the last four years I have done everything the best
2 24 yOURAVAL OF AZAAAAE BASI/K/RTSEFF. "[1880.
physicians have ordered me to do, and I am going from bad
to worse. I have even laid violent hands on my beauty in
accordance with their orders. I have painted the right side
of my chest with iodine, and the pain is still there. Can it
be possible that the continual annoyances I suffer have
undermined my health 2 And yet the larynx and the bron-
chial tubes are not generally affected by mental conditions.
I don't know what to think. I do everything they tell me
to do ; I avoid imprudences, I wash myself with warm water
only, and yet I grow no better.
Villevieile told me yesterday that Tony, when he came
to the studio on Saturday to correct the drawings, asked to
see our pictures for the concours, and said of mine that the
eyes were drawn in a peculiar manner, but that there were
some good things about them, and that the coloring was
charming. He was not satisfied with the paintings for the
concours, in general. If I do not receive the medal, I shall
at least have made a good study.
Z’uesday, December 21.-I have no longer a buzzing in
the ears, and I can hear very well.
Wednesday, December 22.—A picture by a pupil of the
Rue Vivienne was awarded the medal; she is a new pupil—
a young American. I received first mention.
Sunday, December 26.-Potain wishes me to go away at
once. I refused point-blank, and then, half-laughingly,
half-seriously, I began to complain to him of my family.
I asked him if the throat could be affected by continual fits
of anger, and he said decidedly it could. I will not go away.
It is delightful to travel, but not in the company of my
family, with their tiresome little attentions. I know that I
should rule them all, but they irritate me, and then, no,
no, no
1880.] JOURNAL OF MAR/E BASHAZR 7SAEFF. 225
Besides, I scarcely cough at all, now. Only, all this
makes me unhappy. I fancy I can no longer extricate
myself from it—from what ? I haven’t the least idea ; but
I cannot restrain my tears. Do not suppose they are tears
of disappointment at not being yet married—no, those are
not like other tears. After all, perhaps it is that ; but I
don't think so. -
And then, everything is so gloomy around me and I have
no outlet for my feelings; my poor aunt leads so isolated a
life, we scarcely ever see each other ; I spend the evenings
reading or playing.
I can no longer either speak or write of myself without
bursting into tears. I must indeed be ill. Ah, how foolish
it is to complain Does not death end everything 2
Why, then, notwithstanding all our fine phrases, notwith-
standing our certainty that death ends everything, do we
still persist in complaining of the ills of life 2
I know that my life, like that of every other human being,
will end in death—in annihilation ; I consider all the circum-
stances of existence, which, however flattering they may
seem, are mean and wretched enough in my eyes, and yet
I cannot resign myself to die Life, then, is a force, it is
something ; it is not merely a transient state of being, a
period of time that it matters little whether it be spent in a
palace or in a prison 2 There is, then, something beyond,
some higher truth than we are able to give expression to in
the foolish phrases in which we strive to give utterance to
our thoughts on those subjects 2 This, then, is life, not a
transient state, a thing of no value, but life, the dearest
treasure we possess, all that we possess, in fact
People say it is nothing, because it is not eternal. Ah,
fools
Life is ourselves ; it belongs to us, it is all that we pos-
sess; how then is it possible to say it is nothing ! If life
be nothing, tell me, then, what something is.
226 JOURNAZ OF MARXAE BASHAZRTSEFF. [1881.
7%ursday, December 3o.—I went to see Tony to-day, and
came home feeling somewhat comforted. We talked a
great deal about myself in a general way; he said no one ever
expected great results after only three years' study ; that I
want to go too fast, that he is convinced I shall succeed,
and much more to the same effect. In short, I requested
him so earnestly to be frank with me that I think he spoke
as he felt. Besides, he has no interest in trying to deceive
me ; and then, what he said was not much after all. I have
recovered my spirits, however, in some degree, and I am
ready to begin work on my picture.
What a good, kind fellow Tony is . He says the greatest
painters have begun to be something only after a dozen
years or so of study; that Bonnat, after seven years of study,
was still unknown ; that he himself exhibited nothing until
after eight years. Of course I know all this, but, as I had
counted on winning a name before my twentieth year, you
can imagine what my feelings are.
I88I.
Saturday, January 8.-I have a genuine passion for my
books: I arrange them on the shelves, I count them, I gaze
at them; only to look at these shelves filled with old books
rejoices my heart. I stand back from them to look at them
admiringly, as I would at a picture. I have only seven hun-
dred volumes, but as they are almost all large ones, they are
equivalent to a much greater number of the ordinary size.
Sunday, January 9.-Potain refuses to attend me any
longer, as I do not obey his orders. Ah, it would please
me very well to go away—to go to Italy, to Palermo. Oh
for the cloudless sky, the blue sea, the beautiful, tranquil
1881.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHAIRTSEFF. 227
nights of Italy! Only to think of seeing Italy again makes
me wild! It is as if there were some great good in store for
me which I am not yet ready to enjoy. No, that is not
what I want to say. It is as if some great happiness awaited
me which I want to enjoy free from every care, from every
anxiety. When I say to myself, “I will go to Italy,” I
think immediately afterward, “No, not yet.” I must
first strive, first work, and then—how soon I cannot tell—
complete repose, Italy! I know not wherein the charm
consists, but the effect this name has upon me is magical,
marvelous, indescribable.
Oh, yes, it is necessary for me to go away ! I must be
very ill indeed, for Charcot, Potain, and the others to order
me away! I feel that the air of the South would have made
me well at once, but the fault is theirs.
And why does not mamma return? They say it is unrea-
sonable on my part to want her to do so, but the fact that
she does not come remains the same. Well, at last it is all
over! I have another year, perhaps—1882 is the important
year I had looked forward to in all my childish dreams. I
had fixed on 1882 as the year that was to decide my des-
tiny—but in what sense I could not tell. By my death,
perhaps. At the studio to-night they dressed up the skele-
ton to represent Louise Michel, with a red scarf, a cigar-
ette in its mouth, and a palette-knife for a poignard. In
me, too, is concealed a skeleton; to that must we all come
at last. Annihilation! Horrible thought!
Thursday, January 13 (The Russian New-Year's Day).-
I still cough a little, and my breathing is painful; otherwise I
am not noticeably changed; I am neither thin nor pale.
Potain has left off coming; my malady, he thinks, needs
only sunshine and fresh air to cure it. He is honest, Potain
is; and he does not wish to fill me with useless drugs. But
I take ass’s-milk and water-wort. I am sure that a winter
228 yOURNAL OF iſ AR/E BAS//K/R7 SEAEA.. [1881.
spent in a warm climate in the open air would cure me,
but—I know better than any one what it is that is the mat-
ter with me; I have always had a delicate throat, and con-
stant agitation of mind has contributed to make it worse.
After all there is nothing the matter with me but the cough
and my deafness, and that is of very little consequence, as
you may see.
Saturday, January 15.--To day M. Cot, who is to take
turns with Tony at the studio, entered upon his duties. I
showed him nothing I had done, though Julian had pointed
me out to him as the person he had spoken to him about.
“It is Mademoiselle,” he said, “who is going to do this,”
showing him the large canvas they had so much troublè to
bring into the studio yesterday.
Tony is a man who understands his business—an artist
of reputation, an academician, a man of recognized author-
ity in his art, and the lessons of such a man are always an
advantage. It is in painting as it is in literature: first
learn the grammar of the art, and your own nature will tell
you whether you are to write dramas or songs. So that if
Tony were to be assassinated I would take in his place
Lefebvre, Bonnat, or even Cabanel—which would not be
pleasant. Painters by temperament, like Carolus, Bastien-
Lepage, and Henner, compel you to imitate them against
your will; and they say one learns only the faults of those
one copies. And then I would not choose for my master a
painter of single figures only. I want to see an artist sur-
rounded by historical pictures; the figures in his picture,
the persons, lend him the support of their names, and
would compel me to listen to his counsels; though there are
pictures of a single figure which I would prefer to half a
dozen pictures with half a dozen figures in each of them.
The least interesting face in the world may become inter-
esting under certain conditions. I have seen, in the case of
1881.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BAS//K/RTSEAF. 229
models, the most commonplace heads rendered superb by
a hat, a cap, or a piece of drapery. All this is in order to
tell you with becoming modesty that every evening, after
coming home from the studio, I wash my hands and face,
put on a white gown, and drape a white muslin handker-
chief around my head, after the manner of the old women
of Chardin, or the young girls of Greuze. This gives my
head a surprisingly charming effect. To-night the handker-
chief, which was rather large, was draped & !" Aºgyptienne,
and I don’t know how it was, but my face looked regal.
As a general thing this word would not be applicable to my
countenance, but the drapery wrought the miracle. This
has put me in good spirits.
I have fallen into this habit of late. To remain with my
head uncovered in the evening makes me uncomfortable,
and my “sorrowful thoughts” like to be under shelter. I
fancy myself more at home, thus—more at my ease, as it
Were.
I have not learned to understand how one can sacrifice
one’s life for the beloved object—for a mortal like one's
self—-and for love of him.
But I can understand how one might suffer tortures and
death itself for a principle—for liberty, for anything that
could serve to ameliorate the condition of humanity.
For my part I would be as ready to defend all these fine
things in France as in Russia; one's country comes after
humanity; after all, there are between diſferent nations but
shades of differences; and I am for simplicity and broad-
ness of view in treating every question.
I am not easily carried away by my feelings on this point;
I am neither a Louise Michel nor a nihilist,-not at all; but
if I thought liberty were seriously menaced, I should be the
first to take up arms in her defense.
II’ednesday, January 26–After coming home from the
23O JOURNAL OF AZAR/E BASF/AIA TSEFF. [1881.
studio on Tuesday I grew feverish; and I sat in the dark
in my arm-chair, shivering and half-asleep until seven
o'clock. I kept my picture constantly before my eyes, as
has been the case every night during the last week.
As I had taken no nourishment during the day except a
little milk, the night was still worse. I could not sleep, for I
had set my alarm-clock, and it wakened me; but the pic-
ture was still before me, and I working on it in imagina-
tion. I did the opposite of everything I ought to have
done, however, impelled by an irresistible desire to efface
all that was well, done. It was impossible for me to remain
quiet: I tried to convince myself it was but a dream. In
vain. “Is this, then, the delirium of fever?” I asked my-
self. I think there was something of that in it. I know
now what it meant, and I should not regret it, if it were not
for the fatigued feeling I have—more especially in my
limbs.
But the strangest part of it was that, in my delirium,
I fancied I was waiting for Julian to give me his advice
concerning one of the figures I had changed.
He came yesterday and found that everything I had done
was wrong; before my dream I had effaced all that was
good in the picture.
And last night, by a curious coincidence, I could hear
perfectly well.
I feel bruised all over.
Thursday, February 3–I have now before my eyes the
portrait of my father and mother, taken just before they
were married. I have hung them up as “documentary
evidence.” According to Zola and other philosophers of
greater ſame, it is necessary to know the cause if we
would understand the effects. My mother at the time of
my birth was young and full of health, and exceedingly
beautiful, with brown hair, brown eyes, and a dazzling
1881.j JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHK/RTSEFF. 23f
complexion; my father was fair, pale, delicate in health,
and was himself the son of a robust father and a sickly
mother, who died young, leaving four daughters, all more
or less deformed from their birth. Grandpapa and grand-
mamma were endowed with vigorous constitutions, and
they had nine children, all of them healthy and robust, and
some of them, mamma and Etienne for instance, handsome.
The sickly father of our illustrious subject has become
strong and healthy, and the mother, blooming with health
in her youth, has become feeble and nervous, thanks to the
horrible existence she has been compelled to lead.
I finished “L’Assommoir” the day before yesterday. I
was so forcibly impressed with the truth of the book that
it almost made me sick. I felt as if I had lived among
those people and talked with them.
Monday, February 7.-My picture, set aside for a time on
account of a figure I could not get to my liking, goes for-
ward again. I feel as light as a feather.
My favorite Bastien-Lepage has exhibited a portrait of
the Prince of Wales, in the costume of Henry IV., with the
Thames and the English fleet in the background. The back-
ground has the same tone as the “Joconde.” The face is
that of a sot ; it has altogether the air of a Holbein, it might
be taken for one. I don't like that. Why imitate the style
of another 2
Ah, if I could only paint like Carolus Duran This is
the first time I have seen anything I thought worth covet-
ing—anything I should like to own, myself, in the way of
painting. After that everything else seemed to me mean,
dry, and daubed.
Saturday, February 12.-At noon to-day the servant came
running into the studio, her face flushed with excitement.
M. Julian has received the Cross of the Legion of Honor.
232 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHAVR 7SEFF. [1881.
Every one was rejoiced, and A. Neuvégliss and I ran to
order a splendid basket of flowers, with a large red bow, at
Vaillant-Roseau's. Vaillant-Roseau is not an ordinary
florist, he is an artist—150 francs was not too dear.
Villevielle returned at three for the express purpose of
felicitating the master. Julian wore his ribbon, and, for
the first time in my life, I had the pleasure of seeing a per-
fectly happy man. He declared he was this. “There may
be people who have still something to wish for,” he said ;
“as for me I have everything I desire.”
Then Villevielle and I went downstairs to the studio of
the director to see the basket; there were rejoicings, felici-
tations, and even a little emotion. He spoke to us of his
old mother, for whom he feared the news might be too
much ; and then of an old uncle who would cry like a child,
he said, when he heard it.
“Only think—a little village down yonder I imagine
what an effect it will have—a poor little peasant-boy who
came to Paris without a sou–Chevalier of the Legion of
Honor | * .
Sunday, February 13.−I have just received a very affec-
tionate letter from mamma ; here it is :
“GRAND HOTEL, KARKOFF, January 27.
My adored angel, my cherished child Moussia, if you but
knew how unhappy I am without you, especially as I am
uneasy on account of your health, and how I long to go to
you at the earliest possible moment
“My pride, my glory, my happiness, my joy | If you
could imagine the sufferings I endure without you ! Your
letter to Mme. Anitskoff is before me ; I read it over and
over again like a lover, and I water it with my tears. I kiss
your little hands and your little feet, and I pray the good
God that I may soon be able to do so in reality.
“I tenderly embrace our dear aunt.
“ M. B.”
1881.] JOUR.VAL OF JAA/C/A. B.4 SI/ATA’ 7SEFF. 233
Monday, February 14.—The head in Alice Brisbane's
portrait was finished in two hours, and Julian told me not
to retouch it. And at other times one spends a week in
making a daub. A part of the bodice and of the skirt is
also painted in.
7%ursday, March 3.—I am very ill. I have a violent
cough, I breathe with difficulty, and there is an ominous
sound in my throat. I believe this is what they call laryn-
geal phthisis.
I opened the New Testament lately, a thing I had not
done for some time past ; and on two different occasions,
within a few days of each other, I was struck by the appo-
siteness to my thought of the passage at which I chanced
to open. I have begun again to pray to Jesus ; I have
returned to the Virgin, and to a belief in miracles, after
having been a deist, and, for a short time, even an atheist.
But the religion of Christ, as He taught it, bears little
resemblance either to your Catholicism or to our orthodoxy,
the rules of which I do not observe, limiting myself to fol-
lowing the precepts of Christ, and not concerning myself
about allegories which have been taken in a literal sense,
nor with the superstitions and other absurdities intro-
duced into religion later on, by men, from political or other
motives.
Ariday.—I have finished my picture, with the exception
, of a few final touches.
Saturday, March 19.-Julian cries out that he is furious
with himself for having given me the subject he did for my
first picture. “Ah, if it were only your second,” he says.
“Ah, well,” I answered, “let us leave it then for next
year.”
Thereupon he looked at me with eyes shining with hope
234 yO ('A'.V.1/ OF AZ.1/0// B.15//A/A 7'SZAF. [1881.
at finding me capable of renouncing the vain Satisfaction of
exhibiting an unfinished and mediocre picture. He would
be delighted if I renounced it; and so should I ; but the
others ?—my friends 2 They would say my work had been
thought too ill of by the professors; that I was not able to
execute a picture ; in short, that my picture was rejected at
the Salon.
I have spoken seriously to Julian, and explained my feel-
ings to him. He comprehends the state of things very well,
and so do I. He says I shall be honorably received, and
achieve even a certain measure of success ; but this is not
what we have dreamed of. The men below will not come
and stand before my picture, and say, “What is it a woman
who has painted that 2 " Finally, to save my pride, I pro-
posed to make it appear as if an accident had happened to
the picture ; but he would not consent. He had expected
a success ; he confesses that he is not altogether satisfied,
but that it may do. And under these conditions I exhibit !
Well, it is done with, and I am rid of my picture, but
how anxious I shall be until the first of May is over ! If I
only have a good number 1
Thursday-I have just found a little jar of tar under my
bed. It was placed there by Rosalie to benefit my health.
And by the advice of a fortune-teller My family thought
this mark of devotion on the part of a servant very touch-
ing ; mamma was very much affected ; but I poured a jug
of water over the carpet under the bed, broke a pane of
glass, and went to sleep in my study through rage.
Tuesday, March 29.-1 learned at the studio that Breslau's
picture was accepted, and I have heard nothing of mine.
I painted until noon, and then went for a drive, that appeared
to me interminably long.
Wednesday, March 30.-I pretended to be asleep until
1881.] JO ('A'.Y.1/ OF J/.1/// B.15//AIA 7'SEFF. 235
ten o'clock, so as not to go to the studio, and I am very
unhappy.
F. iday, April 1,–April-fooling apart, I am to be queen.
Julian came himself at midnight last night to tell me so,
after leaving Lefebvre's. Bojidar went to find out from
Tidière, one of the young men downstairs, without my
asking him, and declares that I am No. 2. This seems to
me too much to expect.
Sunday, April 3.—Never have I heard Patti sing with
greater spirit than last night. Her voice had such power,
such freshness, such brilliancy Heavens ! what a beauti-
ful voice I had It was powerful, dramatic, entrancing !
It made a chill run down one's back to hear it. And now,
not even the memory of it left
Shall I never recover it, then 2 I am young ; it may be
possible.
Patti does not touch the heart, but she can bring tears of
enthusiasm to the eyes. To listen to her voice reminds
one of an exhibition of fireworks. In one passage, last
night, her notes were so pure, so brilliant, so bird-like, that
I was completely carried away.
Tuesday, April 5.—A great surprise ! My father is here !
They came to the studio for me, and when I went home I
found him in the dining-room with mamma, who paid him
a thousand little attentions. Dina and Saint-Amand, who
were there also, were charmed with the spectacle of this
Conjugal happiness.
Wednesday, April 6.—I was delayed until nine by my
father, who insisted upon it that I should not work to-day ;
but I am too much interested in my torso for that, and I
shall not see the august family again until dinner-time,
236 JOUR.V.4 L OF A/ARVE BASI/K/RTSEFF. [1881.
after which they go to the theater and I remain at home
alone.
My father cammot conceive ſhow one can be an artist, or how
being one can redound to one's credit. I sometimes think
he only pretends to have such ideas.
Sunday, May 1.-Alexis came early ; he had a ticket
admitting two persons, so that, as I have one also, we can
all four go—Monsieur, Madame, Alexis, and I. I am not
too well pleased with my dress—a costume of dark-gray
wool, and a handsome, but rather commonplace, black hat.
We found my picture at once ; it is in the first salon—to the
left of the salon d'honneur, in the second row. I am
delighted with the place, and very much surprised to see
the picture look so well. Not that it looks well, but I
expected to see it look frightful, and it is not bad.
Through an error, however, they have omitted my name
in the catalogue. (I have called their attention to it, and it
will be rectified.) One cannot see the pictures very well on
the first day. One wants to see everything at once. Alexis
and I left the others from time to time, to look around a
little ; then we lost sight of them entirely, and I took his
arm, for I do as I choose ; I come and go without fear of any
one. We met a crowd of acquaintances, and I received a
great many fine compliments that did not seem as if they
were dragged in by the hair. This is but natural ; these
people, who understand nothing about the matter, see a
large picture with a good many figures in it, and they think
it is everything it should be.
A week ago I gave a thousand francs to be distributed
among the poor. No one knows of this. I went to the
principal office, and quickly slipped away when I had finished
the business that brought me, without waiting for thanks.
The director must have thought I stole the money, in order
to give it away. Heaven grant me a return for my money !
1881.] JOCRyAL OF MARIE BAS//K/K 7SEAF. 237
Abbema, who was walking through the rooms with
Bojidar, sent me word that he was pleased with my picture ;
he says that it is strong, full of spirit, etc. A few moments
afterward we met and made the acquaintance of the cele-
brated friend of Sarah Bernhardt. She is a very good girl
and I value her praises.
We breakfasted in the building ; altogether we spent six
hours with Art. I shall say nothing of the pictures. I will
only say that I think highly of Breslau's picture ; it has
great beauties, but the drawing is bad, and the colors too
thickly laid on in places. And then, such fingers, like the
claws of a bird | Such noses, with slits for nostrils | Such
nails | And such stiffness and heaviness in the execution
In short, the picture is of the impressionist school and
Bastien-Lepage is the master she copies.
Where does one see such colors and such perspective in
nature ?
Notwithstanding all this, however, it possesses beauties;
and those three heads, placed between the portrait of Wolff
and the “Mendicant ’’ of Bastien-Lepage, attract a good
deal of attention. tº
Friday, May 6.—I went this morning to the Salom, where
I met Julian, who made me acquainted with Lefebvre.
The latter said to me that my picture possessed great merit.
At home here they are always talking of the changes that
are to take place. They all irritate me. My father's ideas
are absurd at times. He does not himself think so, but he
persists in speaking as if it were of the greatest importance
that I should consent to spend the summer in Russia.
“People will see then,” he says, “that you do not live
apart from your family.”
Have I ever lived apart from them 2 Well, I shall wait
for whatever chance may bring ; but, at all events, I will
not travel. I shall remain tranquilly (!) here, and I can
238 JOURNAL OF AZAR/E BASI/AIA 7.SEFF. [1881.
then be miserable at my ease in my arm-chair, where, at
least, I am physically comfortable.
Oh, this dreadful lassitude Is it natural to feel thus at
my age 2
And this it is that drives me to despair. If I should
ever meet with any good fortune would I have the capacity
to enjoy it 2 Could I avail myself of any opportunity that
might present itself 2 I think at times I can no longer see
as well as other people—though still well enough.
In the evenings when I am tired out and half asleep,
divine harmonies float through my brain ; they rise and
fall, like the strains of an orchestra, but independent of my
volition.
Saturday, May 7.—My father wishes to leave Paris to-
morrow, and mamma is to accompany him. This will un-
settle everything.
And I, am I to accompany them 2 I could sketch there
in the open air and return in time for Biarritz.
On the other hand, they say Ems would benefit me. Ah,
everything is indifferent to me. There is nothing left me
to hope for.
Sunday, May 8.-I am almost glad to see that my health
is giving way, since Heaven has denied me happiness.
But when it is completely ruined, everything will perhaps
change, and then it will be too late.
Every one for himself—that is true ; but my family pre-
tend to love me so much, and they do nothing for me. I
am nothing now ; there seems to be a veil between me and
the rest of the world. If one only knew what there is
beyond—but we do not ; and then, it is precisely this feel-
ing of curiosity I have about it that makes the thought of
death less terrible to me.
I cry out a dozen times a day that I want to die ; but
1881.] JOURNAL OF MAA'/E BASI/AIRTSEFF. 239
that is only a form of despair. One says to one's-self, “I
desire to die,” but it is not true ; it is only another way of
saying that life is unendurable ; one always, and in every
case, desires to live, especially at my age. Besides, there is
no need to grieve about me. I have life enough still to
last for some time longer. No one is to be blamed in the
matter; it is God who wills it so.
Sunday, May 15.-Nothwithstanding everything—in a
word, I am to go to Russia with them, if they will wait a
week for me. I should find it unendurable to be present at
the distribution of prizes. This is a very great chagrin that
no one knows anything about except Julian ; and I shall
leave Paris on account of it. I went incognito to consult a
famous doctor, C––. I shall never recover my hearing,
he says. The pleura of the right lung is diseased, and has
been so for some time; and the throat is in a very bad
state. I asked him about all this in such a way that, after
making a careful examination, he was obliged to tell me
the truth.
It will be necessary for me to go to Allevard, and under-
go a course of treatment. Well, I will do so on my return
from Russia ; and from there I will go to Biarritz. I will
go on with my painting in the country; I will sketch in the
open air, and that will benefit my health. I write all this
filled with rage.
But here in the house the situation is enough to make
one weep. Mamma in despair, on the Öne side, at having to
go, and I unwilling to go with her, and equally unwilling
that my aunt should be obliged, in accordance with the non-
sensical notions of the family, to stay here to take care
of me.
My strength is exhausted. I remain the whole day with-
out opening my lips, so that I may not have to burst into
tears. I feel suffocating; there is a constant buzzing in my
24O JOUA.V.4/ OF A/.4/º/E BAS//K/RTSAEFF. [1881.
ears, and I have a curious sensation, as if my bones were
breaking through the flesh, and this were melting away.
And my poor aunt, who wants me to be happy, and to talk
to her and to stay here with her I repeat it, my strength
is exhausted, I have no faith in anything good happening,
and I think everything evil is possible. I desire neither to
go nor to stay, but I think that if I were to go they would
not remain there so long. Besides—I cannot say ; it is the
thought of Breslau's receiving the medal that makes me
wish to go. Ah, I am unlucky in everything ! I must
then die miserably—I who had so much faith in the ſuture;
who prayed so fervently. Well, after the most moving
arguments on all sides, our departure has been fixed for
Saturday.
Friday, May 20.-In two words, I have again begun to
hesitate about going to Russia. Potain came to see me
to-day, and I count on his aid to be able to remain without
causing my father too much vexation. Well, there is a pos-
sibility of my not going.
But it is Bojidar who has given me the fatal blow. The
Committee made its examination of the pictures in the Salon
to-day, and admired Breslau's picture greatly! My tears,
which had been already flowing, fell in torrents at this news.
My father and mother think it is what Potain has said that
is troubling me, and I cannot tell them the truth; but I
shed tears enough for both causes.
After all Potain has said very little that is new, and he has
made it possible for me to remain here if I wish to do so.
But Breslau's picture is the thing! I have asked Potain to
represent my condition to my family as worse than it is, and
to say to them that my right lung is affected, so that my
father may not be vexed at my remaining here.
Monday, May 23.-Finally everything was packed up
1881.] JoJRNAL OF MARIE BASHAVRTSEAF. 24i.
and we went to the station. Then, at the moment of de-
parture, my hesitation communicated itself to the others; I
began to cry, and mamma with me, and then Dina and my
aunt; and my father asked what was to be done. I re-
sponded by tears; the bell rang; we ran to the cars, in
which no seat had been secured for me, and they entered
an ordinary compartment (which I objected to doing). I
was going to follow them, but the door was already closed,
as the compartment was full, and they went away without
our even saying good-by. It is all very well for people of
the same family to abuse one another, and say they detest
one another, but when it comes to parting they think of
those things no longer. I cried at the thought of going
with them, I cry now because I am left behind. I scarcely
think at all of Breslau. But, after all, I shall be able to
take better care of my health here, and then I shall not
lose time.
Tuesday, May 24.—I am in despair at not having gone
with the others. . . . I shall telegraph to them to Berlin to
wait for me there.
BERLIN, Wednesday, May 25.-Accordingly I left Paris
yesterday. Before leaving I went to see Tony, who is very
ill, and for whom I left a letter of thanks, and to Julian's;
he was not at home, which was as well perhaps, as he might
have made me change my mind and remain, and it was nec-
essary for me to go. For the last week no one of the fam-
ily dared look at the others for fear of bursting into tears'
And when I was left alone I wept constantly, thinking, at
the same time, how cruel this was for my aunt. She must
have seen, however, that I also wept when the question was
one of leaving her. She thinks I do not care for her at all,
and when I consider what a self-sacrificing life this heroic
creature has led, I am melted to tears. She has not even
242 JOURNAL OF AZAR/E BASI/ATA 7'S/EAEF. [1881.
the consolation of being loved as a good aunt! But then
there is no one I love better. In fine, I am at Berlin; my
family and Gabriel were at the station to meet me, and we
all dined together. º
What is the culmination of horror is my deafness; this is
the most frightful blow I could have received. I now dread
everything I before desired. Now that I have more expe-
rience; that my talents are perhaps about to be developed;
that I know better how to manage, it seems to me that the
world would be at my command if I could only hear as
before. And in my disease this happens only once in a
thousand cases, according to what the physicians I have Con-
sulted say. “Reassure yourself,” they would say; “you will
not become deaf on account of your larynx; that happens very
rarely.” And it has happened precisely to me. You can-
not imagine what efforts it costs me, what a state of tension
I am in continually, to try to conceal this odious infirmity.
I succeed in doing so with those who have always known
me and with those whom I seldom see; but at the studio, for
instance, they know it there.
And how it affects the intelligence! How is it possible
for me to be animated or witty?
Ah, all is over !
FASKoRR (near KIEFF), 7%ursday, May 26.-I needed to
take this long journey; nothing is to be seen on any side
but immense plains. The view is grand: I am delighted
with the steppes, which are a novelty to me; they give me
a sense of infinity; where there are villages or forests to be
seen it destroys the effect. What charms me especially here
is the amiable and obliging manner of the officials, even to
the lowest of them. The people of the custom-house chat
with you as if they were acquainted with you. But I have
had already eighty-six hours' travel in the cars, and there
1881.] JOURAA / OF MARIE BASI/KIRTSEFF. 243
are still thirty before me. These distances make one dizzy
to think of.
GAVRONZY, Sunday, May 29.-Last night we reached
Poltava.
Paul has grown frightfully stout.
This morning Kapitanenko, Wolkovisky, and some others
came to see us. My father is very happy, but a little
troubled at seeing the melancholy effect this country pro-
duces on me after five years of absence. I do not seek to
conceal this feeling, and now that I am more familiar with my
father I no longer try to humor him.
At dinner a dish dressed with onions was served. I got
up and left the dining-room; the Princess and Paul’s wife
were surprised. Paul's wife is quite pretty; she has superb
black hair, a fine complexion, and not a bad figure; she is
a good little woman.
Saturday, June 4.—Julian writes that Tony R. F. took
cold while driving home from his mother's in an open car-
riage, and that he has been between life and death ever
since. H; mourns for him as if he were already dead.
Sunday, June 5.-I telegraphed to Julian yesterday for
news about Tony. I am extremely anxious on his account.
Monday, /une 6 (May 25).--Tony is out of danger! I
am delighted. Rosalie burst into tears at the news; she
said that if he had died, it would certainly have made me
ill. She exaggerates a little, but—she is a good girl. A
letter from Julian, containing the good news, arrived at the
same time as the telegram.
Monday, /une 13 (1).-I have begun the portrait of a
peasant-girl, life-size; she stands leaning against a hedge of
inter woven branches. we
244 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1881.
Monday, June 27 (15).-I have sketched out one of my
pictures for the Salon. I am delighted with the subject; it
is all planned out, and I am burning with impatience to
begin.
Wednesday, /u/y 6 (June 24).-I have finished my pic-
ture: it is better than anything I had done so far; the head,
which I have done over three times, is especially good.
Monday.—Nini, her sister, and Dina came for me, where
I was working out of doors, to take me back with them to
the house. Some one chanced to allude to the superstition
that the breaking of a mirror portends misfortune. This
reminded me that on one or two occasions I have found
three candles together in my room. Does this portend that
I am going to die? There are times when the thought of
death turns me cold. But I have less fear when I let my
mind dwell upon God, though this does not reconcile me to
the thought of death. Or perhaps it means that I shall
become blind; but that would be the same thing as to die,
for I should then kill myself. What shall we find on the
other side, though? But what does it matter? At least we
escape from our present sorrows. Or perhaps I shall lose
my hearing completely; perhaps I shall grow deaf. The
very thought of this word, that it scorches my pen to write,
enrages me. My God—but I cannot now even pray as for-
merly. What if it should portend the death of a near rela-
tion—of my father, for instance? Or of mamma? I should
never be able to console myself, in that case, for the many
unkind words I have spoken to her.
Doubtless what most displeases God with me is that I
take note of all the inward movements of my soul, thinking,
involuntarily, that such a thought will be set down to my
credit, such another to my discredit. For, from the moment
in which we recognize a thought to be good, all the merit
1881.] ſo UKMAZ OF MARIE BASHAIRTSEFF. 245
of it is lost. If I have some generous, or noble, or pious
impulse, I am immediately conscious of it ; as a consequence
I involuntarily experience a feeling of satisfaction on
account of the benefit that must accrue to my soul from
this. And because of these thoughts the merit of the
action resulting from this impulse is lost. Thus, a moment
since it occurred to me to go downstairs and throw myself
into mamma's arms, and ask her to forgive me for all my
past unkindness to her, and naturally the thought that fol-
lowed this impulse was favorable to myself, and all the
merit of it was at an end. I felt afterward that to have
carried out my intention would not have benefited me much,
for that, in spite of myself, I should have done it a little
cavalierly, or awkwardly; for a genuine, serious expansion
of feeling between us would not be possible ; she has
always seen me turn everything into ridicule ; to do any-
thing else would not seem natural in me; she would think
I was acting a part.
Monday, July 1 1.--To-day is the feast of St. Paul. I
have on a ravishing gown ; Dina, too, looks charming. I
laughed and chatted awhile with Lihopay and Micha, as
amiably as if it amused me. The others listened to our
witty sayings. Then we danced, papa and mamma together,
having Paul and his wife for their vis-à-vis. Dina, in the
wildest spirits, danced alone, one fantastic dance after
another, and really with a great deal of grace. I, too, not-
withstanding this dreadful affliction (my deafness) which is
turning me gray, danced for a few minutes, but without
gayety or even the pretense of it,
Friday, July 15.-We are at Karkoff; I cough a great
deal and breathe with difficulty. I have just been looking
at myself in the glass, expecting to see traces of my malady;
but no, there is nothing as yet. I am slender but far from
246 JOUA'A'AZ OF A/ARIAE BASI/AIAE 7 SEA/?. [1881.
being thin, and then my bare shoulders have a smooth and
rosy appearance that does not agree with my cough, nor
with the sounds to be heard in my throat. I cannot hear as
well as formerly, however. I have taken cold, and that is
probably the reason why my cough is worse. Ah, well !
Mamma and I went into one of the convents here, to-day,
and mamma knelt down and prayed with fervor before an
image of the Virgin. How can any one pray to a picture ?
I had, indeed, intended doing so, but I could not. It is
different when the desire comes to me of itself, when I am
in my own room—then I feel the better for having prayed.
And I believe that God can cure me, but God only. Before
doing so, however, He would have to forgive me first for so
many little sins !
Saturday, /u/y 16.-This morning Pacha, my old admirer,
arrived here. He has grown stouter, but he is still the
same rude and uncultivated, but harmless being, as before.
Thursday, /u/y 21.—Here we are at Kieff, the “holy
city,” the “mother of Russian cities,” according to St.
Wladimir, who, having received baptism himself, afterward
baptized all his people, with their own consent or without
it, as the case might be, driving them into the waters of the
Dnieper. Some of them must have been drowned, I fancy.
What troubled the imbeciles most, however, was the fate of
their idols, which were cast into the river at the same time
that the people were baptized in its waters. The rest of
the world is so ignorant with regard to everything that con-
cerns Russia that I shall perhaps tell you something you
did not know before, when I say that the Dnieper is one of
the most beautiful rivers in the world, and that its banks
are extremely picturesque. The houses in Kieff have an
appearance of being thrown together in confusion, pèle mále,
no matter how, as it were. There is an upper city and a
1881.] JOUAMAZ OF AZAAAAE BASI/AIA 7 SEAF. 247
lower city, and the streets are very steep. This is not very
agreeable, for the distances are enormous, but it is pictur-
esque. Nothing remains of the ancient city. The Rus-
sian civilization of that time contented itself with construct-
ing mean temples, without art or solidity, to which fact it
is due that we possess few or no monuments of the past.
If I were given to exaggeration, I should say that there are
as many churches in the city as there are dwelling-houses.
There are also a great many cathedrals and convents ; in
fact, three or four of these buildings may at times be seen
standing together in a row, all adorned with numerous
gilded cupolas ; the walls and columns are whitewashed
and the roofs and cornices are green. Often the entire
façade of the structure is covered with pictures of the saints,
and scenes from their lives, but all executed with extreme
crudeness.
We first visited La Lavra, a convent which thousands of
pilgrims from all parts of Russia come to visit every day.
The iconostase, or partition that separates the altar from
the body of the church, is covered with images of the saints,
either painted or inlaid with silver. The shrines, and the
doors, which are completely covered with silver, must have
cost an immense amount of money ; the coffins of the saints
too, which are inlaid with wrought silver, and the candela-
bra and candlesticks, all of the same metal, must be of great
value. They say these monks have in their possession sacks
full of precious stones.
Mamma prayed with unexampled fervor. I am quite
sure that Dina and papa prayed for me also.
The miracle did not take place, however. You laugh?
Well, as for me I almost counted upon it. I attach no im-
portance whatever to churches, relics, or masses; no, but I
relied on their prayers, on my prayers. And I rely upon
them still. God has not yet heard my prayer, but perhaps
one day He will. I believe only in God ; but is the God I
248 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1881,
believe in a God who listens to us, and who concerns Him-
self in our affairs 2
God may not restore me to health, all of a sudden, in a
church. I have not deserved this ; but He will have con-
passion on me and inspire some doctor who will cure me—
or perhaps He will suffer time to do so. But I shall not
Cease to pray.
As for mamma, she believes in images and relics—her
religion, in a word, is paganism—as is the case with the
greater number of people who are devout and—not very
intelligent.
Perhaps the miracle would have taken place if I had
believed in the power of images and relics. But at the
same time that I knelt and prayed I could not succeed in
doing this. I can more easily understand how one should
kneel down anywhere else, and pray to God quite simply.
God is everywhere. But how believe in these things 2 It
appears to me that this species of fetichism is an insult to
God and a wrong done Him. In the case of the majority
of persons,—of the pilgrims, for instance,—God is lost
sight of ; they see nothing but a piece of dry flesh that has
the power to work a miracle, or a wooden image to which
they may pray, and which will hear their prayers. Am I
wrong 2 Are they right 2
PARIs, 7'uesday, /u/y 26.-I am at last here ! This is
to live Among other places, I went to the studio; they
received me there with kisses and cries of welcome.
IWednesday, July 27.-I mentioned to Julian a subject I
had thought of for a painting, but he was not very enthusi-
astic about it. And then for two hours he did nothing but
talk to me of my health, and that without any disguise.
He thinks my condition serious. He may well think so,
since two months’ treatment have made no change in it for
1881.] JO UA’.V.1 L OF MAA’ſ E BASI/AIRTS/AF. 249
the better. I know myself that it is serious; that I grow
worse every day; that I am gradually fading away; and at
the same time I refuse to believe such horrible things.
Breslau has received her honorable mention. She has al-
ready had some orders. Madame M , who has taken a
great interest in her, and at whose house she has met the
most celebrated artists in Paris, has given her an order for
her portrait, for the coming Salon. She has already sold
three or four pictures; in short, she is on the road to for-
tune. And I ?—And I am a consumptive 1 Julian tries
to frighten me so as to induce me to take care of myself.
I would take care of myself if I had any confidence in the
result. It is a melancholy fate to befall one at my age.
Julian is in truth right. In a year from now I shall see how
changed I shall be ; that is to say that there will be then
nothing left of me. I went to-day to visit Colignon. She
will die soon ; there is one who is indeed changed Rosa-
lie had prepared me for it, but I was shocked to see her ;
she looks like death itself.
Can you not fancy you already see me feeble, emaciated,
pale, dying, dead 2
Is it not atrocious that this should be so 2 But, dying
young, I shall at least inspire every one with pity. I am
myself touched with compassion when I think of my fate.
No, it does not seem possible ! Nice, Rome, my girlish
dreams, the mad delights of Naples, art, ambition, illimit-
able hopes—all to end in a coffin, without ever having pos-
sessed anything—even love
I was right ; it is not possible to live, constituted as I
am, when one's life is such as mine has been from child-
hood. To live to be old would have been too much to ex-
pect in such circumstances.
And yet we see people who are more fortunate than I
ever hoped to be, even in my wildest dreams.
For every other sorrow there may be found some con-
25o JOUA'A'AZ O/C A/.4/č// B.4 SI/AAA' 7"SZAF. [1881.
solation ; but for the pangs of wounded vanity there is
none; they are worse than death itself. And what of disap-
pointed affection, of absence from those we love 2 These,
at least, are not death. I can scarcely keep back my tears;
I believe that my health is irretrievably ruined, and that I
am going to die. But it is not that I complain of, it is my
deafness And then, just now, Breslau ; but Breslau is a
blow that was not needed. Everywhere beaten, everywhere
repulsed.
Well, then, let death come.
Tuesday, August 9.-I went to the doctor's this morn-
ing ; this is the third time in two weeks; he makes me go
to him so that he may receive a louis for every visit, for
the treatment is always the same.
Truly it is enough to drive one mad. They say that in a
thousand cases of the disease I suffer from, in not more
than one case does deafness occur, and that happens to be
precisely my case. We see people who suffer from the
throat, people who have consumption, every day, but
they do not become deaf. Ah, it is such an unlooked-
for misfortune ! It was not enough that I should lose
my voice, that I should lose my health, but this un-
speakable torture must be added to my other trials.
This must be a judgment upon me for complaining about
trifles. Is it God who thus chastises me 2 The God of
pardon, of goodness, of mercy 2. But the most cruel of
men could not be more pitiless than this
I am in a state of constant torture. To have to blush
before my family ; to be made to feel their complaisance in
raising their voices when they speak to me ! To be obliged
to tremble every time I enter a shop lest I should betray
my deafness Then it is not so bad, however, but when I
am with my friends—all the stratagems I am compelled to
make use of to conceal my infirmity No, no, no, it is too
1881.] JOURNAL OF MAA/E BASI/AIRTSEFF. 25 I
cruel, it is too frightful, it is too terrible ! And the mod-
els—when I am painting ! I am not always able to hear
what they say to me, and I tremble every time I think they
are going to address me. Do you think my work does not
show the effects of this 2 When Rosalie is present she
helps me, but when I am alone I grow dizzy, my tongue
refuses to say, “Speak a little louder, I cannot hear very
well !” My God l have pity upon me ! And to cease to
believe in God would be to die of despair | First, the Sore
throat, then the affection of the lungs, and now deafness.
Now I must undergo treatment for that But—I have al-
ways been under treatment. Dr. Krishaber is to blame for
all this ; it is in consequence of his treatment that I–
My God, must I then be so cruelly cut off from commu-
nication with the rest of the world 2 And it is I, I, I who
have to bear this. There are many people to whom it
would not be so terrible a misfortune, but to me—
Oh, what a terrible thing !
Zhursday, August II.-I go to Passy every day, but I
have no sooner begun work on a picture than I conceive a
horror of what I have done. And I injure my eyes, and
waste my time reading in order to quiet my nerves.
And there is no one whom I can consult in regard to my
doubts. Tony is in Switzerland, Julian is in Marseilles.
It may be true that I have no greater cause for com-
plaint than others have. This may be so ; but it is equally
true that I am no longer good for anything ! Social life,
politics, intellectual enjoyments—in none of these can I
take a part, except through the medium of a fog, as it were,
through which everything reaches my senses dulled and
confused.
And should I venture to seek these pleasures, I would
only run the risk of covering myself with ridicule or of
being taken for a fool. All the eccentricities, the fits of
252 JOUAMAZ OF AZAR/E BAS//KIA’ TSE/A. [1881.
absent-mindedness, the brusqueness I must affect, only to
conceal from Saint-Amand the fact that I cannot hear well !
It is enough to discourage the stoutest heart. How is it
possible to confess that one is deaf, when one is young and
elegant, and pretends to be able to do everything 2 How
is it possible to solicit indulgence or pity in such circum-
stances 2 Besides, of what use would it all be 2 My head
feels splitting, and I no longer know where I am. Oh, no !
there is no God such as I have imagined God to be. There
is a Supreme Being, there is Nature, there is, there is—
but the God I have prayed to every day, this God does not
exist. That God should deny me everything—well and
good ; but to torture me to death in this manner . To
render me more wretched, more dependent than any beggar
in the street ! And what crime have I committed 7 I am
not a saint, it is true. I do not spend my life in churches;
I do not fast. But you know what my life has been—with
the exception of treating my family disrespectfully, who do
not deserve it from me, I have nothing to reproach myself
with. Of what use would it be to ask pardon every night
in my prayers for being compelled by circumstances to say
disagreeable things to my family 2 For if it be true that I
am to blame with regard to mamma, you know well it was in
order to spur her to action that I have spoken harshly to her.
Ariday, August 12.—You think perhaps that I have
decided upon a subject for my picture ? I can do nothing.
I am possessed by the horrible certainty of my incapacity.
Here is a month or more gone already, counting the time
lost in traveling, during which I have done nothing. I am
disappointed beforehand with my work ; I see it in imagina-
tion, without a trace of animation, beauty, or genius. It is
odious ! I can do nothing !
Saturday, August 13.—You are not ignorant of the fact
1881.] JOUAMAZ OF MARIE BASHR/RTSEFF. 253
that my right lung is affected ; well, you will no doubt be
glad to learn now that the left lung is affected also, though
it is true that none of those idiots of doctors have told me
so as yet. I felt the first symptoms of this in the catacombs
of the relics at Kieff, but I thought it was only a temporary
pain caused by the dampness. Since then I have felt it
constantly; to-night it is so severe that I can scarcely draw
my breath. I feel it very distinctly between the shoulder-
blade and the chest, in the spot where the doctors strike
their little blows.
And my picture ?
Sunday, August 14.—Last night I could scarcely sleep,
and this morning I still feel the pain in my chest.
I have given up the idea of painting my picture—that is
decided upon. But how much time I have lost with it —
more than a month.
As for Breslau, encouraged as she must be by her honor-
able mention, things are no doubt prospering with her; for
me, my hands are tied ; I have no longer any confidence
in myself.
Thursday, August 18.—. . . . I have been looking
through my portfolios, where I can follow my progress step
by step. I have often said to myself that Breslau knew
how to paint before I had begun to draw. “But is this
girl the whole world to you, then 2" you will say, However
this may be, I know it is no petty feeling that makes me
fear this rival. I knew from the beginning that she had
talent, whatever the professors or our fellow-pupils might
say to the contrary. And you see that I was right. Only
to think of this girl vexes me. I have felt a stroke of her
pencil on one of my drawings like a blow on my heart.
This is because I am conscious of a power in her before
which I must at last succumb. She always made Com-
25.4 JOCA'A'.4/. O/C A/.1/0/A. A.1.S//ÅA 7'SZ/A. [1881.
parisons between herself and me; the dunces at the studio
said she would never know how to paint ; that she had no
idea of Colors; that she only knew how to draw—exactly
what they say of me now. That ought to be a consolation
to me; indeed it is the only one left me now.
In 1876 (in February) she received the medal for drawing.
She began to draw in June, 1875, after having studied for
two years in Switzerland. As I myself saw, it was not until
after she had struggled for two years against the most dis-
couraging failures that she began to succeed in painting.
In 1879 she exhibited in accordance with Tony's advice. At
this time I had been painting for six months. In a month
it will be three years since I first began to paint.
The question now is whether I am capable of doing any-
thing equal to the pictures she exhibited in 1879. Julian
says that her picture of 1879 was better than that of 1881,
only, as they were not good friends, he made no effort to
push her forward, although he refrained from doing any-
thing to keep her back. Her picture of last year was placed,
as mine was, in the mo/gue, that is to say, in the outer
gallery.
This year she made her peace with Julian, and finding
favor with the new school also, she was placed on the line.
The medal follows, as a matter of course.
Safi/rday, August 20.-I have been to see Falguière, the
sculptor. I told him I was an American, and showed him
some of my drawings, telling him of my desire to study
sculpture ; a few of these he thought excellent, and the
others good. He directed me to a studio where he gives
lessons, saying that should I not succeed in making ar-
rangements there, his instructions were at my service either
at my own house or at his. This was very kind on his
part, but for a teacher I have Saint Marceaux, whom I
adore, and I shall content myself with the studio,
1881.] /O UAEAVAZ OF AZAR/E BASI/AAA' TSAEAF. 255
BIARRITZ, Friday, September 16.—Having bade ourfriends
adieu, we left Paris Thursday morning. We passed the
night at Bordeaux, where Sarah Bernhardt was acting. We
secured two stalls in the balcony for fifty francs. The play
was “Camille.” Unfortunately I happened to be very tired ;
this actress has been so raved about that I can scarcely tell
what I think of her myself. I expected to see her do every-
thing in a different way from any one else, and I was a little
surprised at the natural manner in which she talked, and
walked, and sat down. I have seen her only four times ;
once, when I was a child, in “The Sphynx,” and again in “The
Sphynx” not long ago, and in “L’Etrangère.” I paid the
greatest attention to her every movement. I think, perhaps,
after all, that she is charming.
What there is no doubt about is that Biarritz is beautiful,
beautiful
The sea has been of an enchanting color all day. Such
exquisite gray tints
Saturday, September 17.—So far I have seen none of those
extraordinary natural beauties that I expected to see at
Biarritz. As for the beach, from an artistic point of view,
it is ugly and disagreeable.
Oh, Nice Oh, bay of Naples
Sunday, September 18.—My costume here is a simple gown
of batiste or of white flanuel, without trimming, but charm-
ingly made, boots bought here, and a youthful-looking
white hat, a hat such as a happy woman might wear. This
forms an ensemble that attracts a great deal of attention.
7 uesday, September 27.-We spent the day en famille,
yesterday at Bayonne; to-day we spent at Fontarabia, also
en famille. I seldom go out ; I would like to take a
ride, but my riding-habit does not fit me, and then it would
256 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHAZRTSEFF. [1881.
bore me to ride in the company of a Russian whom I
scarcely know, and whom I find tiresome.
There is a roulette table here at which I tried my luck ;
when I had lost forty francs I stopped, and Occupied my-
self in sketching instead. I sat in an obscure corner, and
I hope no one observed me.
We left Biarritz on Thursday morning, and reached
Burgos last night. I was struck by the majestic beauty of
the Pyrenees. I made a rough sketch of the Cathedral ;
but how describe these painted Sculptures, these gewgaws,
this conglomeration of gilding and ornamentation that go
to make up a magnificent whole 2 The chapels, however,
with their immense gratings and shadowy recesses, are
wonderful. In the Cathedral is the Magdalen of Leonardo
da Vinci. Shall I confess that I found it ugly, and that it
caused me no emotion whatever, which, for that matter,
was the case with the Madonnas of Raphael also.
Since yesterday morning we have been in Madrid. We
went this morning to the Museum. Compared with this
Collection the Louvre, Rubens, Philippe de Champagne,
even Vandyke and the Italian painters, sink into insignifi-
cance. There is nothing in the world to equal Velasquez ;
but I am still too dazzled to be able to judge clearly. And
Ribera ! He is wonderful . These, these indeed are the
true exponents of naturalism Can there be anything
more admirably, more divinely true to nature than these ?
Ah, how it moves me, and how unhappy it makes me to see
such things Ah, how it makes me long for genius ! And
they dare to compare the pallid pictures of Raphael, and the
uusubstantial paintings of the French school, with these !
And the coloring ! It is impossible that one who feels color
as I do should be unable to produce it.
At nine o'clock this morning I was already at the Mu-
seum, among the paintings of Velasquez, beside which
those of every other artist look hard and cold, not except-
1881.] JOUA.V.A L OF MARIE BASHKIATSEFF. 257
ing even those of Ribera, who, indeed, cannot be considered
his equal. In the “Portrait of an unknown Sculptor ’’ there
is a hand which is the clue to the secret of Carolus Duran's
admirable execution : the latter, as is well known, purposes
editing the works of Velasquez.
We bought a Spanish guitar and a Spanish mandolin.
The rest of the world has no idea of what Spain is like.
And they say Madrid is less distinctively Spanish than the
cities we have yet to see—Toledo, Granada, Seville. Such
as it is, I am enchanted to be here. I am feverishly eager
to get my hand in by copying something at the Museum,
and afterward painting a picture, even if I should have to
stay here two months to do it.
Thursday. —I have copied the hand of the Velasquez. I
went to the Museum, dressed quietly in black, with a man-
tilla, such as all the women here wear ; yet a great many
persons came to stand behind my chair and look on while I
worked—one man in particular.
It seems that in the matter of gallantry the men in Ma-
drid are even worse than those in Italy ; they walk up and
down under their mistresses' windows, playing the guitar ;
they follow you and talk to you in the street, and they are
persistent in their attertions. Love-letters are exchanged
in church, and every young girl has five or six of these
admirers; they are extraordinarily gallant with ladies, with-
out, however, transgressing the bounds of delicacy ; they
accost you in the street and tell you that you are beautiful
and that they adore you ; they ask in all honor and good
faith, knowing that you are a lady, to be allowed to accom-
pany you.
Here you may see men spread their cloaks on the ground
that you may pass over them. For my part, I find all this
delightful. Whenever I walk in the streets, tastefully and
simply dressed, as is my custom, the men stop to look at
258 JOUAMAL OF MAA/E BAS//KZA 7'SAAF [1881.
me. This makes me feel a new life ; it is a romantic and
novel existence, colored with the chivalry of the middle
ages.
Sunday, October 9.-As I was painting at the Museum, two
men, neither of whom was young or handsome, came up and
asked me if I were not Mlle. Bashkirtseff. I answered that
I was ; they appeared delighted. M. Soldatenkoff is a
millionnaire from Moscow, who has traveled a great deal,
and who adores art and artists. Pollack told me after-
wards that Madrazo, the son of the director of the Museum,
and himself an artist, admired my copy very much, and
asked to be presented to me. Soldatenkoff asked me if I
wished to part with the picture, and I was so foolish as to
Say no.
As for painting, I am on the way to learn a great deal
about it here. I can see things now that I never saw
before. I keep my eyes wide open ; I walk around on tip-
toe ; I scarcely dare to breathe, so to speak, lest the spell .
should be broken, for it is a veritable spell; I hope at last
to realize my dreams. I think I know now how to set
to work ; all my energies are directed toward the one
absorbing aim—-to produce something that shall be good,
that shall be real flesh—something lifelike—and when I
can do that I can do greater things; for everything—
everything is in the execution. What is the “Vulcan's
Forge" of Velasquez, or his “Spinners”? Take away from
these paintings their wonderful execution, and nothing but
commonplace figures remain. I know that many people will
cry out in disapproval of this, beginning with the fools
who pretend to adore feeling ; and feeling, indeed, is
much ; it is the poetry of style, the chief charm of art.
This is more true than we are apt to think. Do you
admire the primitive style of art 2 its crude and meagre
forms, its smooth execution ? It is curious and interesting,
1881.] JOUR.VAL OF MARIE BASA/KIA. TSEAF. 259
but it is impossible to admire it. Do you admire the Vir-
gins in the cartoons of Raphael ? I shall be considered
wanting in taste, but I confess that they do not touch me ;
there is in them a feeling and a nobility of style that com-
mand my respect, but I cannot admire them. There are
some other compositions of Raphael, however, as the
“School of Athens’’ for instance, that are admirable, incom-
parable; especially engraved or photographed. There is
feeling in them, thought, true genius. Observe that I dis-
like equally the gross flesh of Rubens, and the magnificent,
but soulless, flesh of Titian. Soul is as necessary in a paint-
ing as body. The true artist should conceive as a man of
genius, and execute as a poet.
Monday, October Io.—I dreamed last night that they
were explaining to me what was the matter with my right
lung ; into certain portions of it the air cannot penetrate,
and this causes an accumulation—but it is too disgusting
to describe ; let it suffice that the lung is affected. And I
am convinced that it is so, for I have felt a species of
malaise for some time past—a debility, for which I cannot
account. In short, I, have a strange sort of feeling as if I
were different from other people; as if I were surrounded
by an enervating atmosphere, so to speak ; I feel a pecu-
liar sensation in my chest, I have—But why describe all
these symptoms ?—the disease will soon make itself suffi-
ciently evident.
Wednesday, October 12.-I am finishing my copy of the
“Vulcan " of Velasquez, and if I am to judge by what the
public think of it, it must be good. The poor devils of
artists, who make copies on a reduced scale of celebrated
pictures for sale, come often during the day to watch me
while I work, and the young fellows from the School of
Fine Arts, as well as many of the visitors, French, English,
26o JOURNAL OF MARIE BASI/K/RTSEFF. [1881.
and Spanish, discuss my work among themselves, and Say
the most flattering things of me.
Ariday, October 14.—At seven o'clock yesterday we set
out for Toledo. I had heard so much of this city that I
expected to see something wonderful. In defiance of
reason and common-sense I had pictured it to myself as
something in the style of the Renaissance and the Middle
Ages—with marvelous buildings, sculptured doors black-
ened with time, balconies exquisitely carved, etc. I knew
very well it must be quite different from all this, but such
was the image of it fixed upon my mind ; and the contrast
it formed with the thin walls and broken-down gates of
the city, as they presented themselves to my view, spoiled
Toledo for me. Toledo is situated on a height like a
citadel ; it is a labyrinth of little streets, narrow and
crooked, into which the sun never penetrates, and where
the inhabitants seem to be camping out, so little do their
houses resemble ordinary dwellings. It is a Pompeii pre-
served entire, but looking as if it might crumble into dust
at any moment, through age ; the Soil is parched, and the
high walls burned by the sun ; there are wonderfully
picturesque courtyards, mosques converted into churches,
and daubed with whitewash, beneath which may be seen,
however, where this peels off, paintings and arabesques of
which the colors are still vivid, with ceilings of carved
wood divided into compartments, that have grown black
with time, and beams crossing each other curiously over-
head. The cathedral is as fine as that of Burgos, and is
profusely ornamented ; its doors are marvels of beauty,
and the cloister, with its courtyard filled with oleanders
and rose-bushes, that have made their way into the gal-
leries and twined themselves around the pillars and the
somber statues—there is an indescribable charm about all
this, when a ray of sunlight falls upon it.
1881.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASI/KIR 7SEFF. 26 I
No one, who has not seen them, can form an idea of the
Spanish churches—the guides in rags, the sacristan in vel-
vet, strangers walking around, or kneeling down praying,
dogs barking—all this has a wonderful charm. One almost
expects, on coming out of one of these chapels, to meet
suddenly, behind some pillar, the idol of one's soul.
It is incredible that a country so near the center of
European corruption should be still so primitive, so uncon-
taminated, so rude.
And what colonnades, what pilasters, what antique doors,
studded with large Spanish or Moorish nails | Everything
is a picture. One has not even the trouble of choosing ; all
that is to be seen is odd and interesting.
Sunday, October 16.-One of the most curious things to be
seen is the Rastro, a street lined with booths, resembling
the shops in Russian villages, where all sorts of things are to
be found. And what life, what animation, under this
burning sun It is wonderful | Here marvelous articles
of bric-a-brac are stored away in dirty houses. In little
back-shops and up romantic staircases are to be found
such stuffs as might make one wild with rapture.
And their wretched owners seem to be absolutely indiffer-
ent to the value of these things; they pierce the most beauti-
ful stuffs, with which the walls are covered, with nails on
which to hang up old pictures; they walk over embroideries
spread out upon the floor, over pieces of antique furniture,
pictures, sculptures, reliquaries, silver-ware, and old rusty
nails all heaped together. I bought an embroidered
curtain of a reddish salmon color, for which they asked me
seven hundred francs and gave me for a hundred and
fifty, and a cloth skirt embroidered with flowers of a pale
pretty tint, for a hundred sous, after they had asked me
twenty francs for it.
Escobar came to-day to take us to see the bull-fight.
262 JOURAVAZ OF AZAR/Z B.15//AIA TSAAF. [1581.
Eight bulls had been announced to appear, and it was, 1 be-
lieve, the last Sunday of the season. The spectacle was
a brilliant one ; the King, the Queen, and the Infanta
were all in their places. There were music and sunshine,
wild cries, stampings of the feet, and hisses; handkerchiefs
were waved, hats thrown in the air. The spectacle is a
unique one of overpowering grandeur. I began after a
time to enter 1m to the spirit of the thing, and to take an
interest in what was going on, though I had gone there
against my inclinations, and with a shudder of disgust. In
full view of this butchery, carried on with the utmost refine-
ment of cruelty, I was able to maintain a tranquil air, sus-
tained by my pride. I did not once turn my eyes away.
One leaves the scene slightly intoxicated with blood, so
to say, and feeling a desire to thrust a lance into the neck
of every chance person one meets.
I stuck my knife into the melon I was cutting at table,
as if it were a banderilla I were planting in the hide of a
bull, and the pulp seemed like the palpitating flesh of the
wounded animal. The sight is one that makes the knees
tremble and the head throb. It is a lesson in murder.
Yet these men are elegant and graceful, and notwithstand-
ing their extreme agility their movements are dignified
and noble.
Some people regard this duel between man and brute, in
which the latter seems to have so much the advantage, both
in size and strength, over the former, as a noble spectacle;
but can it with truth be called a duel, when one knows from
the first which of the combatants it is that must succumb 2
I will confess that there is something to captivate the
imagination in the sight of the maſſador, with his brilliant
costume, that displays the graceful contours of his figure,
as he places himself, after thrice saluting the spectators,
just in front of the animal, and stands calm and self-
possessed, his cloak on his arm, his sword in his hand.
1881.] JOURAA / OF J/.1/e/Z BASI/ATA: 7 SEFſ. 263
And this is the best part of the performance, for so far
there is scarcely any blood shed. As for the sufferings of
the horses, the Spaniards themselves do not like that part
of it. Have I become reconciled, then, to this barbarous
amusement 2 I do not say that, but it has its grand, almost
its heroic, side. In this amphitheater with its fourteen or
fifteen thousand spectators, we seem to catch a glimpse of
antiquity—that antiquity I so much admire. But on the
other hand it has also its sanguinary, its horrible, its ig-
noble side. If the men who engage in it were less skill-
ful; if they were more often to receive a serious wound
or two, I should say nothing. But what revolts me in
it is this exhibition of human cowardice. Yet it is said the
profession of a maſſador requires the courage of a lion.
I do not think so. These men know very well how to
avoid the attacks of the brute, terrible it is true, but
attacks which they themselves have provoked, and which
they are prepared for. The real danger is in the case of
the banderi//ero, where the man invites the attack of the
animal, and just as the latter is about to transfix him with
his horns, anticipates him by planting his bandeyi//as be-
tween the shoulders of the brute. For this, exceptional
courage and skill are required.
IP'ednesday, October 19.-I cough so violently that I fear
it must end by causing some injury to the lungs. And
along with this I am growing thin, or rather—yes, I am
growing thin ; look at my arm, for instance; when I stretch
it out it has a delicate look, instead of its former insolently
robust one. It is pretty, still, however. I do not complain
as yet. This is the interesting period, when one is slender
without being thin, and there is a certain air of languor in
my appearance that is very becoming; but if I continue
thus, in a year more I shall be a skeleton.
264 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHR/RTSEFF. [1881.
Zhursday, October 20.-I spent two hours in Cordova this
morning—just the time necessary to take a glance at the
city, which is charming—in its way. And I adore cities
like Cordova; there are some Roman ruins that absolutely
enchanted me, and the mosque is a veritable wonder.
Saturday, October 22.-Well, here we are in Seville, this
much-vaunted city. Indeed I lose a great deal of time
here. I have seen the Museum—a single hall full of Mu-
rillos; I would have liked better to see something else, es-
pecially here; there are only Virgins and other sacred
pictures. I, rude and ignorant barbarian as I am, with
whom the opinions of others have but little weight, have
never yet seen a Virgin such as I imagine her to have been.
The Virgins of Raphael are beautiful in photographs; I
confess that the Virgins of Murillo, with their round faces
and rosy cheeks, appeal but little either to my imagination
or my heart. I will make an exception in favor of that in
the Louvre, however, which has been so extensively copied ;
that is the one which is painted with most feeling; indeed,
it might almost be characterized as divine.
And the manufactory of cigars and cigarettes | What
an odor prevails there ! If it was only that of the tobacco,
well and good | But the building is crowded with women
in bare necks and arms, little girls, and children, most of
whom are very pretty. Our visit here was an interesting
one. The Spanish women are endowed with a grace not
to be found among any other people. Cigarette-rollers,
women who sing in cafés, walk with the air of a queen.
And the way in which the head is set upon the shoulders
And such arms, round and beautifully molded, and rich
in coloring. They are indeed captivating and wonderful
CreatureS.
Tuesday, October 25. —We have seen the Cathedral,
1881.] JOUR.V.4/ GA 1/21R/F, BASI/ATA: 7 SEAF. 265
which is, in my opinion, one of the most beautiful, as well
as one of the largest, cathedrals in the world ; the Alcazar,
with its delightful gardens, and the Bath of the Sultans;
afterward we took a stroll through the streets. .I do not
exaggerate when I say that we were the only women who
wore hats, so that it is to our hats I attribute the attention
we attracted.
If I had even been more elegantly dressed, but I wore a
gray woolen dress, a black coat, and a black traveling hat.
But strangers here are regarded somewhat as learned mon-
keys might be ; people stop to look at them, and either hoot
at them or pay them compliments.
The children hoot at me, but the grown-up people tell
me I am beautiful and salada ; to be salada is, as you know,
to be very chic.
Seville is white—all white; the streets are narrow ;
through a few of them only can a carriage pass; and yet it
is not so picturesque as one would expect to find it. Alh,
Toledo | I perceive-now what a barbarian I am |
These half-savage women and children in their rags are
wonderful in coloring. The view is ravishing, notwithstand-
ing the bare look of the white houses. But it rains all the
time ; and then, I am en fami//e.
I expected to meet with no end of amusing adventures
in Seville, and I am so bored that I remain in my room in
the hotel almost all the time, and then, it rains without
ceasing.
There is no romance here, no poetry, no youth even.
There is nothing—I repeat it, there is nothing to interest
me in Seville ; I feel as if I were buried alive—as I felt this
summer in Russia. Why all this traveling 2 And my
painting 2 It is now five months since I was at the studio.
Of these five months I have lost three in travel——I, who
have so much need to work. The mention of Breslau has
awakened a world of thoughts within me, or rather it has
266 /O C.A.V.4/. O/ J/1/0// B.1.S//A/A 7'SZA/.. [1881.
brought nearer to me, it has rendered possible, and given a
character of reality to that dream of the medal of the Sa/o/,
which was so far in the distance, which I dreamed of in the
romances I wove before going to sleep at night, as I dreamed
of receiving the cross of the Legion of Honor, or of being
Queen of Spain. When Villevielle came to announce to
me the probability of Breslau's mention, she looked as if
she thought it made me—in short, others, by admitting
that I might dare to dream of a prize, have given me the
daring to dream of it ; or rather, to say to myself that since
others think I might hope to receive it, there must be a
possibility of my doing so. In brief, for the past five
months i have cherished this dream.
It appears as if I were digressing, but all the events of
life are linked one with another. Lorenzo's studio would
be a good subject for a picture.
Thursday, October 27.--Oh, happiness I have quitted
that frightful Seville ! -
I say frightful, the more especially because since last
night we have been in Grenada, because we have been
sight-seeing since morning, and because I have already seen
the inevitable Cathedral, the Generalife, and something of
the caves of the Gypsies. I am in a state of rapture. At
Biarritz and Seville I felt as if my hands were tied, as if
everything were at an end—dead. From the little I saw of
Cordova it impressed me as being an artistic city; that is
to say, I felt that I could have worked there with enthusi-
asm. As for Grenada there is only one thing I regret,
and that is that I cannot remain here for six months or
a year. I don't know on what side to turn, there are so
many things to be seen. Such streets such views such
outlines |
To-morrow I am to visit the Alhambra, and to sketch
the head of a convict which I am going to paint.
1881.] JOUAE.VAZ OF JAAA"// B.1SI/ATA’ TSEAF. 267
Friday, Ocſober 28.—I spend yesterday, accordingly, in
the prison of Grenada. The prisoners enjoy a delightful
degree of liberty ; the courtyard looks like a market-place,
the doors do not even appear to close well; in brief this
prison bears no resemblance whatever to the descriptions
we read of the French prisons.
The prisoner condemned to death walks up and down the
Courtyard with the same freedom as the one condemned to
imprisonment for a year or two for some trifling offense.
Saturday, October 29.--—At last I have seen the Alhambra.
I refrained purposely from devoting much attention to its
beauties ; in the first place, so that I might not become too
much attached to Grenada, and in the second place, because
our guide interfered by his presence with my artistic enjoy-
ment. I promise myself to revisit it, however.
Grenada, seen from the tower, is wonderfully beautiful—
the mountains covered with snow, the gigantic trees, the
shrubs, the exquisite flowers, the cloudless sky, and then
the city itself, with its white h uses bathed in sunshine, sur-
rounded by all these natural beauties; the Moorish walls,
the tower of the Generalife, and the Alhambra ! And, far
as the eye can reach, a Sea of space ; indeed, nothing but
the sea itself is wanting to make this the most delightful
country in the world. There is nothing that can be com-
pared to the majestic grace of these superb draperies. My
mind is filled with thoughts of Boabdil and his Moorish
Companions whom I can fancy I see walking through the
halls of this palace, unique of its kind.
Sunday, October 30.—Grenada is as picturesque and artistic
as Seville is commonplace, notwithstanding her famous
school. The streets of Grenada are almost all wonderfully
picturesque.
One is dazzled and distracted in every sense. One might
268 JOUAMAL OF MARIE BASHAZA 7 SEAF. [1881.
copy the first chance view one sees, and it would be a
picture.
I shall return here next August to remain until the middle
of October.
Monday, October 31.-I am glad that the cold drives me
away, for otherwise I could not make up my mind to leave
this country, and it is necessary for me to return to Paris.
It is five months since I have seen Tony, and it is time for
me to think of hiring a studio so as to be able to paint my
picture for the Salon at my leisure, and with my utmost
skill. The first year did not count ; the year after you
know how short was the time I had in which to prepare my
picture, besides the other drawbacks ; but this year I hope
to send something really interesting.
I should like to paint the bric-a-brac shop of Lorenzo—a
brilliant light falling on the staircase at the further end,
with a woman in the background arranging some draperies
on this species of estrade. In the foreground another woman
bending down, engaged in cleaning some brass ornaments,
and a man who stands looking at her with his hands in his
pockets, smoking a cigar.
The women would be dressed in their ordinary chintz
gowns, which I could buy in Madrid. I have almost all the
other accessories ; all that would remain to be done is the
arrangement of the estrade, which would cost a hundred
francs or so. But it would be necessary to find a studio
large enough. Well, we shall see. We are to set out
to-night, and I can scarcely contain myself for joy.
My travels in Spain will have the good effect of curing
me of eating simply for the sake of eating ; which is a
waste of time and dulls the intelligence. I have become as
abstemious as an Arab, and eat only what is strictly neces-
sary—just enough to sustain life,
1881.] yO CRAVAL OF MARIE BASI/ATA TSEFF. 269
Wednesday, Movember 2.—Here we are again in Madrid,
where I came a week ago, to remain three days in the hope
of retouching a sketch of the shop of Lorenzo.
Although she had heard me speak of nothing but this for
some days past, and knew how impatient I was to reach
Madrid, it was quite natural, was it not, that my aunt
should come, ready dressed to go out, and say to me ;
“Well, shall we spend the day doing our shopping 2 ” And
when I answered that I was going to paint, she looked at
me in astonishment and told me I was crazy.
An idea strikes me : I think I have found a subject for a
picture ; I collect all my energies : the vision takes form
in my mind, I sketch it out, I am completely absorbed in
my work ; I rack my brain to find a harmonious arrange-
ment, and just as I think I have found it, and am trying to
fix it upon my mind before it vanishes, comes some one of
that dear family who are so uneasy every time I cough, to
interrupt me. And yet I am not exceptionally sensitive,
either Compared with other artists, indeed, I regard
myself as exceedingly practical, though not sufficiently so,
as you see. Ah, thoughtless and careless family they
will never understand that any one less strong, less
energetic, less buoyant in spirit than I am would be
already dead
Saturday, Movember 5.—I am back in Paris ' What hap-
piness I counted the hours, as I sat shivering in the
railway coach, until we arrived. The recollection of the
scorching sun and the burning air of Spain makes the cool,
subdued tints of this beautiful city seem refreshing to my
senses, and I think with delight of the ceramics of the
Louvre—I who was bored to death by the very thought of
them before.
Julian thought I should not return until much later—and
then, ill; that perhaps, indeed, I should not return at all.
27,o JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHAIRTSEFF. [1881.
Ah, how sweet is sympathy —and above all, how Sweet
is art |
Tuesday, Movember 15-I have shown Julian a sketch
of a picture, which he approves of. But he no longer
inspires me with confidence ; he looks confused when he
speaks to me ; in short, I can imagine what he is thinking
about. -
Tony is still left me, but I have not cultivated his friend-
ship as I have Julian's, and then—well, we shall see.
Thursday, Wovember 17.-Yesterday I could scarcely
drag myself about ; my throat pained me, my chest pained
me, my back pained me, I coughed, I had a cold in the
head, I could swallow nothing, and I was hot and cold by
turns a dozen times in the course of the day.
I am a little better to-day, but that is not saying much,
considering that I am now, and have been for a long time
past, under the care of the greatest physicians in the world !
For ever since the time when I first lost my voice they
have been treating me. Yes, that is the ring of Polycrates
that I have thrown into the sea, very much against my
will, it is true. *.
Monday, AVovember 21.-They sent for Potain on Wednes-
day ; he came to-day ; in the mean time I might have died.
I knew very well that he would again order me South ; I
set my teeth hard, and my voice trembled, and it was only
by an effort that I could keep back my tears.
To go South ! That is to acknowledge myself con-
quered. And the persecutions of my family make it a
point of honor with me to keep on my feet, in any case.
To go away would be to give all the zermin of the studio
cause for triumph—to make them say, “She is very ill;
they have taken her South.”
1881.] JOCR.VAL OF J/AA'ſ Z B.4 SHAIAE 7 SEAF. 27 I
Tuesday, AVovember 22.-I cannot describe the feeling of
despair which this banishment to the South would cause
me. I should feel as if everything were ended—I who
came back intoxicated with the idea of leading a quiet life—
a life devoted to study—hard study, study without relaxa-
tion; of keeping up with the times. And now to see all
this at an end
And while the others are steadily progressing here in
Paris, the home of art, I shall be down there doing nothing,
or making futile attempts to paint a picture in the open air,
which is something frightfully difficult to do.
There is Breslau—it is not her picture of a peasant
woman that has won her a reputation—my heart is ready to
break at the thought of it all ! &
This evening I saw Charcot, who says the disease is no
worse than it was last year; as for the trouble I have had
for the past six days, it is a simple cold that I shall soon be
well of. In regard to my going South, he thinks as Potain
does—I must either go there or shut myself up in the house
like a prisoner. Otherwise I run the risk of being seriously
ill, seeing that the right lung is affected, although it appears
there is still some hope of my getting well ; it is a curable
disease, confined to one spot, and it grows no worse, not-
withstanding my pretended imprudences. They said the
same thing last year, about going South, and I would not
even listen to them. Now I hesitate, and I have done
nothing since four o'clock but cry at the thought of leaving
Paris, and again interrupting my studies.
It is true that iſ I am to be often as ill as I have been for
these last few days I should profit little by remaining in
Paris.
To yield, to acknowledge myself beaten, to say “Yes,
the doctors are right, -yes, I am ill"—this is the thought
that renders me desperate,
272 JOCA.V.A L OF .1/.4 R/E BASI/ATA’ TSEFF. [1881.
Saturday, AVovember 26.—I was to have gone to see Tony,
as you may remember, to show him my sketch, and decide
upon some subject for a picture, that I was to paint under
his guidance; but I have not left the house. I am weak,
and I can eat nothing ; I am probably still feverish. It is
horribly sad to be kept in this state of inaction by—by—I
don't know what, by want of strength; in short, Charcot has
resumed his visits.
Mamma and Dina arrived yesterday, recalled by the fool-
ish dispatches of my aunt. This morning Dina received a
letter from her sister asking how I was.
I have taken cold, I know, but that might happen to
any one.
But no ; everything is ended ; my hearing is in a deplor-
able state with this cold and this fever. What can I aspire
to 2 What can I attain to ? There is no longer anything to
hope for. It is as if a veil had been torn from before my
eyes, that day nearly a week ago. Everything is at an
end—everything, everything.
Tuesday, AVovember 29.-Well, this has lasted now for
fourteen days, and will probably last fourteen days longer.
Madame Nachet brought me a bunch of violets to-day,
which I accepted as any one might have done, for notwith-
standing the fever, which has not left me for two weeks, and
a congestion of the right lung, otherwise pleurisy, and two
blisters, I have not yet given in ; I get up every day and
act in every way like an ordinary person, only the quinine
makes me deaf. The other night I thought I should die of
terror, because I could no longer hear the ticking of my
watch ; and it seems I must go on taking it. -
Otherwise I feel almost strong, and if it were not that I
have been able to swallow nothing for the last fortnight, I
should scarcely be aware that I am iil.
But my work, my picture, my poor picture It is now
1881.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHK/RTSEFF. 273
the 29th of November, and I shall never be able to com-
mence it before the end of December ; I shall not be able
to finish it in two months and a half. What a piece of ill-
luck And how useless it is when one has been born to
misfortune to struggle against Fate | You see painting
was a sort of refuge for me, and now at times I can hardly
hear; the consequences of this are the greatest embarrass-
ment with the models, continual anguish of spirit, and the
impossibility of painting a portrait unless I make up my
mind to acknowledge my infirmity—a thing I have not yet
the courage to do. Then this illness, the impossibility of
going on with my work, and the necessity of shutting myself
up in the house for a month. It is too much
Dina never leaves me ; she is so good |
Paul and his wife arrived yesterday. The Gavinis and
Gery, Bojidar and Alexis also came. And I try to keep up
my courage and extricate myself from the embarrassing
situations that are continually presenting themselves, by
dint of joking and bravado. -
The doctors are the subjects of our pleasantries just now.
As Potain cannot come himself every day, he has sent me a
doctor who will come in his stead.
And this serves to amuse me, because I pretend to be
crazy, and avail myself of this pretended madness to give
utterance to the wildest nonsense. .
Wednesday, AVozember 30.-Julian was here last evening ;
I could see by his affected cheerfulness that he thinks me
very ill; as for me, I am in the deepest affliction ; I can do
nothing, and my picture is at a standstill. But worst of all
is to be able to do nothing ! Can you conceive the anguish
of that 2 To stay with your arms hanging idly by your
sides while others are studying, progressing in their work,
preparing their pictures |
I thought that God had left me painting as a refuge from
274 JoJAMAL OF MARIE BASHAVA 7SEAF. [1881.
my troubles, and I gave myself up entirely to it, and behold !
it has failed me, and now there is nothing left for me to do
but weep.
Thursday, December 1; Fri ay, December 2.-The second
of December already I ought to be at my work ; I ought
to be looking for the draperies for my picture, and the
large vase which figures in the background. But why these
details 2 They only serve to make me shed tears. Yet I
feel much stronger ; I eat, I sleep, I am almost as well as
usual.
But there is congestion of the left lung. That on the
right side—the chronic trouble—is better, it seems ; but
that is of no consequence; it is the acute attack, which
might be cured, that will keep me shut up in the house for
a few weeks longer. It is enough to make one go drown
one's-self.
Ah, how cruel it is of God to afflict me in this way ! I
had my annoyances—family troubles—but they did not
touch my inmost heart. " I had extraordinary hopes of being
a great singer—and I lose my voice; this was the first
blow ; finally I become accustomed to the loss, I resign
myself to it, I get over it, I console myself for it.
“Very well, then,” Fate steps in and says, “since you
have accommodated yourself to this, you shall be deprived
of the power of working.”
I can neither study, nor work on my picture, nor do any-
thing eise. Here is a delay of a whole winter.—I, who had
put all my life into my work. Only those who have been
situated as I am, can understand me.
Wednesday, December 7.--What exasperates me most is
my illness; yesterday the horrible sub-Potain, who comes to
see me once a day, as the great man can only put himself
out twice a week to do so—the sub-Potain asked me, as it
were casually, if I were preparing for my journey.
1881.] yo URAA / OF A/AR/E B.15//Å'IA 7'S/A/. 275
Their South ! The bare idea of it puts me in a rage
At dinner I could not eat for thinking of it, and if Julian
had not come I should have cried all the evening with rage.
Well, then, so much the worse ! But I will not go to
their South.
Friday, December 9.—There is a drawing of Breslau's in
the Vie Moderne. If I had not cried so much I might have
been able to make use of my time while I am ill in making
rough draughts and sketches; but my hands are still
trembling.
The lung is now free from the congestion, but the tem-
perature is still 38 degrees. I am playing but a sorry part,
however, in giving you all these details.
I feel that there is no hope for me, and I dare not ask a
question lest I should hear of Breslau's next success.
Ah, my God, hear me, grant me strength, have pity upon
Innel
&
Thursday, December 15.-Here are four weeks and two
days that I have been ill. When the sub-Potain came I
made a scene by beginning to cry. He did not know what
course to pursue in order to quiet me; for abandoning the
subterfuges, nonsensical excuses, and other delightful things
with which I am in the habit of regaling him, I began to utter
complaints and to shed genuine tears, my hair falling loose
about my shoulders the while. I stammered my infantile
complaints to him in the language of a child. And to think
that I did it all in cold blood, and that I did not mean a
word of what I said! And so it is with me when I take
part in a real play—I grow pale in earnest, and I shed genu-
ine tears; in short, I think I should make a magnificent
actress; but for the present all I can do is to cough, and I
have scarcely even breath enough left me for that.
Monsieur my father arrived this morning. Everything
276 JOUAEAVAZ OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEAF. [1881.
goes on very well, with the exception of Paul’s poor wife,
who is quite disillusionized, seeing an indifference toward
her on his part that is little short of hostility. As for me I
am all that is right in regard to her; I gave her a very
beautiful emerald given me by mamma, and for which I
have no use. *
I was a little sorry for it afterward: I might have given it
to Dina, who adores jewels; but there is no help for it now.
I do not say that papa is irritating; on the contrary, he
resembles me a little, physically as well as mentally (this is
a compliment to him), but he will never be able to under-
stand me.
Imagine that he has conceived the project of taking us to
Our Country to spend Easter.
No, it is too much ; it is too great a want of consideration,
in the present state of my health to speak of taking me to
Russia in February or March I leave it to your own
judgment. But let that pass—not to speak of all the rest!
Ah, no, I who refused to go South ! No, no, no! Let us
speak no more of it, decidedly not.
Sunday, December 18.-I have been telling my trouble to
Julian ; and after doing his best to console me, he advised
me to sketch every day whatever I saw that chanced to
strike me. What is there to strike me? What do you
suppose I should find to strike me in the surroundings
amidst which I live? Breslau is poor, but she lives in an emi-
nently artistic sphere; Marie's best friend is a musician;
Schoeppi, although of the people, is original; and there is
Sara Purser, artiste and philosopher, with whom one may
hold discussions on the philosophy of Kant, on life, on the
ego, and on death, that stimulate thought, and that impress
upon the mind what one has heard or read—everything is
artistic, even to the neighborhood in which she lives, Les
Termes. And the neighborhood in which I live, so clean,
1881.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 277
so regular, where not a sign of poverty is to be seen, not a
tree that is not trimmed, not a street that is not straight.
Do I, then, complain of my fate? No, but I wish to say
that easy circumstances tend to prevent the development of
artistic talent, and that the environment in which one lives
is half the individual.
Wednesday, December 21.-To-day I went out for a
drive! But wrapped in furs, the carriage-windows closed,
and a bear-skin around my feet. Potain said this morning
that I might go out if the wind ceased, and if I took pre-
cautions. The weather is splendid—and as for precautions!
But that is not the question; it is Breslau “that will not
let go her prey.” My picture for the Salom is accepted.
What shall I have to show beside her picture this summer ?
This girl is a power in my life; there are others, it is
true; but she and I are of the same cage, not to say of the
same nest, and I divined her genius from the beginning,
and announced it to you, little as I then knew of art. I
despise myself; I refuse to believe that I have any talent; I
cannot understand why Julian and Tony should speak of
me as they do; I am nothing; I have nothing in me.
Compared with Breslau I seem to myself like a thin and
fragile pasteboard box compared to a massive and richly
carved oaken casket. I despair of myself, and so convinced
am I of my worthlessness that if I were to say what I think
to the masters I should convert them to my opinion.
But I will go forward blindly, all the same, my hands
stretched out before me, groping for the light, ready to be
engulfed if it must be so.
Thursday, December 29.-It is a week since I have
written anything in my diary; this will show you that my
glorious existence has been divided between work and
society. There is nothing new ; and yet there is, for I am
278 JOUA'A'.1/ OF M/ARIE BASA/KIA. TSE/A. [1881.
well and I go out as usual. I went on Saturday to have
Some new gowns fitted, to the Bois, and to Julian's, with
mamma and Dina. And on Sunday I went to church, so
that they may not say I am at the point of death, as the
charming Bertha tells every one.
On the contrary I have gained new life; my arms, that
were so thin ten days ago, are now rounded; that is to say,
that I am much better than I was before my illness.
A week more of this and I shall have to stop growing fat;
I shall be just right then ; for I do not wish to have again
the large hips I had three years ago. Julian, who came to
See me last night, thinks my figure much better as it is now.
We laughed all the evening. I am painting the portrait of
Paul’s wife. Yesterday I had so far recovered my energy
that I wanted to paint, all at once, the portraits of Dina,
Nini, and Irma.
F, iday, Pecember 30–They have spent the whole day
here quarreling. In order to recover my tranquillity I went
to see Tony, taking with me the sketch of the portrait of
Paul's wife, to show him. He thought it very original in
treatment and well begun. The sympathetic Tony seemed
delighted at seeing me in good health again. After chatting
gaily together on different matters we touched on the serious
subject of art, speaking of Breslau in connection with it,
among other things. “Her picture is certainly very good,”
he said; “she is richly endowed.”
Ah, it would be impossible to transcribe my feelings
here—to describe the fever, the fire, that consumes me.
Oh, I must work day and night, without ceasing, to pro-
duce something that shall have merit! True, he told me
that the day I wished I might produce a picture equal to
any of hers; true, he thinks I have as much talent as she
has, but I am ready to weep, to die, to hide myself any-
where—where I might be able—But would I be able? Ah,
1882.] JOURNAL OF JAA/E BASI/AIRTS/CFF. 279
Tony has confidence in me, but I have no confidence in
myself. I am consumed by the desire to accomplish some-
thing, and I know my own powerlessness—But here I must
stop. As my readers no doubt take me literally, they
might believe what I say to be true—whereas I only say
these things in the hope of being contradicted.
Ah, heavens! I spend my time writing down all this,
and selecting words in which to describe the annoyances I
suffer, while Breslau, wiser than I, spends hers drawing and
painting.
I882.
The thing I take most delight in is my painting; I do not
feel myself worthy of saying, “my art.” In order to speak
of art we must first have won a name ; otherwise one has
the air of an amateur, who deserves only to be laughed at.
JWednesday, January 4.—Julian spent the evening rally-
ing me on my liking for Tony, and on his for me. At
midnight we took chocolate. Dina was very amiable.
I always dress with particular care, and in an entirely
different fashion from other times, when I go among art-
ists—in long gowns, and flowing draperies ; in Society my
waist would not be found sufficiently slender nor my gown
sufficiently fashionable ; so that all my pretty fancies—too
extravagant for the world of society—will serve me in my
ministry of the Fine Arts; I still cherish the dream of hav-
ing a salon that shall be frequented by every one of note.
Friday, January 6.-Art, even in the case of the hum-
blest of its votaries, elevates the soul, and makes one supe-
rior in some degree to those who are not of the sacred
fraternity.
28o JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHAIRTSEAF. [1882.
Wednesday, January 1 1.—To-morrow, our New Year's
Eve, we give a soirée ; they have been making preparations
for it for the last week ; more than two hundred and fifty
invitations have been sent out, for a great many of our
friends have made requests for them. As no one is receiv-
ing yet, this will be an event, and I think we shall have
some very chic people. In short, it will be a pleasant affair.
Etincelle makes allusion to it in her notes in Figaro, adding
a eulogy of Mlle. Marie, who is beautiful and an artist,
etc., etc. But even if she had said nothing of all this, I
should still regard her as the most charming of ugly peo-
ple ; there are fifty women I know who are not so attract-
ive as she is, and then she bears the undefinable Parisian
stamp, as well as the stamp of a person of note. Observe
well what I say, for it is profoundly true—all people of
note, whether they be men, women, or children, young or
old, have a certain tone in the voice, a certain air, which is
the same among them all, and which I will call the family
likeness of persons of celebrity.
We are to have the two Coquelins. The elder Coquelin
came yesterday to inspect the rooms, and to consult with
us respecting the pieces. G was present, and he dis-
gusted me with the airs he gave himself of being a con-
noisseur—a little more and he would have taken it upon
himself to advise Coquelin, who is very agreeable, by the
way, a very good fellow, who does not make you feel, the
moment you speak to him, that sort of embarrassment
which so many people experience in the presence of any
one of note.
Friday, January 13–The two Coquelins were superb ;
and the rooms presented a charming appearance ; there
were a number of pretty women present—the enchanting
trio, the Marquise de Reverseaux, the daughter of Janvier
de la Motte, Mme. Thouvenel and Mme. de Joly, the
1882.] JOCA.VAZ OF MAA'/AE BASI/AIAE 7 SEFF. 281
Countess de Kessler,-in short, almost all the women were
pretty, and, in the words of Tony (who did not come, how-
ever, nor did Julian), “very desirable guests.” Mme. G––
was enchanted, and finished the evening by dancing with
Count Plater.
The reception was preceded by a dinner.
As for artists, the brother of Bastien-Lepage is still
absent ; so he was not with us (on Thursday we are to visit
the real Bastien-Lepage); there was George Bertrand, who
exhibited last year an admirable and touching picture called
Ze Drapeau. I alluded to it in a notice, and he wrote me
a few amiable words in return. I sent him an invitation
signed “Pauline Orell.” It was Pollack who presented
him to me. It was very amusing—he paid me a great
many fine compliments, for, although I wished to hide
them, Dina showed some of my studies to such of our
guests as she thought had a right to see them. Carrier-
Belleuse succumbed to the power of my eyes, and toward
the end of the evening grew quite tender and sentimental.
Here is a man who is capable of falling very much in
love ; perhaps he has done so already ; but—
We had supper at three o'clock; Gabriel sat on my right;
about sixty persons had remained. Nini was charming,
and looked very pretty : her shoulders were dazzling, and
she wore an exquisite gown, as did Dina, mamma, and my
aunt, I wore a gown made by Doucet and myself in part-
nership, an almost faithful reproduction of Greuze's Cruc/le
Cassée. I wore my hair loose in front and fastened in a
knot on the back of the head, high above the neck. A long
chain of Bengal roses with loose leaves lost itself among the
folds of the short skirt, which was of silk mull, pleated ; the
bodice was of satin, laced in front, and very long, with a
handkerchief crossed over the breast. There was a second
skirt of mull, turned up with satin, open 1n front, and
gathered up behind, forming panniers, of which one was
282 JOURNAL OF J/4 AE/Z B.15A/A/A ZSZFF. [1882.
covered with roses. I looked charming. The odious sub-
Potain followed me like a shadow so as to catch me if I
should attempt to dance.
Sunday, January 15–There was a long article of
Etincelle's about our soirée, but, as we had expected this
article, mamma and my aunt were not satisfied with it. She
compares me to the Cruche Cassée, and they are afraid that
this may be taken in Poltava as an insult. They are too
stupid The article is very good, only that, as she had
said two days ago that I was one of the prettiest women of
the Russian Empire, and she contents herself this time with
describing my gown, I am rather disappointed.
I am wrapped up in my art. I think I caught the sacred
fire in Spain at the same time that I caught the pleurisy.
From being a student I now begin to be an artist. This
sudden influx of power puts me beside myself with joy. I
sketch future pictures; I dream of painting an Ophelia.
Potain has promised to take me to Saint-Anne to study the
faces of the mad women there, and then I am full of the
idea of painting an old man, an Arab, sitting down singing
to the accompaniment of a kind of guitar; and I am
thinking also of a large affair for the coming Salon—a view
of the Carnival ; but for this it would be necessary that I
should go to Nice—to Naples first for the Carnival, and
then to Nice, where I have my villa, to paint it in the open
air. I say all this, and yet I wish to remain here.
Saturday, January 21.—Madame C Came to take
me to see Bastien-Lepage. We found there two or three
American women, and the little Bastien-Lepage himself;
he is very small, very fair, wears his hair à la Bretonne,” has
a retroussé nose and the beard of a youth. I was altogether
taken aback. I adore his painting, but it is impossible to
*-
* Cut square across the forehead,
1882 J JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHAIRTSEFF. 283
regard him with the respect due to a master. You want to
treat him as a comrade, and his paintings are there to fill
you with admiration, astonishment, and envy. There are
four or five of them, all life-size, and painted from nature.
They are admirable ; one of them represents a little girl of
eight or ten guarding some cows in a field ; the tree stripped
of its foliage, and the cow resting under its branches, are
touchingly poetic; the eyes of the little girl have a look of
childlike dreaminess in them—the dreaminess of one who
lives in companionship with nature—that it would be impos-
sible to describe. He has the air of a good little man who
is very well satisfied with himself—this Bastien.
I returned home in time to help mamma to receive a
number of visitors. This is what it is to give soirées in
Paris, you see, as one of our friends says.
Saturday, January 22.—For the time being I am full of the
idea of the Carnival ; I am making sketches for it in char-
coal. If I only had the genius, it would be delightful to
paint it.
Monday, January 30–It is decided that we are to go
to the Villa Gery at Nice. I spent a delightful day on
Saturday. Bastien, whom I had seen the evening before
at the ball given at the Continental Hotel for the benefit
of the Breton life-savers, and presided over by the Queen,
came to see me and remained more than an hour. I
showed him some things of mine, and he gave me his opin-
ion respecting them with a flattering severity. And then
he said I was marvelously gifted. And it did not seem as if
this was a compliment merely. For the moment I was so
overcome with joy that I was on the point of taking the
good man's face between my hands, and kissing him.
I am very well pleased, however, to have heard his
opinion. He gives me the same advice as Tony and Julian,
284 JOUA.V.4 L OF A/AA"/E BASI/ATA 7'SEFF. [1882.
and says the very same things. And then is he not a pupil
of Cabanel ? Every artist has his own peculiar tempera-
ment, but as far as the grammar of the art is concerned, it
is necessary to learn it from a master. Neither Bastien nor
any One else can communicate his gifts to another. Noth-
ing can be learned but What may be taught ; the rest de-
pends upon One's-self.
Mme. de Péronny (Etincelle) came to-day, and I spent a
delightful quarter of an hour in the company of this super-
ior woman and great artist, first seated around the fire,
and afterward under the palm. I shall say nothing of our
other visitors, whom I left in the official drawing-room with
Illa IIl IIla.
NICE.--We left Paris at eight in the evening, Paul, Dina,
I, Nini, Rosalie, Basili and Coco. The Villa Gery is all that
we could desire, and is situated in the open country Only
ten minute's distance from the Promenade des Anglais ; it
has gardens and a terrace, and is a large and comfortable
house.
We found everything ready to receive us; and M. Pi-
Coux, the agent, had bouquets for each of us.
I took a trip on the tramway this evening that delighted
me ; there was, in what I saw, a blending of the Italian
and the French gayety, but without any of the vulgarity
that is to be met with among the populace of Paris. As I
wrote to Julian, life here is as comfortable as it is in Paris,
and as picturesque as it is in Grenada. Within five yards
of the Promenade des Anglais are to be found so many dif-
ferent costumes, so many different types of humanity, and
all so picturesque ! Why go to Spain 2 Oh, the South !
Oh, Nice Oh, the Mediterranean " Oh, my beloved
country, through which I have suffered so much Oh, my
earliest joys, and my profoundest griefs Oh, my child-
hood, my ambitious dreams
(882.] JOURAVAL OF MAA'IAE BASI/ATA’ TSEAF. 285
Try how I will, those days will always form an epoch in
my existence, and side by side with the recollection of the
sufferings that darkened my early youth will remain the
recollection of its joys—joys that will remain forever the
sweetest flowers of memory.
I am boiling over with rage. Wolff has devoted a dozen
lines—as flattering as they could possibly be—to Breslau.
But after all I am not to blame; one does what one can.
She has nothing to occupy her attention but her art; while
I invent new fashions for my gowns, I devise new ways of
arranging draperies, I think of how to be revenged or, the
society of Nice. I do not say that I should have her talent
even if I were to do as she does ; she obeys the instincts of
her nature, I those of mine. But my hands are tied. The
trouble is that I am so convinced of my powerlessness as to
be tempted at times to give it all up. Julian says I might
to do as well as she does if I wished. If I wished—but in
order to have the wish it is necessary to have the power.
Those who have succeeded because they willed to succeed
were sustained by a secret strength which is wanting in me.
And only to think that at times I have not only faith in my
future power to succeed, but that I feel burn within me the
sacred fire of genius ! Oh, misery !
But here, at least, no one is to blame, and that is less
maddening. There is nothing more horrible than to have
to say to one's-self, “If it were not for this or for that, I
should have succeeded, perhaps.” I know that I do all I
can, and yet I have accomplished nothing.
O my God, grant that I may deceive myself, and that the
feeling I now have of my mediocrity may be a mistaken
Oil C.
Friday, February 10.—I have received so rude a blow that
it has caused me to spend three very unhappy days.
I shall not now paint my large picture. I will paint sim-
286 JOUAMAZ OF AZAR/E BASHAZA' 7"S/EAA’, (1882.
pler things—things more within the compass of my pow-
ers—studies. I have taken a solemn resolution not to waste
another moment, and not to paint another stroke without
Some purpose. I shall concentrate my powers. Bastien
has advised me to do this, and so have Julian and the for-
tunate Breslau. Yes, fortunate, indeed ; to be as fortunate
as she is I would give, without a moment's hesitation, all
that people call my happiness and my wealth—a hundred
thousand francs to have independence and to have talent :
when one has these, one has everything.
But how fortunate she is, this girl It makes me so
unhappy every time I think of that article of Wolff's. Yet
it is not what is called enzy that makes me feel this. I have
not the heart to analyze this feeling and to select words in
which to describe it.
Monday, February 13–I am making sketches in aquarelle
for the first time ! Every moment of the day is occupied,
and I have decided on a subject for my picture, for, in ad-
dition to the smaller things, I must take back a large study
to Julian. It is three little boys standing near a gateway :
that seems to me an interesting subject, and one that ad-
mits of realistic treatment. The blow I received in Wolff's
article has done me good. I was for the moment crushed,
annihilated, and the reaction from this feeling has given me
the power to understand things in art that previously to
that had tormented me, for while I suspected their existence,
I could not discover them. This has compelled me to make
salutary exertions. I begin too, to understand now what I
used to read respecting the trials and struggles of artists. I
used to laugh at all this as romantic stories that had no
foundation. That famous zeri// of Breslau—I have called it
to my aid, and I see that it is necessary to make great efforts
in order to obtain the success that one fancies has dropped
down from the skies. The thing is that I have made no
1882.] /OURNAL OF MARIE BASHAZR Z SEAFA. 287
real effort up to the present. The extreme facility with
which I worked has spoiled me. Breslau obtains good
results, but only after working hard for them ; as for me,
when success does not come at once, and without effort, I
can do nothing. I must conquer this feeling. Thus, in
sketching a picture, in making charcoal sketches, for instance,
I found it necessary to make great efforts, in order to attain
to the desired purity of outline, and I have succeeded in
accomplishing things of which I had before thought myself
incapable, and which I thought others had accomplished by
means of tricks, of sorcery almost, so difficult is it to con-
cede to others the possession of those qualities in which we
ourselves are lacking.
Wednesday, February 15.—It is only by degrees that we
learn to see things as they really are. Formerly all that I
could see in a picture was the subject and the composition,
and now—ab if I could only copy what I see, I should
produce something great. I see the landscape, I see, and I
love the landscape, the water, the air, the coloring—the
coloring !
Monday, February 27.—After a thousand hesitations and
doubts I have destroyed my canvas ; the boys would not
pose ; attributing my want of success in making them do so
to my own incapacity, I tried again and again, and at last—
it was happily settled. The frightful little monsters moved
about, and laughed and cried and fought with each other—
I shall simply make a study of them ; to make a picture
wonld be too much torture.
PARIS, Thursday, April 20.—Well, it is not now as it was
when I came back from Spain. I am not enchanted to see
Paris again, I am only pleased. Besides, I am so preoccu-
pied about my painting that I scarcely know what my feel-
288 JOURNAL OF AZAR/E BASI/ATA TSEFF. [1882.
ings are. I tremble to think what will be said of it, and I
am completely crushed by the thought of Breslau, who is
treated by the public as if she were already a successful
artist. I went to see Julian yesterday (we have been in
Paris since yesterday morning), and he treats me no longer
as if I were making a serious pursuit of painting. “Bril-
liant, yes,” he says, “but no depth, no power of will.” He
had hoped for, he had expected, something better. All
this, told me in the course of our conversation, wounded me
deeply. I shall wait until he sees what I painted at Nice,
but I no longer expect anything good
Saturday, April 22.—No, what was necessary to me in
order that I should continue to live, was genius. I can
never be happy in the same way as other people are. To be
loved and to be famous, as Balzac says, this is to be happy
And to be loved is only the natural consequence of being
famous. Breslau, who is thin, cross eyed, and haggard,
although her face is an interesting one, can never exercise
any feminine attraction except through her genius, while,
if I had her talent, I should be superior to any woman in
Paris. But that must come. In the wild desire that it
should come, I seem to see a hope that it will.
These journeys, these interruptions to my work, the lack
of advice and encouragement—they are ruinous. One looks
as if one had come back from China, one knows nothing of
what is going on.
Ah after all, I think there is nothing I love like paint-
ing ; that must, as I believe, procure me every other
happiness Mistaken vocation, mistaken talent, mistaken
hopes | And yet I slander myself. I went to the Louvre
this morning. When one sees as clearly as I do, one ought
to be able to interpret what one sees. Formerly I had the
self-confidence of ignorance, but for some time past I have
been able to see things in art that I had never seen before.
1882.] /OURNAL OF MARIE BASHA'IRTSEFF. 289
This morning it was Paul Veronese, who appeared to me in
all his splendor, in all his glory. What incomparable rich-
ness of coloring ! How explain the fact that these glorious
paintings have seemed to me until now only large, uninter-
esting pictures, dull in coloring and flat in execution . The
beauties to which my eyes were before sealed I can now
appreciate. The celebrated paintings that I admired before
Only out of regard for the opinion of others, now delight
me and hold me spellbound. I feel all the delicate grada-
tions in the Coloring ; I appreciate color, in short.
A landscape by Ruysdael compelled me to return to look
at it a second time. A few months ago I could see in it
nothing of what I saw there this morning—atmosphere,
space | In short, it is not painting, it is nature itself.
Well, it is because my eyes have been practiced that I now
perceive these beauties that I could not see before. And
is it not possible for the same thing to happen with the
hand P
Sunday, April 23.—I have just been looking over the
studies I made at Nice. The sole thought that they might
find something to admire in them makes a shiver run down
my back. For Tony, Julian, and Bastien appear to me
themselves so insignificant compared to the immense effect
their words are capable of producing on me !
I have as yet formed no plans for the future. On Mon-
day I shall go to the studio to get into the habit of regular
work again.
The sky is gray and stormy ; it rains, and a piercing wind
is blowing ; the state of the elements is in harmony with
the condition of my mind ; what I feel then is due to a
physical impression merely.
But there was something else I wanted to write about—
a few reflections concerning love suggested by something I
read this morning.
290 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASF/X/AE 7 SEAF. [1882.
Love—this is the inexhaustible subject. To allow your-
self to be loved by a man to whom you should be so superior
that he would regard you as a goddess descended from the
skies—this would have a certain charm. To know that
your glance would diffuse happiness around—there is a
benevolent side to this that is flattering to the generous part
of one's nature.
Tuesday, April 25.-My own anxiety was sufficient, with-
out seeing around me the anxious countenances of my
family, who were all looking at me to see if I betrayed emo-
tion. Well, to sum up, this is what Tony has said : The
costume of Dina very good, very good ; the man standing
on the sea-shore very good also ; the head of Thérèse not
altogether bad. The tones of the landscape, however, do
not harmonize with the costumes; the Smaller landscape is
very good ; the old man correct in drawing, but not suf-
ficently simple, and not sufficiently something else—in fine,
there is something good in it. “Well,” you will say, “ you
ought to be satisfied.” Ah in addition to all this he said
I Ought to follow a conscientious course of study, and that
he would pay particular attention to my progress ; he also
said that he was at my disposal whenever I chose to send
for him.
I Ought to be satisfied—but no, I am almost crushed,
This was not enough ; he should have said to me; “Good,
this time you have succeeded ; this is good ; your execution
is as good as Breslau's, and your other qualities are superior
to hers.”
Nothing less than these words would have satisfied me;
or even sufficed to take me out of the despair in which I
have been plunged, on account of my painting, for more
than a year past. Why should I not be satisfied with all
these “goods”?—when I still keep in my memory the “very
1882.] JOURNAZ OF MARIE AASA/KIA 7 SEAEA. 291
good " he bestowed on Breslau for a little picture she made
in Brittany two years ago. .
Yet when he said the same words to me regarding the
little picture I did at Nice, it seemed to me as if they no
longer possessed the same value. And why? Before my
departure for Nice he said to me that Breslau’s “Fisher
Girl” was “very good,” and now that this same “Fisher
Girl " has been accepted, receiving a number 3, he says it
is “not bad,” only. In short, I am not satisfied. And
why? In the first place, because my family based such
extravagant hopes on these few studies of mine that only
the most extravagant praises could satisfy them ; and
then—nerves, the effects of the spring weather. Whenever
I am over-excited, as I am now, I feel a burning sensation
in my arms, just above the elbow ; it is very curious ;
explain to me, ye learned doctors, what this means.
Saturday, April 29.-I am not a painter; I learned draw-
ing, as I learn everything, with facility—that is all. Yet
when I was a child of three I used to draw profiles with
chalk on the whist-tables in the country, and afterward,
and always. One would swear it was a true vocation—and
yet you see . But there is nothing more to be said, only so
much time to be lived through ; my arms fall down power-
less by my sides. And after all, what is it that has hap-
pened 2 Nothing. Breslau has been studying much longer
than I–almost twice as long. Admitting, then, that I am
as gifted as she, things have followed their natural course ;
I have been painting for three years, while she has been
painting for five.
Sunday, April 30.-Since morning I have been watching
the varnishing of the pictures, with Villevielle, Alice, and
Webb. I was in black and looked very well. I was amused
to see how many people I know in Paris. Carolus Duran
292 JOUA’.VAZ OF M/A/C/E B21 S//Ai/A 7'SZAF [1882.
came to speak to me—this man is fascinating. Breslau's
picture is hung very high, and produces a deplorable effect.
I was so uneasy on account of her possible success that this
was a great consolation. I do not deny it. Her friends
came to me in distress, to learn my opinion, and I said that
I did not think the picture a very good one, but that they
should have given her a better place.
The conclusion to this brilliant day was a conversation
with Julian, during which he reproached me with wasting
my energies, with not justifying the magnificent promise
I had given, etc. In short, he thinks I have gone beyond
my depth ; so do I, and we are going to see if I cannot be
brought into safe waters again. I told him I was aware of
this deplorable condition of things, that it made me des-
perate, and that I thought all was over with me ; he re-
minds me of the clever things I have done, and says that a
sketch of mine, which he has in his possession, makes every
One stop to look at it, and so on. Ah, my God, take me out
of this state of misery ! God has been good to me in not
suffering me to be killed outright by Breslau—at least to-
day. In short, I know not how to express my thought that
it may not seem a base one. If her picture had been what
I expected it would be, that would have been my death—in
the pitiable condition in which my work is at present. I
have not for a single instant wished that it might be bad––
that would be ignoble, but I trembled lest she should meet
with a decided success. I felt so strong an emotion on
opening the newspapers that perhaps God took pity on me.
Tuesday, May 9.--Tony and Julian dined with us this
evening. I wore a fantastic costume, and we sat chatting
till half-past eleven. Julian was very amusing, after the
champagne, and Tony very amiable, very abstemious, very
tranquil, with his fine head and his languid air. One would
like to stir to its inmost depths this tender and melancholy
1882.] /OURNAL OF AZAR/E BASI/KIAE 7 SEAF. 293
soul where all is calm and still. I cannot imagine this pro-
fessor as indulging in any strong emotion. He is dispas-
sionate and logical, and, where matters of the heart are in
question, he will quietly demonstrate their causes, and their
progress, as if he were explaining the qualities of a painting.
In a word, and to sum up, as he says, he is charming.
The portrait of a young girl, by Sargent, haunts me ; it
is ravishing. It is an exquisite piece of work, worthy of a
place beside the paintings of Vandyke and Velasquez.
Saturday, May 20.-Ah, how discouraged I am ' What
have I accomplished since I came to Paris 2 I am no longer
even eccentric. And in Italy, what did I accomplish P
Once I allowed myself to be secretly kissed by that stupid
A Well, and afterward 2 Ah, it disgusts me to think
of it ! Yet not a few young girls have done the same thing,
and do it every day, and no one speaks ill of them for it. I
declare that when I hear, as I have heard just now, of the
remarks people make about us, and especially about me, so
strong is the emotion I feel that it overwhelms me.
We went yesterday to the Saſon with E——, the brother
of Bastien, and Beaumetz. Bastien-Lepage is going to
paint a picture representing a little peasant-boy looking at
a rainbow. It will be sublime—you may take my word for
it. What genius, what genius !
Monday, May 22.—I am convinced that I shall never
love any one—except one ; and he, it is probable, will never
love me. Julian is right—the best way to revenge myself
would be by conquering a brilliant position in the world—
by marrying some man of note who is rich as well as
famous. That would be magnificent Or to develop a
genius like that of Bastien-Lepage, that would make all
Paris turn round to look at me when I pass by. Truly this
is charming ! I talk as if this might happen to me, who
2.94 JOUAEAV.1/ OF AZAA'ZZ AAS//ÅA 7'SZAA. | 1882.
have never had anything but misfortune all my life. Oh,
my God, my God grant me my revenge I will be so
Compassionate to those who suffer
Thursday, May 25.-We went this morning to see Caro-
lus Duran. What a charming and admirable being he is!
People are disposed to laugh at him because he can do a
little of everything. He shoots well, he rides, he dances, he
plays the piano, the organ, and the guitar, and he sings.
They say he dances badly, but as for the other things, he
does them with inimitable grace. He fancies himself a
Spaniard, and a Velasquez. His appearance is very attractive,
his conversation interesting, and there is in his whole air
Something so amiable, so frank, and so self-satisfied, he has
so evident an enjoyment in the admiration of his own proper
person, that one cannot bear him ill-will for it—on the con-
trary; and if one smiles at him occasionally, one is none
the less charmed by him, especially when one thinks of
those one has to put up with, who do not possess a quarter
of his merits.
He takes himself altogether are serieux, and which of us,
in his place, would not have his head a little turned?
Sunday, May 28.-The Duchess of Fitz-James came to-
day to say that she would present us this evening to her
daughter-in-law. There was to be a bail. Mamma declares
that no one could be more amiable than this lady. They
see each other quite often, but just how often I cannot say.
We agreed to cali for her and go together.
Everything was perfect; the society was of the best; the
young gills looked fresh and charming; the gowns were
beautiful. The old Duchess has any number of nephews
and nieces and grand-children. The persons whose names
I heard mentioned are among the best known and the most
aristocratic in Paris, and those I met there all distin-
1882.] JOURNAL OF MAA/AE BASA/AIR TSEAF. 295
guished. For my part, delighted as I was to find myself in
this salom, I could not get the thought of a pastel I had
finished this morning out of my head, so troubled was I by
the remembrance of its defects.
And then one cannot go into society in this way—I should
need a couple of months, at least, to accustom myself to it.
But do you think that in my heart I find it entertaining? I
find it stupid, hollow, dull ! And to think that there are
people who live only for this! As for me, I should like to
go out occasionally, just enougl to keep up an interest in
what is going on in the world of fashion; but for relaxa-
tion only, as distinguished men go; so as not to seem like
a Hottentot, or an inhabitant of the moon.
Monday, May 29.-Yesterday we went to the Bois with
Adeline, who congratulated us on being launched into the
most aristocratic Society of Paris, and to-day we visit the
Queen, the two Duchesses of Fitz-James, the Countess of
Turenne, Mme. de Briey, and, finally, the American.
The question that chiefly occupies my attention now is
the subject of my picture for next year's Salom. The sub-
ject I should prefer, I feel profoundly; my heart and mind
are alike captivated by it, and it is one that I have thought
of for nearly two years past. It is when Joseph of Arima-
thea has placed the body of Jesus in the tomb, and the
stone has been rolled before it; the people have departed,
the night is falling, and Mary Magdalen and the other
Mary remain alone, seated before the mouth of the sepul-
chre.
Tuesday, June 20.-Well, there is nothing new to record;
a few visits exchanged, and my painting—and Spain. Ah,
Spain ' It is a work of Theophile Gautier that has been the
cause of this. Can it be possible that I have been in Toledo,
Burgos, Cordova, Seville, Grenada? Grenada! What!
296 JOURNAL OF AZAR/E BASA/KIA’TSEFA'. [1882.
Have I indeed been in all those cities, only to pronounce
the names of which is to feel one’s-self ennobled 2 Well, I
have caught the infection: I must return there ! I must see
those wonders once more I must return there alone, or
with congenial companions. I have suffered enough already
through the company of my family there. O Poetry! O
Art Ah, how short is life And how unfortunate we are
that it should be so short
Wednesday, /une 21.-I have effaced everything in my
picture, and even disposed of the canvas, so as not to have
it before my eyes! This is killing me! O Art! I shall
never attain to a mastery of it. But, as soon as one
destroys what one is dissatisfied with, one feels consoled,
free, and ready to begin again. The studio in which I am
painting was lent to Mlle. Loshooths by an American
named Chadwick, who returned to-day, and we have restored
his temple to him.
Friday, June 23–At five o'clock L , Dina, and I
went to see Emile Bastien, who is to sit for me.
I shall paint with the palette of the true Bastien, with his
Colors, his brushes, in his studio, and with his brother for
a model.
Well, it is a dream, a piece of childishness, a silly fancy!
The little Swedish girl took his palette in her hands, and I
took away some of the paint he had used as a souvenir; my
hand trembled as I did so, and we both laughed.
Saturday, June 24.—It is decided that we are to take the
the house in the Rue Ampère. It consists of a basement
with a kitchen and billiard-room. The ground-floor, to
which one ascends by a flight of ten steps, has a vestibule;
then there is a pretty glass door opening on an antecham-
ber, from which the staircase to the other stories ascends;
1882.] JOC'A'.V.4/. O/, /.4/º/E BASI/ATA’ TS// F. 297
to the right is a room which they have converted into a par-
lor by making an entrance from it into a little chamber
which opens on the garden; a dining-room, and a court-
yard which carriages can enter, and inte which one descends
by steps from the drawing-room, and dining-room.
On the first story there are five bed-rooms, with dressing-
rooms adjoining, and a hall, with baths. As for the second
story it belongs to me, and consists of an antechamber,
two bedrooms, a library, a studio, and a store-room. The
studio and the library open into each other, forming a large
apartment, nearly thirty-six feet long, and twenty-one feet
wide.
The light is superb, entering on three sides, as well as
from above. In short, for a hired house there could be
nothing that would suit me better. It is No. 30 Rue Am-
père, on the corner of the Rue Brémontier, and may be
seen from the Avenue de Villiers.
Wednesday, /u/y 12.--I am making preparations to begin
my famous picture, which will be an extremely difficult
piece of work. I must select a landscape like the one I
have pictured to myself. And the tomb hewn out of the
rock—I should like to paint it near Paris—at Capri, for
instance, which is altogether Eastern ; but it would be nec-
essary to copy a real tomb, such as there must be many of
in Algeria, and still more in Jerusalem—any Jewish sepul-
chre hewn out of the rock. And the models? Oh, there
must be magnificent ones to be found there—and with the
Original costumes. Julian says this is a piece of folly. He
can understand, he says, how a great artist—one who is
master of his art—should go to paint his picture on the
Scene; he seeks the only thing in which he is lacking, a
knowledge of the real object he is to copy; but I who am
deficient in so many things! Well, it seems to me it is just
for that reason that I should paint my picture on the scene,
298 yO CAAMAZ O/º J/4 AAA. B.4 SZZAZA' Z SAEAA. [1882.
since the only success I can hope for is by my fidelity to
nature. Why should I, who have no other, or almost no
other, advantage, deny myself this one?
Ah, if I could only succeed in doing it well!
And shall I not be able to succeed, since success depends
upon myself? It is to be the work of my hand, and is not
my will—ardent, tenacious, inflexible—sufficient to make it
what I wish it to be? The passionate, wild desire I cherish
to communicate to others the emotion I myself feel, will not
that be enough 2 How can I doubt it? It is something
that fills my mind, my heart, my soul, my eyes, and shall I
not triumph over mere material difficulties? I feel myself
capable of accomplishing all things. . The only thing to be
feared is that I should fall ill; I shall pray to God every
day that this may not happen.
What! shall my hand be unable to execute what my brain
has conceived 2 Not so
Ah, my God, on my knees I implore Thee not to deny
me this happiness! It is in all humility, prostrate in the
dust before Thee, that I implore Thee—not to aid me—
but only to deign to suffer me to work without having too
many obstacles placed in my path.
Tuesday, August 8.-My thoughts have been full of
Daudet’s “Rois en Exil.” I had lead the book before, but it
is one that will bear a second reading. There are delight-
ful passages in it, and it is marked by a fineness of analysis,
a lucidity of expression, that captivates me, as well as by a
pathos that brings tears to the eyes.
Friday, August 18.--We did not find Bastien at home. I
left a line for him, after glancing over the things he had
brought with him from London. There is a little messenger-
boy leaning against a lamp-post in the street; you can almost
hear the noise of the vehicles as they pass. The back-
1882.] JOURNAL OF ..]/A/º/Z BASI/ATA: 7 SEAF. 299
ground is not yet finished, but the figure —Ah, what a
man'
What idiots are they who say he excels only in execution'
He is an original, a powerful artist; he is a poet; he is a
philosopher; other artists are mere workmen compared to
him; he is grand, as nature is, as life is. The other day
Tony Robert-Fleury was obliged to agree with me that, to
copy Nature, one must be a great artist, and that none but
a great artist can comprehend Nature so as to copy her
faithfully. The ideal quality of the painter is manifested in
his choice of a subject; as for the execution, it should be the
pefection of what the ignorant call realism. Choose as
your subject Enguerrard de Marigny or Agnes Sorel, if you
will, but let their hands, their hair, their eyes be natural,
lifelike, human. The subject itself matters little. Doubt-
less, from every point of view modern subjects are the most
interesting, but the genuine, the only, the true realism is in
the execution. No doubt it is more easy to interest the
spectator in one subject than in another—but even so!—If
Bastien-Lepage were to paint Mlle. de la Vallière or Mary
Stuart, dead and turned to dust as they are, they would come
to life again under his touch.
There was also a little portrait of the elder Coquelin—I
could find no words to express my admiration; it is his very
expression as he speaks; you can see the gesture he is in
the act of making with his hand, his eyes wink.
Wednesday, August 23.-Instead of working on any of
my studies I have been going out. Yes, Mademoiselle has
been taking observations in the interest of art. I went to
the Orphan Asylum twice to-day—this morning and again in
the afternoon.
Monday, August 28.-I have read for the second time a
book by Ouida, a woman who is not endowed with a great
deal of genius; it is called “Adriana,” and is in English,
3OO /O CA.V.4 L OF J/4 AVAE /3.1 S//Å //, / SAE /*A*. | 1882.
Tuesday, August 29.-This book has disturbed me;
Ouida is neither Georges Sand, nor Balzac, nor Dumas, but
she has produced a book which, for professional reasons,
has thrown me into a fever. Her ideas and opinions con-
Cerning art, acquired among the studios in Italy, where she
has lived, are extremely just.
She says, among other things, that with the true artist—
not the artisan—the conception is immeasurably superior to
the power of execution. Again, the great sculptor Marix,
when he had seen the first attempts at modeling of the
young heroine, the future woman of genius, says: “Let her
come; she will accomplish all that she desires to accom-
plish.” So Tony Robert-Fleury said, after he had carefully
examined my drawings at the studio: ‘‘Work hard, Made-
moiselle, you will accomplish whatever you desire,”
words.
But my work has, no doubt, been one-sided. Saint-
Marceaux said that my drawings were the drawings of a
sculptor, and I have always loved form beyond everything
else. -
I love color, also, but now, since I have read this book—
and even before—painting appears a miserable thing com-
pared to sculpture. And, then, I Ought to hate it, as I
hate every imitation, every imposture.
Nothing irritates me more than to see artificial objects
imitated in painting on a surface necessarily smooth and
flat, whether it be a work of art that is concerned, or a com-
mon wall-paper. The sight of such things enrages me as
the sight of red enrages a bull. What can be more odious,
for instance, than imitations of pictures on walls, as we
sometimes See—even in the Louvre—or the friezes on the
walls of furnished apartments imitating carved wood or lace.
What is it, then, that prevents me from being a sculptor?
Nothing. I am free; I am so situated that all my artistic
needs are supplied. I have an entire floor to myself—an
were his
1882.] JOUR.VAZ OF ..]/21A/Z B.1 S//KIA 7.S.A.F.F. 3o I
antechamber, a bed-room, a library, a splendidly lighted
studio, and finally, a little garden, in which I can work
when I choose. I have had a speaking-tube put up, so
that I may not be disturbed by any one coming upstairs
and that I may not have to go downstairs too often.
And what am I painting, with all this? A little girl who
has turned up her black petticoat over her shoulders, and
who holds an open umbrella in her hand. I work in the
open air, and almost every day it rains. And then—what
does all this signify? What is it compared to a thought
expressed in marble? And what use have I made of the
sketch I did three years ago, in October, 1879? They gave
us the subject—Ariadne—at the studio, and I was enthusi-
astic about it, as I was about the Holy Women at the Sep-
ulchre. Julian and Tony thought the subject a good one. .
Here it is now three years since I first determined to learn
modeling for the purpose of doing it in marble. I feel my-
self powerless where commonplace subjects are concerned.
And the terrible words, “To what end?” keep my hands tied.
Yes, the prejudice in favor of linear perspective is a mis-
taken one, the preference for colors a false sentiment—col-
oring is a purely mechanical art which gradually absorbs all
one’s powers, and leaves no room for original conception.
The execution of the painter who is a thinker or a poet
is generally of an inferior degree of excellence. How could
I have deceived myself as I have done in regard to this
truth, and clung to this art with such mad persistency?
August 30.-I am engaged in drawing my Magdalen, for
which I have an excellent model. I saw three years ago
the face I wanted for it, and this woman has the very
same features, and the same terribly intense expression of
despair.
No painting has ever affected me like the Jeanne d'Arc
of Bastien Lepage ; there is something mysterious, super-
3O2 JOURA.1/ OF J/ARVE BASI/ATR 7SEFF. [1882.
natural, in her expression, born of the intensity of feeling
produced by her vision—a feeling understood by the artist
who has painted it as at once grand, human, inspired, and
divine; al/ that it was, in fact, but which no one before
him had comprehended.
Aºriday, September 1.-I have received a letter from
mamma in which she tells me that our young neighbors are
visiting at our house, with some friends of theirs, and that
they are getting up a grand hunt. She is ready to return,
but, as I had asked her to let me know if—she has done
so. Well, this plunges me in a sea of uncertainty, doubt,
and anxiety. If I go to Russia, there is an end to my pic-
ture for the Exhibition. If I had even been working all
the summer, I might have the pretext of needing rest, but
this is not the case. It would be splendid, of course, but
nothing is less probable. And to travel for four days and
nights in a railway-coach, and sacrifice the labor of a year
to go and try to make a conquest of some One I have never
seen—there is neither sense nor reason in it. If I begin to
think of committing this piece of folly, I shall, perhaps, be
guilty of it, for I no longer know what I am doing. I shall
go to see Mother Jacob the fortune-teller about it; the same
who foretold that I should have a serious illness.
For the sum of twenty francs I have just purchased
good fortune enough to last me for at least two days.
Mother Jacob has predicted, from the cards, the most
delightful things for me—a little mixed up, it is true. But
what turns up with most persistence is that I am going to
achieve a brilliant success, of which all the newspapers will
talk ; that I shall be a great genius, and that a change for
the better is going to take place ; that I am to make a
splendid marriage, to have great wealth, and to travel a
great deal.
The delight all this gives me is insensate, if you will, but
1882.] JO CA.V.1 / OZ, J/4 A/Z BAS//AIA Z'S//'A'. 3O3
all it costs me is twenty francs; I shall not go to Russia,
but to Algeria, for if all these things are going to happen
to me, they will happen to me there as well as in Russia.
Good-night; this has done me good ; I shall work well
to-In OTIOW.
Wednesday, September 6.—I am not an artist. I desired
to be one, and, as I am intelligent, I learned certain details
of the art. —How then explain what Robert-Fleury said to
me when I began : “You have already what is not to be
learned.” He deceived himself, that is all.
I paint, as I do anything else, with intelligence and skill—
nothing more. Why then did I draw heads with chalk on
the card-tables in our country-house when I was only four
years old 2
All children draw. But whence the constant desire to
draw—to copy engravings, both before we left Russia, and
afterword, at Nice, when I was only eleven 2 They thought
then I had an extraordinary talent for drawing, and I
studied, under various masters, for a couple of years.
Well, upon reflection, I find that I always had the desire
to learn drawing, the impulse toward art ; that I made
efforts, but without any one to direct them. And then
came the journey to Italy—Rome. They say in novels
that it is possible to appreciate the beauties of art without
any previous instruction, but I confess that I have only
learned gradually to appreciate the beauties, that is to say,
the merits of paintings. In short, I have lost confidence, I
have lost courage. I am deficient in some sense. I appre-
ciate beauty of Coloring, but—I cannot say precisely that I
have not been able to attain it, for I have done two or three
things which are good, both in coloring and execution. If
I have done some good things, that means that I can do
others—this is what encourages me. And I was going to
abandon my réſe of artist and painter—especially of painter,
3O4. yo U.A.Y.1/ OF W.4A //, /34 SI/AAA / SEF/. [1882.
In short I paint not so badly, but I think I should do better
as a sculptor—I have certain conceptions—of forms, ges-
tures, attitudes—that cannot be expressed in color.
Sunday, September 24.—The days follow one another in
unbroken monotony; from eight in the morning till five,
painting ; an hour for the bath before dinner; then dinner,
eaten in silence, for I read the newspapers while I eat,
interchanging an occasional word with my aunt. She must
be bored to death, poor woman Truly I am not very
amiable; she has never enjoyed any happiness in life;
formerly she sacrificed herself for mamma, who was the
beauty of the family, and now she lives only for us, for me .
yet I cannot succeed in being amiable and pleasant during
the rare moments in which we are together ; and then, I
enjoy a silence during which my thoughts do not dwell
upon my infirmities.
In RUSSIA, Saturday, October 14.—My aunt left me at
the frontier, and I made the rest of the journey with Paul.
We have to wait five hours here for the train. The place
is called Znamenka. It is cold, and the sky is overcast;
if it were not quite so cold, it would be delightful to be in
the open air. I have been observing the peasants, with
their garments discolored by exposure to the inclemency
of the weather, and I see how true to nature are the paint-
ings of Bastien-Lepage. “The tones are gray, the atmos-
phere is flat, it has no body,” say those who are unaccus-
tomed to observe nature out-of-doors, who know her only
in the exaggerated effects of the studio. But this is pre-
cisely what nature is ; his rendering could not be truer or
more faithful. Ah, Bastien ought to be a happy man
And I who left Paris filled with chagrin at the thought of
my ruined Fisherman
But I will try to finish it in March, in time for the Salon.
1882.] /OURN.1 L OF AIA RIAE BASHAZRTSEFF. 305
It is Robert-Fleury who has advised me to retouch it;
I am to leave the background and the dress as they are ;
there is nothing to be done but to retouch the head.
GAVRONzi, Sunday, October 15.-We went to bed at seven
o'clock this morning, as we came direct to Gavronzi.
Mamma, papa, Dina, and Kapitan were at the station to
meet us. Paul's wife has a little boy two weeks old. The
little girl is a year old, and is a charming child, with long,
black lashes. The young P s are to arrive to-morrow.
Michka has gone to see them, instead of waiting here for
me with the others.
Thursday, October 19.—Here we have them with us at last.
They arrived in time for breakfast with Michka. Victor,
the elder, is slender and dark, and has a large aquiline
nose ; he is rather stout, has full lips, is distinguished in
appearance, and has agreeable manners. The younger,
Basili, is about the same height, but much stouter; he is
very fair, with a florid complexion, and cunning eyes; he
seems quarrelsome, turbulent, brutal, and yes—Vulgar. I
wore the same gown as yesterday—a white wool, short and
extremely simple, with kid shoes of antique red ; my hair
was twisted in a knot at the back of the head. This was
not one of my brilliant days, but neither, on the other hand,
did I look my worst.
I do not think I shall make a conquest of either of the
brothers. There is nothing in me that could please them ;
I am of medium stature, well proportioned, and neither
dark nor fair ; my eyes are gray, and I have neither a large
bust nor a wasp waist ; and, as for my mental qualities,
I think, without flattering myself, that I am sufficiently their
superior not to be appreciated by them. And as a woman
of the world I am no more charming than many other women
of their own set.
306 JOCAA’AZ OF AZ.4 RZA, BASI/AAA’ TSEFF. [1882.
On reaching the railway at St. Petersburg Sarah Bern-
hardt was hissed by the populace because they were disap-
pointed at not seeing her tall and dark, with enormous eyes,
and a mass of tangled black hair. Aside from this piece of
stupidity I think the judgment formed here of the actress
and the woman a just one, and I am altogether of the opin-
ion of the Russian journals, which place Mlle. Delaporte
above her. For my part, with the exception of the music of
her voice when she declaims, I find little in her to admire.
PARIs, IWednesday, AVovember 15–I am in Paris We
left Russia on Thursday evening. Uncle Nicholas and
Michka accompanied us as far as the first station, and Paul
and his wife as far as Karkoff. We remained twenty-four
hours at Kieff, where Uncle Alexandre's daughter is at the
Academy. She is fourteen years old, and is a sweet girl.
7%ursday, AVožember 16.-I have been to see a great
doctor, a surgeon who visits the hospitals. I went incog-
nito, and quietly dressed so that he might not deceive me.
Indeed, he is not a very amiable person. He simply told
me that I SHOULD NEVER RECOVER MY HEARING. It may
grow better, however, so that my deafness will be endur-
able. It is so already, in fact. But if I do not follow strictly
the treatment he prescribes for me, my deafness will increase.
He has given me the address of a little doctor who will
attend me for a couple of months, as he himself has only
the time to see me twice a week, which is all that will be
necessary.
For the first time I had the courage to say : “Doctor, I
am growing deaf.” Up to the present I have used such
expressions as, “I cannot hear very well,” “My ears seem
stopped,” etc. This time I have had the courage to say the
hateful word, and the doctor has answered me with the
brutality of his profession.
1882.] yOUR.Y.1/ OF AZAR/E BASI/ATA 7'SEFF. 307
I only hope that the misfortunes foreshadowed in my
dreams may be nothing more than this. But let me not
trouble myself beforehand about what blows Providence
may still have in store for me. For the time being I am
Only partially deaf.
And then he says that my hearing will certainly improve.
So long as I am surrounded by my family, to watch over me
and come to my assistance when I need them, it can be
borne ; but how would it be if I were alone, and in the
midst of strangers
And what if it should fall to my lot to have a bad hus-
band, or one who would be wanting in delicacy of feeling !
If this were even the price I had to pay for some great good
fortune which had befallen me without my deserving it.
But—Why do they say that God is good, that God is just 2
I shall never recover my hearing, then. It will be en-
durable, but there will always be a veil between me and the
rest of the world. The wind among the trees, the murmur
of the brook, the rain striking against the window-panes,
whispered words—I shall hear none of these. With the
K 's I have not found myself once embarrassed, nor do
I find myself embarrassed at table. So long as the con-
versation is animated I have nothing to complain of. But
at the theater I miss a great deal of what is said, as I do
also with my models, the silence is so profound that they
are afraid to raise their voices. Well, I had in a certain
measure foreseen this for a year past ; I Ought to be ac-
customed to the thought by this time. I am accustomed
to it, but it is none the less horrible.
I have been stricken in that which was most dear to me,
most necessary to my happiness.
Provided only that it stop here !
Friday, AVožember 17.--So then I shall be henceforth less
than the least of human beings—incomplete, infirm.
308 JO (R.V.M L OF A/ARIE BAS//K/R 7SAEFF. [1882.
I shall stand in constant need of the complaisance and
the Co-Operation of my family, and of the consideration
of Strangers. Independence, freedom, all that is at an
end.
I, who have been so haughty, shall have to blush and
hesitate at every moment.
I write all this so as to accustom myself to the thought—
not because I believe it yet; it is too horrible. I have not
yet realized it ; it is too cruel, too hard to be believed.
The sight of my fresh and rosy countenance in the look-
ing-glass fills me with pity.
Yes, every one knows it, or soon will know it, those
who have already taken such delight in disparaging me—
“She is deaf.” O my God why this unexpected, this
terrible blow P
Tuesday, AVozember 21,–I have been painting at the
studio since yesterday. I have returned to the simplest
studies, taking note neither of the beauty of the model, nor
of anything else. “With six months of this régime,” Julian
says, “you will accomplish whatever you wish.” He is
convinced that I have made no progress during the last
three years, and I shall end by believing him. In fact,
since I began painting I have made but little progress. Is
this because I have not worked as hard as before ? No, I
have, on the contrary, worked harder than before, but I
have undertaken subjects that are too difficult for me.
But Julian will have it that it is because I do not work
hard enough, that I have made no progress.
I am tired of them all; I am tired of myself I shall
never recover my hearing. Can you understand how hor-
rible, how unjust, how maddening this is 2
I can bear this thought with calmness, for I was prepared
for it ; but no—that is not the reason ; it is because I can-
not believe it will be forever.
1882.] ſo(VRMAL OF MARIE BASHR/RTSEAF. 3O9
*
Do you understand what that means ?—all my life long—
until I die.
But I repeat, I cannot yet believe it to be true. It is im-
possible but that something can be done, impossible that it
is to be forever, that I am to die with this veil between the
universe and me, that I shall never, never, never hear again
Is it not true that it is impossible to believe that this
sentence is a final, an irrevocable one 2 That there is not
the shadow of a hope P
This thought makes me so nervous when I am working,
that I am in constant dread lest the model, or some one
else in the studio, may have spoken without my having
heard ; or that they are ridiculing my infirmity ; or that
they are raising their voices so as to make me hear.
But when the model comes to me here, can I not say
plainly that—what? That I cannot hear well ? Let me
try it, then. To make confession of my infirmity, like that
And so humiliating, so stupid, so pitiable an infirmity—an
infirmity, in short |
I have not the courage to confess it, and I still cherish
the hope that it may not be perceived.
Thursday, Movember 23.−All I have done this week
is so bad that I myself cannot understand it. Julian called
me to him, and spoke such useless, such cruel words to
me, I cannot understand it ! Last year he said almost
the same thing to me : and now, looking over last year's
studies, he says : “That was good work ; you would not
be able to do so well now.” To believe him, then, I have
made no progress during the last three years ; that is to
say, he had begun his lamentations and his reproaches and
his sarcastic speeches three years ago, ever since I began
to paint, in fact.
Perhaps he thinks he will force me to work, in this way;
on the contrary, it paralyzes me ; I was unable to do any-
3 IO JOURNAL OF MARIE BASF/X/AE 7 SEAF. [1882.
thing for more than three hours—my hands trembled, my
arms burned.
Last summer I painted a portrait of Irma, laughing, and
every one thought it good. This summer, on my return
from Spain, I made a pastel, after my illness, which every-
one thought extremely good ; and a picture which they
thought good. What have I done since 2 I have spoiled
my Fisherman ; and then, I have been in Russia—six
weeks of vacation ; on my return I chanced upon a model
I did not like, I chose a bad position; notwithstanding all
this I forced myself to work against my will ; I produced
a wretched thing, which I destroyed. Then, I attempt to
paint an arm ; Julian comes to see it just as I have sketched
it, and finds it very bad, and tells me so privately. That I
am not a Breslau I know very well; that I need to study I
know too ; but between that and telling me that my case is
hopeless, that I can no longer paint—upon my word, one
would imagine that I knew nothing at all about art
If I do not make as rapid progress in painting as I did
in drawing, that is no reason why he should say such horri
ble things to me.
A/onday, AVovember 27.-Now that I have returned to the
studio and he can no longer say I do not work, Julian
tells me that I am pretending. This continual fault-find-
ing becomes monotonous. The day before yesterday he
said it was only during the last two years that I had made
no progress. During those two years I was ill for five
months, and convalescing for six months more. In the re-
maining time I have painted my picture for the Saſon—a
woman, life-size, painted from life in Russia, the Old Man of
Nice, Thérèse, Irma, and Dina. So much for large paint-
ings; I do not count several studies. That they are not
good I know very well—but it is not as if my shoemaker
had painted them for his own amusement.

882.] JOCA'AV-1 / OF A/AA'/Z B.4 SA/AIA 7'SAEA/. 3 II
I suppose he thinks his words will spur me on ; that he
is witty, perhaps. How exasperating this is Of course I
am not situated like Breslau, who moves in an artistic
circle, where every word spoken, every step taken, bears
some relation to art. But all that I can do, in the environ-
ment in which I am placed, I do.
No doubt I lose a great deal of time from study ; in the
evenings, for instance, which Breslau employs in drawing,
and in sketching compositions, my attention is distracted
and dissipated by the persons who surround me.
Environment—half one's progress depends upon that,
during the time one is a student. Letting my thoughts
dwell continually on this idea gives to my countenance an
expression of concentrated rage, or rather of alienation
from those who surround me. If I were not afraid of
drawing down upon my head other misfortunes, I would
say that God is unjust. Yet why should I say so 2 I have
a horror of myself; I have grown stout; my shoulders,
that were large enough already, are broader, my arms are
rounder, and my chest fuller than before.
Tuesday, ZXecember 5.—I have just read “Honorine " at
a sitting. What would I not give to be mistress of this
fascinating style, that I might be able to interest my read-
ers in my dull existence.
It would be curious if this record of my failures and of
my obscure life should be the means of procuring for me
the fame I long for, and shall always long for. But I
should not be conscious of it then ; and, besides, in order
that any one should wade through these interminable
pages, would it not be necessary that I should first win a
name 2
Two or three days ago we went to the Hotel Drouot,
where there was an exhibition of precious stones. Mamma,
my aunt, and Dina were lost in admiration of some of the
3I 2 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASI/KIAE 7 SEAF. [188
ornaments; I, however, made little of anything, with th
exception of some enormous diamonds which, for a singl
instant, I desired to possess; it would be delightful,
thought, to possess a pair of them ; but such a thing wa
not to be thought of. I contented myself with thinking
therefore, that if I should one day marry a millionnaire,
might own a pair of earrings with diamonds of this size, O
a brooch, for stones of such a size would be almost to
heavy for earrings. This was the first time I had ever full
appreciated the beauty of precious stones. Well, last night
those two stones were brought to me; my mother and my
aunt had bought them for me, yet I had only said, without
the slightest expectation of ever having them, “Those
are the only diamonds I have ever cared to possess.”
They are worth twenty-five thousand francs; they are
yellow, otherwise they would have cost three times that
Sll ill.
I amused myself with them during the whole evening ; I
kept them in my pocket while I was modeling. Dusautoy
played, and Bojidar and the others chatted. I did not
part with the stones all the evening, and I placed them
beside my bed when I went to sleep.
Ah, if certain other things that seem as impossible might
only be so easily obtained—even if they should prove to be
yellow, and should cost only four thousand instead of
twenty-five thousand francs
Thursday, December 7.—I spent a few moments chatting
with Julian, but we never have the long and friendly con-
versations together now that we used to have. We have
no longer anything to talk about, everything has been said ;
we are waiting until I shall accomplish something. I re-
proached him with his injustice toward me, however, or
rather with the means he took to spur me on.
My pastel is to be sent to a club, and then to the Salom.






882.] JO CA.V.A / OF J/AA'/Z B.A.S//A/A 7'SZZ /. 3 I 3
It could not be better,” said Julian, and I felt like throw-
ng my arms around his neck.
Well, then, I must paint a picture that artists will stop to
ook at. But I shall not be able to do that just yet. Ah,
f I only thought that by working, no matter how hard, I
night at last succeed ' That would give me courage, but
t present I feel as if it were impossible.
7%ursday, ZOecember 14.—We went this morning to see
the paintings which the real Bastien has brought back with
him from the country. We found him engaged in making
some alterations in his pictures. Our meeting was like that
of good friends ; he is so amiable, so unpretending !
Perhaps he is not quite that ; but then he has so much
genius ! But yes, he is charming.
As for the poor architect, he is completely cast in the shade
by his brother's splendor. Jules brought with him several
studies of “The Soir au Village’’: a peasant returning from
his labor in the fields, has stopped to talk with a woman
who is going toward a house in the distance, the windows
of which are lighted up by the rays of the rising moon.
The effect of the twilight is marvelously rendered ;
one can feel the calm of the hour pervading everything.
It is full of poetry and charm, and the coloring is
wonderful.
There is also a scene representing a Forge, at which an
old man is at work. It is very small, and is as fine as those
wonderful little dark pictures that are to be seen at the
Louvre. Besides these there are landscapes and marine
views—Venice and London—and two large pictures, an
English flower-girl, and a little peasant-girl in a field.
At the first glance one is dazzled by the versatility and
the force of this genius that disdains to confine itself to a sin-
gle style, and that treats every style in a masterly manner.
This English boy is far superior to the two pictures I
3I4 JOURNAL OF AZAAA. B.1 S//K//07'SZAZ. [1882.
have just mentioned. As for the boy of last year, entitled
“Pas-mêche,” it is simply a masterpiece.
Sunday, December 17.—The real, the only, the great Bas-
tien-Lepage came to see me to-day. I received him with
embarrassment, for I was vexed and humiliated at having
nothing worth while to show him.
He stayed looking at my pictures for more than two hours,
although I did my best to prevent his seeing them. This
great artist is extremely amiable ; he tried to put me at my
ease, and we spoke of Julian, who is the cause of my present
discouragement. Bastien does not treat me like a society
girl. His opinion is the same as that of Tony Robert-
Fleury and of Julian, only he does not make use of the
horrible jests of the latter, who says all is over ; that I shall
never be able to accomplish anything ; that there is no
hope for me. This is what afflicts me.
Bastien is adorable ; that is to say, I adore his talent;
and I think my embarrassment in his presence was the
most delicate and flattering compliment I could have paid
him. He made a sketch in the album of Miss Richards, in
which she had asked me to draw something, and, as the
paint passed through, and stained the following page, he
wished to lay a piece of paper between.
“Ileave it so,” I said ; “she will then have two sketches,
instead of one.” I don't know why I should do a favor to
Miss Richards, but at times it amuses me to give pleasure
to a person who does not expect it from me, or one who is a
stranger to me.
IP'ednesday, December 20.—I have made no choice of a
subject yet for the Salon, and nothing suggests itself.-This
is torture
Saturday, December 23.—The great, the real, the incompar-
1882.] JOUA’.V.4 / OF J/4 AEA/E B.1 S//AIAE Z'S/A/. 3 I5
able Bastien-Lepage and his brother dined with us this
evening. We had invited no other guests, which made me
feel a little embarrassed. As it was the first time they had
dined with us, it might seem as if we were treating them
with too much familiarity ; and then I was afraid, besides,
of not being able to entertain them.
As to the brother, he is received here with almost the
same familiarity as Bojidar, but our concern was for the
real, the great, the only, etc. And the good little man,
whose genius is worth more than his weight in gold, is
flattered and pleased, I think, at being regarded in this
way ; no one has yet called him a “genius.” I do not call
him so, either. I only treat him as such, and, by means of
artifices, make him swallow the most extravagant compli-
ments. Bojidar came for a few moments in the evening ;
was in at amiable humor, and agreed with everything I said.
We treat him like one of the family, and he is pleased to
meet here celebrities such as Bastien. -
But in order that Bastien may not think I carry my
admiration for him to excess, I couple Saint-Marceaux
with him whenever I speak of them. “You two,” I say.
He stayed until midnight. He thought a bottle I had painted
very good. “That is the way you must work,” he added,
“with patience and concentration; use your best efforts to
copy nature faithfully.”
Tuesday, December 26.-Well, it seems that I am really
ill; the doctor who is attending me is unacquainted with
me ; he has no interest in deceiving me, and he says the
right lung is affected ; that it will never be completely
cured, but that, if I take care of my health, it will grow no
worse, and I may live as long as any one else. Yes, but it
is necessary to arrest the progress of the disease by heroic
measures—by burning, and by a blister—everything that is
delightful, in short | A blister that means a yellow stain
316 JOUA’AVAL OF AZ, 1 RAAE BAS//AIA 7'SEFF. [1882.
for a year or more. I might, indeed, conceal the mark by
wearing, in the evening, a bunch of flowers over the right
shoulder.
I shall wait for a week longer ; if I am no better by that
time, I shall consent to this atrocity.
Zhursday, December 28.--So this, then, is what the
matter is—I have consumption ; he told me so to-day.
“Take care of yourself,” he said ; “try to get well, or you
will regret it.” -
He is a young man, and has an intelligent look, this
doctor ; to my objections regarding the blister, and other
wretched things of the kind, he answered that I would
regret it if I did not follow his advice, and that he has
never in his life seen so extraordinary a patient as I am ;
and also that from my appearance no one would suppose
that my lungs were affected. And, indeed, although both
my lungs are affected, the left much less seriously than the
right however, I look the picture of health.
The first time I felt anything in the left lung was on
leaving the sacred catacombs of Kieff, where we had gone
to pray to God and to the Saints for my recovery, reinforc-
ing Our prayers by paying to have a great many masses
said. A week ago Scarcely anything was noticeable in the
left lung. He asked me if any of my family had had con-
Sumption. -
“Yes,” I replied, “my grandfather, and two of his sisters,
the Countess of Toulouse-Lautrec, and the Baroness Stral-
borne, a great-great-grandfather, and two grand-aunts.”
At any rate, I have consumption.
My knees trembled slightly as I went downstairs, after
my interview with this good man, who is interested in so
eccentric a patient. The disease might be checked if I
would follow his orders ; that is to say, apply blisters to
the chest, and go to the South—disfigure myself for a year
1882.] JOUA’.VAZ O/; J/4 AEIE BASI/AIA 7'SEFF, 3 I 7
and go into banishment. And what is a year compared to
one's whole life 2 And my life is so beautiful -
I am quite calm, but I have a sense of strangeness at
being the only one in the secret of my misfortune. And
how about the fortune-teller who predicted for me so much
happiness 2 Mother Jacob, however, told me that I should
have a serious illness, and here it is. In order that her
predictions may be altogether fulfilled there are stili to
come : A great success; wealth, marriage, and the love of
a married man. This news about the left lung troubles me,
though. Potain would never acknowledge that the lungs
were affected ; he made use of the phrases usual in such
cases—the bronchial tubes, bronchitis, etc. It is better to
know exactly what the matter is ; that will decide me to do
all I can—except to go away this year.
Next winter I shall have my painting of the Holy Women
as an excuse for this journey. To go this winter would be
to begin over again the follies of last year. I will do every-
thing that it is possible for me to do, then, except go
South—and trust in the grace of God
What has made this doctor speak so seriously is, that
since he has been attending me my lungs have become
much worse. He was treating me for my deafness, and I
mentioned my chest to him by chance, and laughingly; he
examined my lungs and prescribed some remedies for them
a month ago, and laid particular stress on blistering ; on
this latter, however, I could not resolve, hoping that the
trouble would not progress So rapidly as it has done.
I have consumption, then, but my lungs have been
affected only for the past two or three years. And after all
the trouble is not so serious as to cause my death, though
it is very distressing ! g
But how, then, explain my blooming appearance, and the
fact that the waists of my dresses, made before my illness,
and when no one had any idea that there was anything the
3.18 JOUA’AWAZ OA: JAAA"/A BASI/AAA’ ZSZ//. [1882.
matter with me, are all too small for me 2 I suppose I shall
grow thin all of a sudden.
Well, if I am granted ten years of life, and during those
ten years love and fame, I shall be content to die at thirty.
If there were any one with whom it would be possible to
make this agreement, I would do so—to die—having lived
up to that time—at thirty.
But I should like to get well; that is to say, that the prog-
ress of the malady might be arrested, for the disease is
never cured, though one may live with it a long time—as
long as any one else, in fact. I will apply as many blisters
as they like to my chest, but I must go on with my painting.
Ah, I was right in predicting that it was my fate to die
early. After being overwhelmed with misfortunes death
now comes to end all. I knew well that I must die early;
my life, as it was, could not last. This desire to possess all
things, these colossal aspirations, could not continue, I knew
it well; years ago at Nice I foresaw dimly all that would be
necessary to make life possible for me. But others possess
even more than I desired, and they do not die.
I shall speak to no one of my condition, with the excep-
tion of Julian, who knows it already. He dined with us
this evening, and, finding myself alone with him for a mo-
ment, I nodded to him significantly, pointing to my throat
and chest as I did so. He cannot believe it, I appear so
strong. He tried to reassure me by telling me of friends of
his in regard to whom the doctors had said the same thing,
and had proved to be mistaken.
Then he asked me what my ideas respecting Heaven
were. I told him Heaven had used me very ill. “As to
my ideas respecting it,” I added, “I have thought but little
about it.” He says he thinks, however, that I believe
there is something after this life. “Yes,” I said, “it is
possible.” I read him Musset’s “Espoir en Dieu,” and he
responded by reciting Franck's invocation, “I must live!”
1882.] yO URNAL OF A/21R// B.15A/KIA 7 SEAF. 3 IQ
I, too, wish to live. Well, this position of one con-
demned to death almost amuses me. It is an opportunity
to pose; it is a new sensation; I hold a secret within me.
I have been touched by the hand of Death ; there is a cer-
tain fascination in all this—it is a novelty, in the first
place.
And then to be able to talk in earnest of my death—that
amuses me, that is interesting. Only it is a pity that I can-
not conveniently have any other audience than my con-
fessor Julian.
Saturday, ZXecember 30.-The disease progresses. There,
now I begin to exaggerate; yet, no, it is true that it pro-
gresses, and that I shall never be well again, and that the
good God, who is neither just nor good, will probably
inflict still further punishment upon me for daring to say
so He inspires me with such dread that I shall submit
myself to His will—a submission which He will probably
not take into account, since it is the result of fear.
Provided only—the worst of it is that I cough a great
deal, and that ominous sounds are to be heard in my chest.
Well, let us leave everything till the fourteenth. If I can
only keep in any kind of health until then! If I only
remain free from fever; if I am not obliged to take to bed.
That is not likely, however. Yet perhaps the disease is
already beyond control, it is one that progresses So rapidly.
And both lungs' Ah, woe is me !
Sunday, ZXecember 31.-As it was too dark to paint, we
went to church; after that we went to the Exhibition, in the
Rue de Sèze, of the paintings of Bastien, Saint-Marceaux,
and Cazin. This is the first time that I have seen any of
Cazin’s paintings, and they have completely captivated me.
They are poetry itself; but Bastien’s “Soir au Village” is in
no way inferior to any of the pictures of this poet-painter,
32O /O UA'A'.1/ OF ..]/AAAA. B.15//Å ZA' 7"S/E/F. [1883.
Cazin, and observe that Bastien has often been unjustly
said to excel in execution only.
I spent a delightful hour there. How many things there
were to be enjoyed Never was there a sculptor like Saint-
Marceaux. The words, so often used as to become hack-
neyed, “It is lifelike "" are in his case absolute truth.
And, in addition to this important quality, which alone
would be sufficient to make the success of an artist, there is
in his work a depth of thought, an intensity of feeling, an
indescribable something which shows Saint Marceaux to be
an artist, not alone of great talent, but almost of genius.
It is only because he is young, and is still living, that I
seem to exaggerate his merits.
For the moment I am disposed to place him above
Bastien.
I have at present a fixed idea—it is to possess a picture
by the one, and a statue by the other.
1883.
Monday, January 1.—Gambetta, who had been lying ill
and wounded for many days past, has just died. Died,
notwithstanding all his seven physicians could do to save
him, notwithstanding all the interests of which he was the
center, all the prayers offered up for his recovery ! Why
should I torment myself? Why should I hope to recover ;
Why should I grieve –The idea of dying terrifies me,
now, as if I had already come face to face with death.
Yes, I think it must come—soon, now. Ah, how I feel
my littleness And yet why There must be something
beyond the grave; this transitory existence cannot be all;
it does not satisfy either our reason or our aspirations;
1883.1 yo UAEMA L OF AZAR/E BAS//KIA 7SAEAF. 321
there must be something beyond ; if there were not, this life
would have no meaning, and God would be an absurdity.
The life to come—there are moments when one catches
mysterious glimpses of it that terrify One.
Tuesday, January 16.-Emile Bastien took us to Gam-
betta's house at Ville d'Avray, where his brother is working.
Bastien-Lepage was seated at the foot of the bed, paint-
ing. Everything in the room remains as it was—the sheets,
the eiderdown coverlet, that still retains the impress of the
body, the flowers on the bed. The picture is truth itself.
The head, thrown back, and taken in a three-quarter view,
wears the look of nothingness that succeeds to intense suf-
fering—a serenity that is lifelike, but that has in it also
something of eternal peace. You fancy you see before you
the man himself. The body, stretched motionless on the
bed, and from which life has just departed, is strikingly
impressive.
What a happy man Bastien-Lepage must be I feel
when in his presence a certain awkwardness. Although he
has the physique of a young man of twenty-five, he has
that air of unaffected and amiable serenity which is charac-
teristic of great men—of Victor Hugo, for instance. I
shall end by thinking him handsome ; at all events he
possesses the infinite charm conferred by the consciousness
of power—in which, however, there is nothing of either
arrogance or conceit.
On the wall is to be seen the mark left by the bullet
which caused Gambetta's death. He called our attention
to it, and the silence of this chamber, the faded flowers, the
sunlight entering through the window, all this brought
the tears to my eyes. He was absorbed in his painting,
however, and his back was turned to me ; so, in order not
to lose the benefit of this display of sensibility, I extended
my hand to him abruptly, and hastily left the room, the
322 JO (R.V.A L OF ..]/ARIAE B. SA/A/R/SEFF. [1883.
tears running down my face. I hope that he observed
them. It is hateful, yes, hateful, to have to confess that
one is always thinking of the effect.
Monday, January 22.-For the past two months I have
been going twice a week to see the doctor recommended to
me by M. Duplay, who had not the time to attend me him-
self. The treatment that was to have produced such good
results has not done so. I am no better, but they /o/e the
disease will not progress. “And if it should not progress,”
he says, “you may consider yourself very fortunate.” This
is hard.
Thursday, February 22.-I have been playing airs from
Chopin on the piano, and from Rossini on the harp, all
alone in my studio. The moon shone brightly ; through
the large window of the studio I could see the beauti-
ful cloudless blue sky. I thought of my picture of the
Holy Women, and was so carried away by the impression
it made upon me, as it presented itself to my imagination,
that I was seized with an irrational fear lest some one else
should do it before me. This thought troubled the pro-
found peace of the night.
I have been very happy this evening : I have been read-
ing Hamlet in English, and I have been reveling in the
music of Ambroise Thomas.
There are dramas that never lose their power to move
the soul, characters that are innmortal—“Ophelia,” for in-
stance, pale and fair we give her a place in our hearts.
Ophelia / She makes us long to experience an unhappy
love. Ophelia with her flowers, Ophelia dead —How
beautiful is all this
Ah, if God would only grant me power to finish my pic-
ture—my large picture, my real picture. My picture for
this year will be only a sort of study—inspired by Bastien 7
1883.] JOURNAL OF J/AA/E BASI/AAA’ TSZAF. 323
Yes, of course ; his painting so closely resembles nature
that whoever copies nature faithfully must resemble him.
His faces are living faces; they are not merely fine paint-
ing like the faces of Carolus, they are art ; in short they
are the real flesh, they breathe, they live. The question
here is not one of skill, nor of a fine touch. This is nature
itself; it is sublime !
Saturday, February 24.—My thoughts, as you know, are
constantly occupied with Bastien-Lepage ; I repeat his
name to myself continually, but I avoid speaking it aloud,
as if to do so were something to be ashamed of. When I
do mention it, it is with a tender familiarity which would
seem to be only natural, considering his genius, but which
might be misunderstood.
Good heavens ! what a pity it is that he cannot come to
see me, as his brother does |
And what should I do if he were to come 2 Make him
my friend, of course What! Do you not believe there
is such a feeling as friendship 2 As for me I could wor-
ship those of my friends who are famous, and this not
through vanity alone, but also because of the delight I take
in their talents—in their intelligence, their ability, their
genius. Those who are endowed with genius are a race
apart ; when we have escaped from the region of medi-
ocrity we revel in a purer atmosphere, where we may join
hands with the elect, and dance a round in honor of
What was I about to say ? But the truth is, that Bastien-
Lepage has a charming head.
I fear, indeed, that my painting may be found to resem-
ble his. I copy nature faithfully, I know, but while I am
doing so I am thinking of his pictures. And then, an art-
ist of any genius who loves nature, and who desires to copy
her faithfully, will always resemble Bastien.
324 JOURNAL OF j/21R//; BA S//KMA 7 SEAEF. [1883.
Tuesday, February 27.-This has been a series of happy
days. I sing, I chat, I laugh, and the name of Bastien-
Lepage recurs constantly in my thoughts, like a refrain.
Not himself, not the corporeal man, scarcely his genius—
nothing but his name. Yet I am filled with a certain dread.
What if my picture were to resemble his 2 He has
lately painted a number of boys and girls—among others
the celebrated “Pas-mêche ’’; what could be finer than
this 2
Well, my picture represents two little boys who are
walking along the pavement holding each other by the
hand; the elder, a boy of seven, holds a leaf between his
teeth, and looks straight before him into space ; the
other, a couple of years younger, has one hand thrust
into the pocket of his little trousers, and is regarding the
passers-by.
This evening I enjoyed an hour of intense happiness.
Why? you ask. Did Saint-Marceaux or Bastien come 2
No, but I made a sketch for my statue.
You have read the word correctly. When the fifteenth
of March is past, it is my intention to begin a statue. In
my lifetime I have modeled two groups, and two or three
busts, all of which I threw aside before they were finished ;
for, working as I did, alone and without instruction, I could
work only at something in which I was interested, into
which I could throw my life, my soul, as it were—
something real, in short, not a mere exercise for the
studio.
To conceive a figure, to throw myself heart and soul into
the work, this is what I wish to do.
It will be bad 2 no matter ; I was born a sculptor. I
carry my love of form to the point of adoration. Color can
never exercise the same power over the soul as form does,
though I adore color also. But form ' A noble gesture, a
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1883.] yo UAEMAZ OF AZAR/E BASI/ATA: /SAEAA. 325
side you will, the outlines may change, but the figure still
preserves the same significance.
Oh, happiness " Oh, joy
The figure is that of a woman who stands weeping, her
face buried in her hands; you know what the attitude of
the shoulders is when one weeps. w
I felt an impulse to kneel down before it ; I addressed a
thousand foolish speeches to it. The clay model is thirty
centimetres in height, but the statue itself will be life-size.
But that will be an outrage on common-sense. And why
Finally I tore up a fine batiste chemise in which to wrap
this fragile statuette. I love this clay more dearly than my
own flesh.
And then, as my sight is not very good, when I can no
longer see to paint I shall devote myself to sculpture.
How beautiful this moist white linen is as it follows every
curve of this little figure. I wrapped it up with a senti-
ment of respect—so fine, so delicate, so beautiful is it.
Wednesday, February 28.-My picture will be finished
to-morrow. I shall have spent nineteen days on it. If I
had not had to do over one of the boys, it would have been
finished in a couple of weeks. But he looked too old.
Saturday, March 3–Tony came to see the picture. He
is very much pleased with it. One of the heads is very
good, he says. ge
Thursday, March 15–My picture is at last finished ! I
was still working at it at three o'clock, but a great many
visitors came, and I was obliged to leave it, Madame and
Mademoiselle Canrobert, Alice, Bojidar, Alexis, the Princess,
Abbema, Mme. Kanchine, and Tony Robert-Fleury came in
the morning. They are all going to Bastien's to see his
picture, “L’Amour au Village.” It is a young girl standing
326 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHAIR 7SEFF. [1883.
with her back to the spectator, leaning against a hedge in an
orchard ; her eyes are bent upon the ground, and she holds
a flower in her hand ; a young man stands beside the
hedge, facing the spectator; his eyes also are cast down,
and he is looking at his fingers which he is twisting together.
The picture is exquisite in sentiment and full of poetry.
As for the execution—this is not art, it is nature's self.
There is also a little portrait of Madame Drouot, the guard-
ian-angel of Victor Hugo, which is wonderful in point of truth,
sentiment, and resenblance. None of these pictures look
like each other, even at a distance ; they are living beings
who pass before your eyes. He is not a painter only, he
is a poet, a psychologist, a metaphysician, a creator.
His own portrait, which stands in a corner of the room, is
a masterpiece. And he has not done his best work yet—
that is to say, we hope to see a large picture from him, in
which he will give such proof of his genius that no one will
dare to deny it any longer.
The young girl, with her hair in short braids, standing with
her back to the spectator, is a poem.
No one has ever penetrated more deeply into the realities
of life than Bastien. Nothing can be at the same time more
elevated and more human than his painting. That the
figures are life-size contributes to render the truth of his
pictures more striking. Who can be said to surpass him 2
The Italian painters—painters of religious and, as a con.
sequence, of conventional subjects : There are sublime
painters among them, but they are necessarily conventional,
and then—their paintings do not touch the heart, the soul,
the intelligence. The Spanish painters ? Brilliant and
charming. The French are brilliant, dramatic, or academic.
Millet and Breton are poets, no doubt, but Bastien unites
everything. He is the king of painters, not alone because
of his wonderful execution, but on account of the sentinent
expressed. The art of observing could not be carried fur-
1883.] /OURNAL OF MARIE BASHATR 7SEFF. 327
ther, and Balzac has said that almost the whole of human
genius consists in observing well.
Thursday, March 22.—I sent for two workmen yesterday,
who constructed the framework, life-size, for the statue I
had modeled in clay. And to-day I worked on it, giving it
the pose I desired. My mind is full of my picture, the
Holy Women, which I will try to paint this summer; and
in sculpture, my first thought is Ariadne. Meantime I have
done this figure, which is, in fact, the other Mary of the pic-
ture. In sculpture and without drapery, taking a younger
model, it would make a charming Nausicaa. She has
buried her face in her hands and is weeping ; there is in
her attitude so genuine an abandonment, a despair so com-
plete, so naïve, so sincere, and so touching, that I am capti-
wated by it.
. Sunday, March 25.—Since two o'clock yesterday I have
been on the rack, as you may imagine when I tell you what
has happened.
V111evielle came to see me and asked me if I had heard
any news from the Salom. “No,” I answered. “What
you have heard nothing 2 ” she said. “Nothing.” “You
have passed.” “I knew nothing of it.” “There can be no
doubt about it, since they have reached the letter C.”
And this is all. I can scarcely hold the pen ; my hands
tremble, I feel utterly powerless.
Then Alice came and said to me, “Your picture has been
accepted.”
“Accepted—but how 2 Without a number 2 ” I asked.
“It is not yet known.”
I had no doubt about its being accepted.
And all this has thrown mamma, my aunt, and everybody
else into a state of agitation that it irritates me in the high-
est degree to see. I have had to make the greatest efforts
328 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASI/KIAE 7 SEAF. [1883.
in order to appear unconcerned, and to bring myself to see
visitors.
I sent about forty telegraphic despatches. Later on I
received a few lines from Julian, which I copy here word
for word : “O naïveté ! O sublime ignorance I am
going to enlighten you at last.
“Your picture has been accepted, and with a number 3
at the least, for there is some one I know who wished to give
you a number 2. You have conquered at last. Greeting
and congratulations.”
This is not happiness, but it is at least tranquillity,
I do not think that even a number 1 would have given
me pleasure after these twenty-four hours’ humiliating un-
certainty. They say joy is more deeply felt after anxiety.
Such is not the case with me. Difficulties, doubts, and
suffering spoil everything for me.
Friday, March 30.—I worked until six o'clock ; as it was
still daylight I opened the door leading out into the bal-
cony, in order to hear the church clock striking, and to
breathe the spring air while I played upon the harp.
I am very tranquil ; I worked faithfully all day, after
which I took a bath, dressed myself in white, and sat down
and played upon the harp ; now I am writing ; I am calm,
contented, and happy in this apartment arranged by myself,
where I have everything I want at hand ; it would be so
pleasant to go on leading this life, while waiting for fame.
And even if fame were to come, I could sacrifice two months
in the year to it, and live shut up in my room working the
other ten months. And indeed it is only by so doing that
those two months would be possible. What troubles me is
to think that I must one day marry, but this is the only way
in which to escape the wounds my self-love is constantly
receiving.
“Why does she not marry P" people ask. They say I
1833.] JOUAE.V.1 / OF ..]/.1/ö// B.1 S/ZAZAC TS/. FF. 329
am twenty-five, and that enrages me ; while if I were once
married—but whom shall I marry 2 If I were only well,
as before. But now if I marry, it must be some one who
has a good heart and delicacy of feeling. And he must
love me, for I am not rich enough to marry a man who
would leave me entirely to myself.
In all this it is not my heart that speaks. One cannot
foresee everything; and then it would depend—And be-,
sides it may never happen. I have just received the fol-
lowing letter :
“PALACE OF THE CHAMPS-ELYSEES.
ASSOCIATION OF FRENCH ARTISTS FOR THE AN-
NUAL ExHIBITION OF THE FINE ARTs.
“ MADEMOISELLE :
“I write to you here in the committee room to inform you
that the Head in Pastel has had a genuine success with the
committee. Receive my heartiest congratulations. I need
not tell you that your paintings have been very well re-
ceived.
“You have met with a genuine success this year, which
makes me very happy.
“With friendly regards,
“TONY ROBERT-FLEURY.”
Well, and what then 2 The letter itself I shall pin down
here, but I must first show it to a few friends. Do you
imagine I am wild with joy 2 Not at all ; I am quite calm.
Doubtless I am not worthy of experiencing a great joy,
since such a piece of news as this causes me no more emo-
tion than if it were the most natural thing in the world.
And the fact of the letter being addressed to me makes it
lose much of its significance. If I knew that Breslau had
received a letter like it I should be greatly troubled. This
is not because I value only that which I do not possess, but
because of my excessive modesty. I lack confidence in
myself. If I were to take this letter literally, I should be
33O JOURAA L OF MARIE BASI/AIAE 7 SEAF. [1883.
too happy. When good fortune comes to me I am slow to
believe in it. I fear to rejoice too soon. And after all the
cause for rejoicing is not so great.
Saturday, March 31.-Nevertheless I went to Julian's
this morning, in order to hear a repetition of these flatter-
.ing things. It seems Bouguereau said to him : “You
have a Russian who has sent something that is not bad—
not at all bad.” “And you know,” added Julian, “that
this from Bouguereau, where one of his own pupils is not
concerned, means a great deal.” In short, it seems I shall
receive some sort of mention.
Sunday, April 1 . . . . I cough a great deal, and although
I have not grown visibly thinner, I fear I am seriously
ill. Only I don't want to think about it. But if I am seri-
ously ill, why do I present so healthy an appearance in
every way ?
I try to discover some cause for my sadness, and I can
/find none, unless it be that I have done nothing for the last
fortnight. The statue is falling to pieces; all this has
made me lose a great deal of time.
What vexes me is that the pastel should be thought so
good, and the painting simply good. Well, then I feel
that I am capable now of producing something equally
good in painting—and you shall see
I am not sad ; but I am feverish, and I find difficulty in
breathing. It is the right lung that grows worse, that
is all.
Tuesday, April 3.—The weather is delightful ; I feel
new strength. I feel that I possess the power to produce
something really good ; I feel it, I am sure of it.
So, then, to-morrow. .
I feel within me the capacity to render with truth to
1883.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASI/ATA’ TSEFF. 33 I
nature whatever strikes my imagination. I feel a new
force, a confidence in my own powers that will give me
thrice the ability to work that I had before. I shall begin
a picture to-morrow, the subject of which charms me. I
have another very interesting one for later on in the autumn
when the bad weather commences. I feel that now every
stroke will tell, and I am intoxicated with the thought of
my work.
Red-Weſter day, Wednesday, April 4.—Six little boys in a
group, their heads close together, half-length only. The
eldest is about twelve, the youngest six. The eldest of the
boys, who stands partly with his back to the spectator, holds
a bird's nest in his hands, at which the others stand looking.
The attitudes are varied and natural.
The youngest boy, whose back only is to be seen, stands
with folded arms and head erect.
This seems commonplace, according to the description,
but in reality all these heads grouped together will make an
exceedingly interesting picture.
Sunday, April 15.—My disease has reduced me to a state
of prostration that renders me indifferent to everything.
Julian writes to say that my picture is not yet hung ; that
Tony Robert-Fleury cannot PROMISE (sic) to have it hung on
the line ; but that, as it is not yet hung, all that can be done
in the matter will be done. That Tony Robert-Fleury
strongly (sic) hopes to receive some slight recompense in
the shape of a painting (sic) or a pastel ! Two months ago
I had not expected anything of the kind, yet I am as in-
different to it all now as if I were not concerned in it.
This mention, which I once thought it would make me
faint with emotion to receive, now that they tell me it is
probable, almost certain indeed, will, I feel, cause me no
emotion whatever.
332 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASI/KIA 7'SEFF, [1883.
There is a logic in the events of life by which each event
prepares us for that which is to follow ; and this it is that
diminishes my pleasure. I should have wished this news
to come like a thunder-clap—I should have wished the
medal to fall down from the skies, as it were, without giv-
ing time to cry out “Take care ” and plunge me in a sea
of happiness.
Wednesday, April 18.-If I receive a mention this year, I
shall have progressed more rapidly than Breslau, who had
already studied hard, before commencing with Julian. In
short—
I have just been playing the piano. I began by playing
the two divine marches of Chopin and Beethoven, and then
went on playing whatever chanced to come into my head,
melodies so exquisite that I fancy I can hear them still. Is
it not curious ! I could not play a single note of any one
of them now, if I were to try, nor if I wished to improvise
could I do so. The hour, the mood, a certain something is
necessary, yet the most heavenly harmonies are running
through my head. If I had the voice I could sing the most
ravishing, the most dramatic, the most original airs. To
what end ? Life is too short; it does not give one time to
accomplish anything. I should like to take up sculpture,
without giving up painting. Not that I wish to be a sculp-
tor, but because I have visions of the Beautiful which I feel
an imperious necessity of giving form to.
Sunday, Ap, iſ 22.--Two pastels only have received a
number 1–Breslau's and mine. Breslau's picture is not
hung on the line, but her portrait of the daughter of the
editor of Figaro is on the line. My picture is not on the
line, either, but Tony Robert-Fleury assures me that it
looks well, and that the picture under it is not a large
one. The head of Irma is on the line, and in an angle—-
1883 ] /O UAE.VAZ OF AZAA'ZZ BAS//Å/A 7'SZAZ. 333
in a place of honor, consequently. In short, he says my
pictures are well hung.
We have people to dine with us almost every evening,
and I often say to myself as I listen to their conversation,
“Here are people who spend their lives doing nothing but
making silly or artificial remarks. Are they happier than
I ?” Their cares are of a different nature, but they suffer
as much. And they do not take as much enjoyment in
everything as I do. Many things escape their notice—
shades of language or of coloring, for instance, which to me
are sources of interest or of pleasure, such as are unknown
to vulgar Souls. But perhaps I am more prone than most
people to observe the beauties of nature, as well as the
countless details of city life, and if it be true that I am in
one sense inferior to the rest of the world, since I am occa-
sionally unable to hear as well as others, perhaps I am not
without some compensation for it.
Ah, no ; every one knows it, and it is the first thing they
say to each other when they mention my name. “She is a
little deaf, did you know it?” I do not understand how I
am able to write the word. Is it possible to accustom one's-
self to so terrible an affliction ? It is conceivable that this
should happen to an old man or to an old woman, or to
some miserable creature, but not to a young girl like me,
full of ardor, full of energy, eager for life
Friday, April 27.—I think that in art a certain glow of
enthusiasm may supply in some sort the want of genius.
Here is a proof of this : it is six or seven years since I
have played on the piano; that is to say, I have remained
for whole months without touching it, and then played five
or six hours at a time once or twice a year. Under such
circumstances the fingers lose their flexibility, so that I now
never play before people; the merest school-girl would put
me in the shade.
334 JOUAAWAZ OA; MAAC//º BASI/AIR 7SFFF. [1883.
But let me only hear a masterpiece played, like the
march of Chopin, or that of Beethoven, for instance, let me
be seized by the desire to play it myself, and in two or
three days, practicing not more than an hour a day, I shall
be able to play it perfectly, as well as any one, as Dusautoy,
for instance, who took the first prize at the Conservatory,
and who practices constantly.
Monday, April 30.-I have had the happiness of talking
with Bastien-Lepage.
He has explained his Ophelia to me !
This man is not an ordinary artist. He does not regard
his subject from the standpoint of an artist, merely, but
from that of a student of human nature, also. His observ-
ations revealed an intimate knowledge of the most secret
recesses of the soul ; he does not see in Ophelia a mad girl
only, she is a lovelorn creature as well. In her madness
there is disenchantment, bitterness, despair, hopelessness;
she has been disappointed in love, and her disappointment
has partly turned her brain. There can be nothing sadder,
more touching, more heart-rending than this picture.
I am wild about it. Ah, how glorious a thing is genius !
This ugly little man appears to me more beautiful and
more attractive than an angel. One would like to spend
one's life listening to him and watching him in his sublime
labors. And then he speaks so simply. In answer to a
remark of some one he said, “I find so much poetry in
nature,” with an accent of such perfect sincerity that I was
inexpressibly charmed.
I exaggerate, I feel that I exaggerate. But something
of this there is.
Tuesday, May 1.—And the Salon 2 Well, it is worse
than usual. Dagnan does not exhibit. Sargent is medi-
ocre ; Gervex commonplace; Henner is charming; his
1883.] JOUAEAV.1/ OF MAA/E BASI/ATA: 7 SEFF. 335
picture is a nude figure of a woman reading. The light is
antificial, and everything is bathed in a sort of luminous
mist, of so exquisite a tone that one feels as though envél-
oped in it. Jules Bastien admires it greatly. A painting
of Cazin's, that I like less than his landscapes, is Judith de-
parting from the city to meet Holofernes. I did not look
at it long enough to come under its spell, but what struck
me most forcibly in it was that the attractions of Judith are
not sufficient excuse for Holofernes's infatuation.
I am not very enthusiastic about Bastien-Lepage's pic-
ture. The two figures are faultless. The figure of the
girl standing with her back to the spectator, the head, of
which nothing is to be seen but one cheek, the hand play-
ing with a flower—there is in all these a feeling, a poetical
charm, and a truth to nature which cannot be surpassed.
The back is a poem ; the hand, of which we can just
catch a glimpse, is a masterpiece; we feel all that he has
desired to express. The girl bends down her head, and is
at a loss as to what she shall do with her feet, which have
assumed an attitude of charming embarrassment. The
young man is very good also. But the girl is the embodi-
ment of grace, of youth, of poetry. The figure is true to
nature, and full of feeling, delicacy, and grace.
The landscape, however, is altogether disagreeable. Not
only is it of too pronounced a green, but it obtrudes itself
on the eye as well. There is a want of space. Why is this?
Some say that the colors in the background are too thickly
laid on. At all events it is heavy.
And Breslau ? Breslau's picture is good, but I am not
quite pleased with it. It is well executed, but the picture
expresses nothing; the coloring is graceful, but common-
place. It represents a group—a brunette and a blonde, and
a young man—drinking tea at the fireside, in a bourgeois
interior, without character. They all wear a solemn ex-
pression; the air of sociability we look for in such a scene
336 JOUAMAL OF MAAC/E BASHAIRTSEFF. [1883.
is wanting. She who talks so much about sentiment does
not appear to be very richly endowed in that respect. Her
portrait is good, that is all.
And I ?
Well, the head of Irma is pleasing, and the execution
sufficiently bold. But the picture is unpretentious.
The painting has a Somber look, and, although executed
in the open air, it does not look natural. The wall is not
like a wall—it is the sky, a piece of painted canvas, any-
thing you choose. The heads are good; but the back-
ground is poor. They might have given it a better place,
however, especially as things so inferior to it are on the
line. Every one agrees that the heads—that of the elder
boy, particularly—are very good. Probably I should have
succeeded better with the rest of the picture, since the
treatment is comparatively easy, if I had had more time.
Looking at my picture hanging there before me I learned
more than I could have learned in six months at the studio.
The Salon is a great school; I never understood this as
well as now.
Wednesday, May 2.-I ought to go to the opera, but
what for? That is to say, I thought for a moment of
doing so in order to show myself to the best advantage;
that Bastien might hear my beauty spoken of. And why
do this? I do not know. Well, it was a stupid thought! Is
it not silly to try to make people like me whom I care noth-
ing about, and that through pique?—I shall think of it,
however, the rather as it would be in reality for the King of
Prussia that I should go, for after all I have no serious
cause of complaint against this great artist. Would I marry
him? No. Well, then, what do I want?
And why seek to analyze every sentiment so minutely.
I have a wild desire to please this great man, and that is all.
And Saint-Marceaux as well. Which of them most? No
1883 ] /O URA'AZ OF AZAR/E BASA/AIRTSEFF. 337
matter which : either would do. It would be an interest
in life. This feeling has given a new expression to my
face. I look prettier; my complexion is smooth, fresh, and
blooming; my eyes are animated and brilliant. At all
events it is curious. What would not real love accomplish,
if a silly fancy can produce an effect like this?
After all, that is not the question. Jules Bastien dined
with us this evening. I posed neither as a mad creature
nor a child. I was neither silly nor mischievous. He was
simple, gay, charming; we rallied each other incessantly;
there was not an instant's embarrassment. He is very
intelligent; and then I do not believe in specialties for
men of genius; a man of genius can be and ought to be
everything he wishes.
And he is gay too; I feared to see him insensible to that
delicate humor that is half-way between wit and humbug.
In short, like Roland's mare, he has every quality; the
only thing is that he is dead—or almost so, as far as I am
concerned. Is it not stupid?
Sunday, May 6.-There has been a great deal of talk
about young Rochegrosse's picture. It represents Astyanax
being torn from the arms of his mother Andromache, to be
cast over the ramparts.
It is a modern and original treatment of an antique subject.
He imitates no one and seeks inspiration from no one. The
coloring and the execution are of unexampled vigor—there
is no other artist of the present day who is capable of them
In addition, he is the son-in-law of M. Th. de Banville,_
so much for the press.
Notwithstanding this latter fact, however, he has wonder-
ful gifts. He is only twenty-four, and this is the second
time he exhibits.
This is the way one would like to paint—composition,
color, drawing, all are indescribably spirited.
338 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1883.
And this is the quality expressed by his name—Roche-
grosse. It is like the rumbling of thunder. After the idyllic
Bastien-Lepage, Georges Rochegrosse comes on you like a
torrent. It is possible that later on his talent may become
more concentrated, and that he will aim at being a poet and
psychologist in painting, like Bastien-Lepage.
And I? What does my name express—Marie Bashkirt-
seff—I would willingly change it; it has a harsh, bizarre
sound; though it has a certain ring of triumph in it too; there
is even a certain charm in it, something expressive of arro-
gance, of renown; but it also has a quarrelsome, jerking
sound. Tony Robert-Fleury—is it not cold as an epitaph?
And Bonnat?—correct and vigorous but short and com-
monplace. Manet sounds like something incomplete—a
pupil who will be known at fifty. Breslau is sonorous, calm,
powerful. Saint-Marceaux is like Bashkirtseff, nervous, but
not so harsh. Henner is tranquil and mysterious, with an
indescribable something in it of antique grace.
Carolus Duran is a mask. Dagnan is subtle, veiled, deli-
cate, sweet, and strong, with little beyond this. Sargent
makes one think of his painting, of the false Velasquez, of
the false Carolus, not so great as Velasquez, yet good,
nevertheless.
Monday, May 7.-I have begun the little gamins over
again from the beginning. I have drawn them full-length,
and on a larger canvas; this will make a more interesting
picture.
Tuesday, May 8.-I live only for my art; I go down-
stairs only to dine, and talk with no one.
I feel that I am passing through a new phase.
Everything seems petty and uninteresting, everything
except my work. Life, taken thus, may be beautiful.
Wednesday, May 9.-We had some visitors this evening,
1883.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASI/ATA TSEFF. 339
who were entirely different from our usual set and who
would shock these very much, but whom I found very
entertaining.
Jules Bastien, who lays such stress on concentrating all
one's forces on one particular point, does not, for his own
part, expend his energy uselessly. For myself, so supera-
bundant are my energies that it is a necessity with me to
have some outlet for them. Of course, if conversation or
laughter fatigues one, it is better to abstain from them,
but—he must be right, however.
We went up to my studio, and I almost quarreled with
Bastien to prevent him looking at my large picture, the face
of which was turned against the wall.
I praised Saint-Marceaux extravagantly, and Jules Bas-
tien declared he was jealous of him, and that he would
never rest until he had ousted him from the place he holds
in my regard.
He has said this several times already; and although it
may be only a jest, it delights me to hear him say it.
I must make him think that I admire Saint-Marceaux
more than I admire him—in an artistic sense, of course.
“You like him, do you not?” I said to him.
“Yes, very much.”
“Do you like him as much as I do?”
“Oh, no; I am not a woman ; I like him, but—”
“But it is not as a woman that I like him.’’
“Oh, yes, there is a little of that in your admiration for
him.’’
“No, indeed, I assure you.”
“Oh, yes, unconsciously there is.”
“Ah, can you suppose—?”
“Yes, and I am jealous of him; I am not dark and
handsome, as he is.”
“He resembles Shakspeare.”
‘‘You See!”
34o JOURNAL OF MAR/E BASI/K/RTSEFF. [1883.
The real Bastien is going to hate me! And why should
he hate me? I do not know, but I fear that he will.
There is always a certain feeling of hostility between us–
little things one cannot explain, but that one feels. We
are not in sympathy with each other; yet I have gone out
of my way to say things before him that might perhaps—
make him like me a little.
In regard to art we think alike, but I dare not speak of
art in his presence. Is this because I feel that he does not
like me?
In short, there is a something—
Friday, May 18.--To set my heart upon possessing the
friendship of Bastien-Lepage would be to give too much
importance to this feeling, to distort it, so to say, and to
place myself, in my own eyes, in a false position. His
friendship would have been a great pleasure to me, as Caz-
in's or Saint-Marceaux's would be; but I am vexed to think
I should have let my thoughts dwell upon him personally—
he is not sufficiently great for that. He is not a demigod
in art, like Wagner, and it is only in such a case that it
would be admissible to entertain a profound admiration
for him.
What I long for is to gather around me an interesting
circle, but every time this hope seems about to be realized
something happens to interfere; here is mamma gone to
Russia, papa dying, perhaps.
I had planned to give a dinner followed by a reception,
every Thursday, for instance, for Society people, and on
Saturday another dinner for artists; at the receptions on
Thursdays I would have the most distinguished of the
artists, who had dined with me on the previous Saturday.
And now there is an end to all this; but I will try again
next year to carry out my plan, as tranquilly as if I were
conscious of the power to succeed, as patiently as if I were
1883.] JoJRNAZ OF MARIE BASI/KIA 7'SEFF. 34:
to live forever, and as perseveringly as if I had been
already successful.
I am going to begin a panel–Spring: A woman leaning
against a tree, her eyes closed, and smiling as if she were
in a beautiful dream. Around is a delicate landscape—
tender greens, faint rose-tints, apple and peach trees in
blossom, budding leaves—all that gives to Spring its magic
coloring.
Bastien-Lepage is going to paint a picture representing
the burial of a young girl, and his views in art are so just
that he will be sure to make the landscape like this that I
have been dreaming of. I hope it will not prove so, how-
ever, and that he will give us a landscape of a vile green,
instead—yet it would vex me if he did not make a sublime
picture of this subject.
Sunday, May 20.-Mamma arrived in Russia early on
Friday morning; we received a dispatch from her on Satur-
day in which she says that papa's health is in a deplorable
State.
To-day his valet writes that his condition is desperate.
He says, too, that he suffers greatly; I am glad mamma
arrived in time.
To-morrow the distribution of prizes takes place, and the
Salom is to be closed for three days. On Thursday it will
be re-opened.
I dreamed that I saw a coffin placed upon my bed, and
that I was told a young girl was lying in it. And through
the surrounding darkness glowed a phosphorescent light.
Tuesday, May 22.-I worked till half-past seven ; but at
every noise I hear, every time the bell rings, every time
Coco barks, my heart sinks into my boots. How expres-
sive this saying is; we have it also in Russia.—It is nine
o'clock and no news yet—how many emotions! If I receive
342 JOURAWAZ OF MARIE BASHAZR 7SEFF. [1883.
nothing, it will be very exasperating! They were all so
sure of it at the studio—Julian, Lefebvre, and Tony have
spoken so much of it among themselves, that it cannot be
but that I shall receive something. In that case they might
have telegraphed it to me; one can never hear good news
tCO SO.On. tº
Ah, if I had received anything I should have heard of it
already.
I have a slight headache.
Not that it is of so much consequence, however; but
every one was so sure of it—and then uncertainty about
anything is odious.
And my heart is beating, beating. Miserable existenceſ
This, and everything else, and all for what? To end in
death !
No one escapes—this is the fate of all.
To end, to end, to exist no longer—this is what is horri-
ble. To be gifted with genius enough to last for an eter-
nity—and to write stupid things with a trembling hand
because the news of having received a miserable mention
delays in coming.
They have just brought me a letter; my heart stood still
for a moment—it was from Doucet about the waist of a dress.
I am going to take some syrup of opium to calm my
nerves. To see my agitation one would suppose I had
been thinking about my Holy Women; the picture is all
sketched in, and when I work on it or think of it, I am in
the same state of agitation as at present.
It is impossible for me to fix my thoughts upon anything.
A quarter-past nine. It could not be that the discreet
Julian should have committed himself as he has done, and
that I should not receive it! But, then, this silenceſ
My cheeks are burning; I feel as if I were enveloped in
flame: I have sometimes had bad dreams in which I have
felt like this.
1883.] /OURNAL OF MAR//. BASHAIR 7 SEAF. 343
It is only twenty-five minutes past nine.
Julian ought to have come before this; he must have
known at six o'clock; he would have come to dine with us–
I have received nothing then.
I thought that my picture would be refused when there
was no possibility of that being the case. But that I should
receive nothing now is very possible.
I have just been watching the carriages as they passed.
Ah, it is now too late! .
There is no medal of honor for painting, and Dalou wil
have received the medal for sculpture.
What does this matter to me?
Would I have given Bastien the medal of honor? No.
He can do better than this “Amour au Village,” consequently
he does not deserve it. They might have given it to him
for his sublime “Jeanne d'Arc,” the landscape in which dis-
pleased me three years ago,
I should like to look at it again.
Thursday, May 24.—I have received it ! And I am once
more reassured and tranquil, not to say happy. I might
say satisfied.
I learned it from the papers. Those gentlemen have not
taken the trouble to write me a word about it.
Nothing is ever so good or so bad in reality as it is in the
anticipation.
Monday, June 11.—My father is dead.
We received the dispatch announcing his death at ten
o'clock; that is to say, a few minutes since. My aunt and
Dina thought mamma ought to return here at once without
waiting for the interment. I went to my room very much
agitated, but I shed no tears. When Rosalie came to show
me my new gown, however, I said to her, “It is not worth
while, Monsieur is dead,” and I burst into an uncontrollable
fit of weeping.
344 JOURNAL OF MAR/E BAS//KIR 7SEFF. [1883.
Have I anything to reproach myself with concerning him
I do not think so. I have always tried to do my duty
toward him. But in moments like these one always thinks
one's-self in some way to blame. I ought to have gone
with mamma. -
He was only fifty years old. And he had suffered so
much And he had never injured any one. He was be-
loved by all around him ; he was strictly honorable in all
his dealings, upright, and an enemy to all intrigue.
Friday, June 15.—The Canroberts have written me a
charming letter ; indeed every one has shown me the great-
est sympathy.
This morning, not expecting to meet any one I knew, I
ventured to go to the Petit hall—an exhibition of a hun-
dred masterpieces for a benefit of some kind,-of Decamps,
Delacroix, Fortuny, Rembrandt, Rousseau, Millet, Meis-
sonier (the only living artist represented) and others. And
in the first place I must apologize to Meissonier, of whom I
had little previous knowledge, and who had only very in-
ferior compositions at the last exhibition of portraits. Yes,
these are literally marvels of art.
But what had chiefly induced me to leave my seclusion
was the desire to see the paintings of Millet, of whom I had
heretofore seen nothing, and whose praises were continually
dinned into my ears. “Bastien is only a weak imitator of
his,” they said. Finally I was tempted to go. I looked at
all his pictures, and I shall go back again to look at them.
Bastien is an imitator of his, if you will, because both are
great artists and both depict peasant life, and because all
genuine masterpieces bear a family resemblance to each
Other.
Cazin's landscapes resemble Millet's much more closely
than do those of Bastien. What is most admirable in
Millet, judging from the six paintings I saw at the Exhibi-
• 1883.] JOUAE.VAL OF MAA/E BASI/AIA. TSEFF. 345
tion, is the general effect, the harmonious arrangement,
the atmosphere, the transparency. The figures are unim-
portant and are simply treated, but broadly and correctly.
And this it is in which Bastien has no equal to-day—the
execution, at once careful, Spirited and vigorous, of his
human figures—his perfect imitation of nature. His “Soir
au Village,” which is only a sketch of small dimensions, is
certainly equal to anything of the kind of Millet's ; there are
in it only two small figures dimly seen in the twilight. I can-
not think of his “Amour au Village,” however, with patience.
How faulty is the background ! How is it that he cannot
see this 2 Yes, in the larger paintings of Bastien there is
wanting the tone, the general effect, that make the small
pictures of Millet so remarkable. Whatever may be said to
the contrary, everything else in a picture should be subor-
dinate to the figure.
“Le Père Jacques” in its general effect is superior to
“L'Amour au Village ’’; this is the case with “Les Foins,”
also. “Le Père Jacques” is full of poetry; the girl gather-
ing flowers is charming, and the old man is well executed. I
know that it is extremely difficult to give a large picture that
character, at once soft and vigorous, which is distinctive of
Millet, but this is what must be aimed at ; in a smaller pic-
ture many details may be slighted. I speak of those pictures
in which the execution is everything (not of those of the over-
scrupulous Meissonier), like those of Cazin, for czample,
who is the disciple of Millet. In a small picture that indes-
cribable quality called charm, which is a result of the
general effect rather than of any particular detail, may be
given with a few happy strokes of the brush, while in a
large picture this is not the case—there feeling must rest
on a basis of Science.
Saturday, June 16.--So then, I withdraw from Bastien's
paintings the title of masterpieces. And why? Is it be-
346 yo URNAL OF AZAR/E BASI/ATA TSEFF. [1883.
cause his “Amour au Village’ shocks me, or because I have
not the courage of my opinions 2 We can only deify those
who are no longer living; if Millet were not dead, what
would be said of him 2 And then there are only six paint-
ings of Millet's here. Could we not find six equally excel-
lent paintings among those of Bastien P “Pas-mêche,”
“Jeanne d'Arc,” the portrait of his brother, the “Soir au
Village,” “Les Foins.” I have not seen all his paintings,
and he is not dead. Bastien is less the disciple of Millet
than is Cazin, who resembles him greatly—with the dif-
ference that he is younger. Bastien is original ; he is
himself. One always imitates some one at first, but one's
own personality gradually asserts itself. And then poetry,
vigor, and grace are always the same, and it would be
disheartening, indeed, if the attempt to attain them were
to be called imitation. A picture of Millet fills you with
admiration, one of Bastien's produces the same effect upon
you ; what does that prove 2
People of shallow minds say this is the result of imita-
tion ; they are wrong; two different actors may move you
in the same manner, because genuine and intense emotion
is always the same.
Etincelle devotes a dozen flattering lines to me. I am a
remarkable artist. I am a young girl, and a pupil of Bastien-
Lepage. Mark that
I saw a bust of Renan by Saint-Marceaux, and yesterday
I saw Renan himself pass by in a fiacre. At least the likes
ness is good.
Monday, June 18.—Here is a little incident : I had
granted an interview for eleven o'clock this morning to the
correspondent of the Mew Zimes (of St. Petersburg), who
had written to me requesting one. It is a very important
periodical; and this M. B. has contributed to it, among
other things, some studies on Our painters in Paris, and—
1883.] JOUAEAVAZ OF MAA'ZZ AASHA IAE 7 SEAA. 347
“as you occupy a conspicuous place among them, I hope
you will permit me,” etc.
Before going downstairs I left him alone with my aunt
for a few minutes, that she might prepare the way by telling
him how young I was, and other things of the kind, for the
sake of effect. He looked at all my pictures, and took
notes of them. “When did I begin to paint,” he asked,
“at what age, and under what circumstances?” and so on.
I am an artist on whom the correspondent of a great news-
paper is going to write an article.
This is a beginning; it is the mention that has procured
me this. Provided only that the article be a favorable
one. I do not know if the notes were correct, because I
did not hear all that was said, and then the situation was
embarrassing.
It was my aunt and Dina who told him—what ? I shall
await this article with anxiety—and it will not appear for a
fortnight. .
They laid particular stress upon my youth.
Thursday, June 21.—To-morrow the distribution of
prizes takes place; they have sent me a list of the prizes to
be given, with my name on it (section of painting); this is
pleasant; but I have some hesitation about being present—
it is hardly worth while, and then if–
What am I afraid of f I cannot tell.
Aºriday, /une 22.—I thought for an instant, as I looked
at the people present, that it would be terrible to rise and
go forward to that table.
My aunt and Dina were seated behind me, for only those
who were to receive prizes had the right to chairs.
Well, the day is at last over, and it was altogether differ-
ent from what I had thought it would be.
Oh, to receive a medal next year, and to realize my
348 JOURNAL OF MIAA'ZZ BASI/KIA. TSEFF. [1883.
dreams at last ! To be applauded, to achieve a triumph
And when I have received a second-class medal, no doubt
I shall want a first-class one Of course.
And after that the cross 2 Why not 7 And afterward 2
And afterward to enjoy the fruit of my labors, of my strug-
gles, to go on working, to make as much progress as pos-
sible, to try to be happy, to love and to be loved.
Yes, afterward we shall see; there is no hurry. I shall
be neither uglier nor older, so to say, in five years to come
than I am to-day. And if I were to marry hastily now, I
might repent it. But, after all, it is indispensable for me
to marry; I am twenty-two years old, and people take me
to be older; not that I look to be so, but when I was thir-
teen, when we lived in Nice, I was taken to be seventeen,
and I looked it.
In short, to marry some one who truly loved me , other-
wise I should be the most unhappy of women. But it
would be necessary that this some one should be at least a
suitable parti.
To be famous ! illustrious !—that would settle every-
thing. No, I must not expect to meet an ideal being who
would respect me and love me, and who would, besides, be
a good parti.
Ordinary people are afraid of famous women, and
geniuses are rare.
June 24.—I have been thinking lately of the nonsensical
things I used to write about Pietro. As, for instance,
when I said that I always thought of him in the evenings,
and that if he were to come to Nice unexpectedly I would
throw myself into his arms. And people thought I was
in love with him—my readers may think so.
And this has never, never, never, been the case.
Yet often of a Summer evening, when vague longings fill
the soul, one feels that one would like to throw one's-self
1883.] JoCKMAZ OF AZARIA BASI/A/R7 SEAF. 349
into the arms of a lover. This has happened to me a hun-
dred times. But then this lover had a name, he was a real
being whom I could call by his name—Pietro. But enough
of Pietro !
I had a fancy for being the grandniece of the Cardinal,
who might one day become Pope—but—nothing more.
No, I have never been in love ; and now I never shall be
in love. A man must be very superior to other men to
please me now that I have grown so exacting; he must
be. And to fall in love with some young fellow, simply
because he is charming—no, that can never be.
Tuesday, July 3–The picture does not go forward. I
am in despair. And there is nothing to console me for it.
At last the article in the AVew Zimes has appeared. It
is very good, but it causes me some embarrassment, as it
states that I am only nineteen, while I am older, and am
taken to be even older than I am.
But it will produce a great effect in Russia.
And love——what of that 2
What is love 2 I have never experienced the emotion,
for passing fancies founded on vanity cannot be called by
that name. I have preferred certain persons because the
imagination needs something with which to occupy itself.
I have preferred them because to do so was a necessity to
my great soul, not because of their own merits. There was
this difference, and it is an enormous one.
To turn to another subject—that of art ; I scarcely know
how I am progressing in painting. I copy Bastien-Lepage,
and that is deplorable. An imitator can never be the equal
of the master he copies. One can never be great until one
has discovered a new channel through which to express
one's nature, a medium for the interpretation of one's own
individual impressions.
My art has ceased to exist.
350 JOURNAL OF MAAC/E BASI/AAA’ TSFAA. [1883.
I can discern a trace of it in the “Holy Women”; but in
what else 2 In sculpture it is different, but as for painting !
In the “Holy Women "I imitate no one. And I think the
picture will produce a great effect, not only because I shall
try to execute the material part of the work with the utmost
truth to nature, but also because of the enthusiasm with
which the subject inspires me.
The picture of the little boys reminds one of Bastien-
Lepage, though the subject is taken from the street, and is
a very commonplace, every-day one. But this artist always
causes me an indescribable feeling of uneasiness.
Saturday, /u/y 14.—Have you read “L’Amour" of Stend-
half I am reading it.
Either I have never been in love in my life, or I have
never ceased to be in love with an imaginary being.
Which is it P &
Read this book; it is even more delicate than anything
of Balzac ; it is more profoundly true, more harmonious,
and more poetical. And it expresses divinely what every
one has felt, what I myself have felt. But then I have
always been too much given to analyzing my emotions.
I was never really in love, except at Nice, when I was a
child and ignorant of the world.
And afterward when I had a sickly fancy for that hor-
rible Pietro.
I can remember moments alone in my balcony at Nice,
listening to some delightful serenade, when I felt trans-
ported with ecstatic joy, without any other cause for it than
was to be found in the hour, the scene, and the music.
I have never experienced these feelings either in Paris or
anywhere else, except in Italy.
Friday, August 3.-Bastien-Lepage is enough to drive
one to despair. When one studies nature closely, when one
1883 ] JOUAMAZ OF AZAAC/A, BASI/ATA TS/EFF. 35 I
seeks to imitate her faithfully, it is impossible not to think
constantly of the works of this great artist.
He possesses the secret of rendering flesh with perfec-
tion ; they talk of realism, but the realists do not know
what reality is; they are coarse, and think they are natural.
Realism does not consist in copying a vulgar thing, but in
making the copy of whatever be represented an exact one.
Sunday, August 5–People say that I had a romantic
fancy for C , and that that is the reason I do not marry,
for they cannot understand why, having a handsome dowry,
I am yet neither a marquise nor a Countess.
Fools | Happily you, the few superior people who read
me, you, my beloved confidants, know what to believe.
But when you read these words, all those of whom I speak
will probably be dead, and C will carry to the tomb the
Sweet conviction of having been loved by “a young and
beautiful foreigner, who, enamoured of this cavalier,” etc.
Fool | Others also will believe it—fools | But you know
very well that this is not the case. It would, perhaps, be
romantic to refuse marquises for the sake of love ; but it is
reason, alas ! that causes me to refuse them.
Sunday, August 12.-The bare idea that Bastien-Lepage
impressionable.
Our Pope dined with us. Bastien-Lepage is very in-
telligent, but less brilliant than Saint-Marceaux.
I showed him nothing of my work ; I scarcely spoke ;
that is to say, I did not shine; and when Bastien-Lepage
introduced an interesting subject I could not answer him,
nor even follow his remarks, which were as terse and full
of meaning as his paintings are. If it had been Julian, I
should have taken the lead, for this is the style of conver-
352 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASI/AIA 7'SEFF. [1883.
sation I like best. He is very well-informed, and has a
keen intellect, while I had feared to find him in Some
measure ignorant.
In short, when he said things to which I should have re-
sponded in such a way as to reveal the fine qualities of my
head and heart, I let him go on Speaking and remained
silent.
I can scarcely even write, so completely has the day
upset me.
I desire to be alone, completely alone, so as to commune
with myself regarding the impression he made upon me,
which was profound and interesting ; ten minutes after his
arrival I had mentally capitulated and acknowledged his
mastery.
I did not say a single word that I ought to have said ;
he is indeed a god, and he is conscious of his power ; and
I have contributed to strengthen him in this belief. He is
small, he is ugly, in the eyes of the vulgar crowd, but for
me and for people like me he has a charming countenance.
What is his opinion of me? I was embarrassed ; I laughed
too frequently ; he says he is jealous of Saint-Marceaux.
What a triumph
Tuesday, August 21.—No, I shall not die until I am
about forty, like Mlle. Colignon. At thirty-five I shall
grow very ill, and at thirty-six or thirty-seven, a winter in
bed, and all will be over.
And my will 2 All I shall ask in it will be a statue and a
picture, the one by Saint-Marceaux, the other by Jules
Bastien-Lepage, placed in a conspicuous position in a
chapel in Paris, and surrounded by flowers; and on each
anniversary of my death that a mass of Verdi or of Pergo-
lesi, and other music, may be sung by the most celebrated
singers in remembrance of me.
Besides this, I shall found a prize for artists of both sexes.
e
1883.] /OURNAL OF MARIE BASHA'IRTSEFF. 353
I should, indeed, prefer to live, but as I am not gifted
with genius, it is better that I should die.
Wednesday, August 29.—Notwithstanding the heat, I cough
continually, and, and, as I was reclining half-asleep on the
divan this afternoon, while my model was resting, I had a
vision in which I saw myself lying on a couch, with a large
wax taper standing lighted beside me.
That will be the denouément of all these miseries.
To die 2 I very much fear so.
And I do not wish to die ; it would be horrible. I don't
know how the case may be as regards happy people, but as
for me, I am greatly to be pitied, since I have ceased to
expect anything from God. When this supreme refuge
fails us there is nothing left us but to die. Without God
there can be neither poetry, nor affection, nor genius, nor
love, nor ambition.
Thursday, September 13.—Stendhal says that our sor-
rows seem less bitter when we idealize them. This observa-
tion is a very just one. But how shall I idealize mine 2 It
would be impossible ! They are so bitter, so prosaic, so
frightful, that I cannot speak of them, even here, without
suffering horribly. How say that at times I cannot hear
well ? Well, the will of God be done : This phrase recurs
to my mind involuntarily, and I have almost come to feel
it. For I shall die, quite naturally and peacefully, notwith-
standing all the care I can bestow upon myself. And this
would be as well, for I am troubled about my eyes; for a
fortnight past I have been able neither to paint nor to
read, and I am growing no better. I feel a throbbing sensa-
tion in them, and little dark specks seem to float before me
in the air.
Perhaps this is because I have been suffering for the last
fortnight from a bronchial cold, which would have made
354 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASI/K/RTSEFF. [1883.
any one else take to bed, but notwithstanding which I go
about as usual, as if nothing were the matter.
I have worked on Dina's portrait in so tragical a mood
that I shall have more gray hairs when I am done with it.
Saturday, September 15.—This morning I went to the
Sa/on to see Bastien's pictures. What shall I say of them 2
Nothing could be more beautiful. There are three por-
traits which, according to Julian, wino dines with us this
evening, are the despair of artists. Yes, the despair.
Never has there been anything done to equal them. They
are life-like; they are endowed with soul. The execution
is so admirable that there is nothing to be compared to it ;
it is nature itself. One must be mad to go on painting
after seeing these.
There is also a little picture called “Les blés Mūrs.” A
man with his back to the spectator is reaping. The picture
is good.
There are two pictures life-size. “Les Foins" and “Les
Ramasseuses de pommes de terre."
What coloring ! What composition What execution
There is a richness of tone in them that is to be found only
in nature itself. And the figures live g
The tones blend into one another with a simplicity which
is the perſection of art, and the eye follows each with genu-
ine delight.
When I entered the room I was not aware that the pic.
ture was there, but the moment I saw “Les Foins " I stopped
short before it, as one stops before a window that is sud-
denly opened, and discloses a beautiful landscape to the
view.
They do not do him justice; he is immeasurably superior
to every one else. There is no one to be compared to him.
I am very, very ill; and I have applied an immense
blister to my chest. After that, doubt my courage and my
1883.] /O URAA / OF AZAR/E BASI/A’/R 7'SEEF. 355
desire to live, if you can. No one knows of it, however,
except Rosalie ; I walk up and down my studio, I read, I
chat, I sing, and my voice is almost beautiful. As I often
spend Sunday without working, this surprises no one.
Tuesday, September 18.-It seems that the notice taken
of me by the Russian press has drawn the attention of many
people to me—that of the Grand Duchess Catherine among
Others. Mamma is intimately acquainted with her grand
chamberlain and his family, and the question of appointing
me to the post of maid of honor has been seriously dis-
cussed. -
I must first be presented to the Grand Duchess, however.
Everything has been done that could be done in the matter,
but mamma was wrong to let things take their course, and
return here.
And then—my be//e-dime demands a sister-soul. I shall
never have a friend. Claire says I can never have a girl
friend because I have none of the little secrets and love-
affairs that other girls have.
“You are too proper,” she says; “you have nothing to
conceal.”
Monday, October 1.—We were present at the ceremonies
which took place to-day on the removal to Russia of the
remains of Tourgenieff, our great writer, who died a fort-
night ago. Afterward we went to the Saſon. I could not
refrain from a burst of enthusiasm (inward enthusiasm,
however, for I feared they might think me in love with
him), as I looked at the paintings of Bastien-Lepage.
Meissonier 2 Meissonier is nothing but a prestidigitator
He paints pictures with figures so minute that one would
need to look at them through a microscope, and that cause
one so much surprise that the feeling might almost be taken
for admiration. But as soon as he departs from this minute
sº "
356 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHR/R7 SEFF. [1883.
style, when his heads are more than a centimetre long, his
manner becomes hard and commonplace. But no one dares
to say this, and every one admires him, although all his pic-
tures for the Salon are merely good and correct.
But is this art, to paint people in costume who play on
the harpsichord or ride on horseback 2 For after all many
genre painters can do as much as this.
Those of his paintings that I have seen that are really
admirable are, in the first place, the “Joueurs de boules sur
la route d'Antibes "; it is a scene copied from the life,
although the costumes are antique ; and is luminous and
transparent ; next his father and himself, on horseback ; then
the “Graveur à l’eau-forte ’’; the movement and expres-
sion have been seized and depicted with truth. This man,
absorbed in his own thoughts, carried away by them seem-
ingly, touches and interests us, and the details are wonder-
ful. There is also a cavalier of the time of Louis XIII.,
looking out of a window, of the same size ; the movement
here is also just ; the action is human, natural, simple—it is
a bit of real life, in fact.
Those of his pictures in which the heads are as much
as two centimetres long are merely cartoons, and the
larger his figures are the worse they are.
I pay my tribute to his genius and pass on ; he does not
touch my feelings. But look at the portraits of Bastien-
Lepage | Most people would make an outcry if I were to
say that they are much better than those of Meissonier.
And yet such is the fact. There is nothing that can be
compared to the portraits of Bastien-Lepage. Object to
his other paintings if you will—you do not understand
them, perhaps—but his portraits Nothing better of the
kind has ever been done.
Saturday, October 6.—I have just read, at one sitting, a
novel in French by our illustrious Tourgenieff, so as to be
1883.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASI/KIA. TSEFF. 357
able to form an idea of the impression his books make upon
foreigners. He is a great writer, a man of subtle intellect,
an acute reasoner, a poet, a Bastien-Lepage. His descrip-
tive passages are beautiful, and he interprets the most
delicate shades of feeling in words as Bastien-Lepage in-
terprets them in color.
And Millet—what a sublime artist ! Well, he is as poetic
as Millet. I use this foolish phrase for the benefit of those
imbeciles who would otherwise be unable to understand me.
Whatever is grand, poetical, beautiful, subtle, or true in
music, in literature, or in art reminds me of this wonderful
artist and poet. He chooses subjects that are considered
vulgar by fashionable people, and he extracts from them
the most exquisite poetry.
What can be more commonplace than a little girl guard-
ing a cow or a woman working in the fields 2 “But these
have been already treated,” you will say. Yes, but no other
artist has ever treated them as he has done. He did well to
choose them ; in a single picture he has given us a romance
of three hundred pages. But there are perhaps, not more
than fifteen of us who understand him.
Tourgenieff, also, has depicted peasant-life—the life of
the poor Russian peasant ; and with what truth, what sim-
plicity, what sincerity And how moving is the picture he
has drawn, how poetic, how grand 1
Unfortunately this can be appreciated only in Russia,
and it is chiefly in these social studies that he excels.
Monday, October 22.-I should be well pleased if my
malady proved to be an imaginary one.
It seems that at one time it was fashionable to have con-
sumption, and that people tried to make it appear, and even
to persuade themselves, that they had it. Ah, if it might
turn out that this disease of mine were an imaginary one !
I desire to live in any case, and despite of everything. I
358 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASI/KIA-7 SEAF [1883.
have neither love-sorrows, nor sentimental reasons, nor
any other cause, to make me wish to die. I desire to
achieve fame, and to enjoy whatever happiness is to be en-
joyed on this earth.
Monday, Mozember 5-The leaves have all fallen, and I
do not know how I shall be able to finish my picture. I
have no luck. Luck How formidable a thing is luck :
What a mysterious and terrible power
Ah, yes, it must be finished, but finished quickly, quick-
ly —in a fortnight. And then to astonish Robert-Fleury
and Julian by showing it to them.
If I could do this, it would give me new life. I suffer
because I have done nothing of any consequence this sum-
mer; I experience the most frightful remorse. I should
like to define my condition with more exactness—I am
altogether without strength, as it were, and at the same
time I am profoundly calm. I fancy that one who has just
lost a great deal of blood might feel as I do now.
I have taken my resolution—I shall wait until May. And
why should this state of things change in May ? After all,
who knows 2
This has made me think of whatever virtues or talents I
may possess, and I find a source of secret consolation in
these thoughts. It has make me take part in the conversa-
tion, at dinner, with my family, like any other person—
amiably, and with a calm and dignified air such as I had on
the day I first wore my hair turned up.
In short, I experience a feeling of profound tranquillity.
I shall pursue my work with calmness ; it seems to me that
henceforth all my actions must be tranquil, and that I shall
regard the universe with gentle condescension.
I am calm as if I were, or perhaps because I am, strong ;
and patient, as if I were certain of the future.—And who,
knows? I feel myself in truth, invested with a new dignity ;
1883.] ſo(JRMAL OF MARIE BASHAIRTSEFF. 359
I have confidence in myself; I am a power. Then—what?
May not this be love 2 No; but outside that feeling I see
nothing that could interest me. This is what was needed,
mademoiselle, devote yourself entirely to your art.
When I see myself famous in imagination it is as if I
were dazzled by a flash of lightning, as if I had come in
contact with an electric battery; I start from my seat, and
begin to walk up and down the room.
It may be said that if I had been married at seventeen I
should be like every one else. This is a mistake. In order
that Z should marry like any one else it would be necessary
for me to be some one else.
Do you suppose that I have ever loved I do not think
so. These passing fancies look like love; but they could
not have been love. -
I still continue to feel this excessive weakness ; I might
compare myself to an instrument of which the cords are
relaxed. What is the cause of this 2 Julian says that I re-
mind him of an autumn landscape, a desolate and deserted
walk enveloped in the fogs of winter. Just what I am, my
dear monsieur.
Monday, AVozember 12.—Dumqnt, of Za Ziberté, is com-
ing to see us. He detests the style of painting I have
chosen, but he paid me a great many compliments at the
same time that he asked me in astonishment how it was
that I, living as I do, in the midst of elegant and refined
surroundings, should love the ugly. He thinks my little
boys ugly. * -
“Why did you not choose pretty ones 2 ” he said ; “they
would have answered the same purpose.”
I chose expressive faces, if I may dare to say so. And
then one does not see such miracles of beauty among the
little boys who run about the streets; for those it would be
necessary to go to the Champs Elysées, and paint some of
360 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASF/XIRTSEFF. [1883
the poor little be-ribboned babies who are to be seen there,
guarded by their nurses. -
Where, then, is action to be found 2 Where the savage
liberty of primitive times 2 Where true expression ? For
even the children of the better classes study effect.
And then—in short, I am right.
Thursday, November 22.-The Illustration Universelle (of
Russia) has given an engraving of my painting (“Jean et
Jacques ") on its first page.
This is the most important of the illustrated papers of
Russia, and I am, so to speak, at home in it. -
And I am not overjoyed at this Why should I be It
pleases me, but I am not overjoyed on account of it.
And why not P Because this is not enough to satisfy my
ambition. If I had received a mention two years ago, I
should have fainted from emotion ; if they had given me a
medal last year, I should have shed tears of joy upon the
breast of Julian. But now—-Alas ! all the events of life
follow each other in logical order ; they are all linked to-
gether, and each prepares us for the one which is to follow.
If I receive a third-class medal next year, it will seem noth-
ing more than natural ; if they give me nothing, I shall be
indignant. -
One never rejoices greatly at any event except when it
comes unexpectedly—when it is in some sort a surprise.
Saturday, December 1.—After all, may I not have been
deceiving myself all this time 2 Who will give me back the
most beautiful years of my life—wasted, perhaps, in vain
But there is a sufficient answer to these vulgar doubts of
mine in the fact that I had nothing better to do ; besides,
anywhere and everywhere, leading the same life as others I
should have had too much to suffer. And then I should
not have attained that moral development which confers
1883.] JO CRAVA/ OF JAAA"// B.A.S//AIA. Z'SZAF. 36 I
upon me a superiority so embarrassing—to myself. Stend-
hal had come in contact with at least one or two persons
capable of understanding him, while I, unfortunately for
myself, find every one insipid ; and even those whom I ex-
pected to find intelligent, I find stupid. Is this because I
am what is termed a misunderstood being 2 No ; but I feel
that I have reason to be surprised and dissatisfied when
people think me capable of things which reflect upon my
dignity, my delicacy, my eſegance, even.
You see I want some one who should understand me
completely, to whom I could confide everything, and in
whose word I should see my own thoughts reflected.—Well,
my child, this would be love.
That may be, but without going so far—people who
would be able to form an intelligent opinion concerning
one, and whom one might talk to—even that would be pleas-
ant; and I know no such person. The only one I knew
was Julian, and he is growing every day more disagreeable ;
he is even exasperating when he begins with his tiresome,
teasing insinuations, especially in matters relating to art.
He does not understand that I am not blind, and that I
mean to succeed ; he thinks me infatuated with myself.
After all, though, he is still at times my confidant. As
far as an absolute parity of sentiments is concerned, that
does not exist, except between lovers . It is love, then,
that works the miracle. But may it not be rather this abso-
lute parity of sentiments that gives birth to iove —The
sister-soul.—As for me I find this image, which has been so
much abused, a very just one. But who is this sister-soul ?
Some one, not even the tip of whose ear can one catch
sight of.
It would be necessary that not a word, not a look, of his
should be at variance with the idea I have formed of him.
Not that I demand in him an impossible perfection, or that
he should be a being superior to humanity; but I require
362 JOUR.V.4 L OF AZAR//E BASI/AIRZ'SEFF. [1883.
that his caprices should be interesting caprices that would
not lower him in my eyes; that he should be in conformity
with my ideal—not the hackneyed ideal of an impossible
demigod, but that everything in him should please me, and
that I should not unexpectedly discover in him some stupid,
dull, weak, foolish, mean, false, or mercenary trait; one
Such blemish only, no matter how small it might be, would
be sufficient to ruin him in my eyes.
Sunday, December 2.—In short, my heart is absolutely
empty, empty, empty. But I must indulge in these dreams
in order to amuse myself. I have experienced almost all
those feelings which Stendhal mentions, however, apropos
of true love, which he calls passionate love—those innumer-
able caprices of the imagination; those childish follies of
which he speaks. Thus I have often seen the most hateful
people with pleasure, because they had chanced to be near
the beloved object on that particular day.
Besides, I think that no one, whether man or woman,
who is always busy, or who is constantly preoccupied by the
thought of fame, can love like one who has nothing but
love to think of.
Monday, December 3.−I am intelligent, I give myself
credit for wit, for penetration, for every intellectual quality
in fact, and I am unprejudiced. Well, having these condi-
tions, why should I not be able to form a clear judgment of
myself?
Have I really any talent for, or shall I really ever be
anything in art? What is my unbiassed opinion concerning
myself Ż
These are terrible questions—because I think little of
myself compared with the ideal to which I strive to attain—
compared with others, however—
But one cannot form a correct judgment concerning one's-
1883.j JovKNAZ OF MARIE BASHAVA 7'SEFF. 363.
self, and then—as long as I am not a genius—and I have
never produced anything that could enable any one—even
myself—to form a definite judgment concerning me.
Monday, December Io.—Hundreds of people whose names
are never heard of accomplish as much as I have done,
and never complain that they have no outlet for their
genius. If you find yourself embarrassed by your genius,
it is because you have none; any one who has genius will
have the strength to support it.
The word genius is like the word ſove; I found difficulty
in writing it for the first time, but, when I had once written
it, I made use of it at all times and on all occasions after-
wards. It is the same as with many other things which
at first appear huge, terrible, or unattainable—once you
become familiar with them you abandon yourself to them
completely so as to make up for all your former hesitations
and fears. This spirituelle observation does not appear to
me to be very lucid, but I must expend. my energy. I
worked until seven, but as there is still some of it remain-
ing, I must let it flow away from the point of my pen.
I am growing thin. Well—God be merciful to me!
Sunday, December 23.−True artists can never be happy;
they are conscious, in the first place, that the majority of
people do not understand them; they know they are work-
ing for a hundred people or so, and that all the others follow
their own bad taste, or the opinions of Figaro.
The ignorance that prevails among all classes respecting
everything that pertains to art is frightful.
Those who speak understandingly of art, for the most part
repeat the opinions which they have heard or read of those
who are considered competent judges in the matter.
But I think there are days when one feels those things
more acutely—days when nonsensical talk is especially in-
364 JOUAEAVAZ OF AZAA’/Z BAS//K/R 7'SEAF. [1883.
supportable; when foolish observations cause one actual suf-
fering; and to hear people exchanging for hours silly re-
marks that have not even the merit of sprightliness or the
varnish of fashion to recommend them, is a positive
affliction.
And observe that I am not one of those superior beings
who shed tears when they are compelled to listen to the
hackneyed phrases of the drawing-room—its affectations,
its stereotyped compliments, its remarks about the weather
or the Italian opera. I am not foolish enough to require
that all conversation should be interesting, and to hear the
commonplace talk of society, lively, it is true, at times, but
more often dull, does not disturb my tranquillity in the least.
I can submit to it, occasionally, even, with pleasure; what I
have reference to is real folly, real stupidity, a lack of—in
short, the commonplace conversation of people who are not
only worldly but stupid.
To listen to this is like being burned at a slow fire.
Monday, ZXecember 31.-The Maréchale and Claire dined
yesterday with the Princess Mathilde, and Claire tells me
that Lefebvre said to her of me that I had undoubted talent,
that I was a very uncommon person, that I went a great deal
into society, and that, in addition to this, I was watched
over and directed by a celebrated painter (this with a mean-
Ing look.)
Claire (looking at him fixedly): “What celebrated
painter? Julian 2 Lefebvre?”
“No, Bastien-Lepage.”
Claire: “Oh, you are entirely mistaken, monsieur; she
works all the time, and goes out very little. As to Bastien-
Lepage, she sees him nowhere except in her mother's draw-
ing-room; he never goes up to her studio.”
Claire is a love of a girl, and she said nothing but what
is true, for God is my witness that this Jules gives me no
1884.] JOURNAL OF AZAR/E BASI/AIAE 7 SEAF. 365
assistance whatever. Lefebvre, however, looked as if he
thought he did.
It is two o'clock in the morning; the new year has begun,
and at midnight, at the theater, with my watch in my hand,
I made a wish in one single word—a word that is grand,
sonorous, beautiful, intoxicating, whether it be written or
spoken—Fame !
1884.
My Aunt Helene, my father's sister, died a week ago.
Paul telegraphed the news to us.
We received another telegraphic dispatch to-day : my
Uucle Alexander has just died of apoplexy ; the news was
a great shock to us; he was devoted to his family, and
loved his wife to distraction. As he had never read Balzac,
nor indeed any other novelist, perhaps, he knew but little
about the romantic phrases employed by lovers to express
their affection ; certain words of his, however, I remember,
to recall which now makes me feel all the greater sorrow
for his death. On one occasion some one tried to make him
believe that his wife was receiving the attentions of a neigh-
bor, and I remember to have heard him say: “Well, sup-
pose this infamous thing they tell me were true ! Is not
my wife, whom I have lived with for fifteen years, flesh of
my flesh, blood of my blood, soul of my soul ? Are we not
one 2 If I had committed a fault, would I not forgive my-
self for it? Why then should I not forgive my wife 2 Not
to do so would be like plucking out one of my eyes, or
cutting off an arm.”
Friday, January 4.—It is true, then ; I have consumption,
and the disease is far advanced.
I feel very ill ; I have said nothing about it, but I have
fever every night.
366 JOURAWA L OF Aſ.1 K/E BASF/AIR 7 SEAF. [1884.
Saſurday, January 5.-The opening of the Manet Exhi-
bition at the School of Fine Arts takes place to-day.
I am going there.
It is not quite a year since Manet died. I do not know
a great deal about him. The collection, take it all in all, is
a remarkable one.
It is at once childish, extravagant, and grand.
There are some absurd things among the pictures, but
there are also some that are magnificent. A little more and
Manet would have been a great painter. The pictures are,
in general, repulsive ; some of them are altogether out of
drawing ; but all are life-like. There are some splendid
sketches among them ; and even in the most faulty of the
pictures there is a Something that rivets the attention, and
almost calls forth admiration—they reveal so evident a self-
confidence on the part of the artist, so profound a belief in
his own powers, joined to an ignorance no less profound.
They are such pictures as a great genius might have pro-
duced in his childhood. And then there are things copied
almost exactly from Titian (the sketch of the female figure
and the negro, for instance), Velasquez, Courbet, and Goya.
But then all these painters stole from each other. And has
not Molière taken whole pages from other authors 2
Monday, January 14.—I feel as if I myself had been at
Damvillers, Emile Bastien has told us so much about it—
about the picture, his brother's manner of life, etc. Accord-
ing to him, if the artist has not invited us to see the studies
painted by him at Concarneau, it is because he never invites
any one to see his paintings. He even thinks it would be a
mark of conceit on his part to ask any one to go look at a
few unimportant studies made while he was resting in the
country; and finally, he says he thought from the friendli-
ness we showed him that he might be dispensed from using
ceremony; that he would have been delighted to see us if
1884.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASI/KIA. TSEFF. 367
we had gone there, etc. He says, that, even in the case of
his more important paintings, he never invites any one to See
them ; he merely requests his brother to let his intimate
friends know when he has finished one.
But here is something more serious: when his brother
spoke to him of my picture he said : “Why did you not
tell me of it when I was in Paris? I would have gone to
See it.”
“I told him nothing about it in Paris,” his brother added,
“because if he had gone to look at it, you would have
hidden everything away, according to your custom ; he
has never seen any of your pictures except those you
exhibited at the Salom. Do you know that he will never
care to look at your pictures if you continue to act in this
way 7"
“He will, if I wish it—if I ask him to give me his advice.”
“He will be always delighted to give you his advice,”
he said.
“But unfortunately I am not a pupil of his.”
“And why are you not ? He would ask for nothing
better ; he would feel very much flattered if you consulted
him, and he would give you judicious advice—disinterested
advice ; he has a correct judgment, and is not prejudiced
in favor of any school, and he would be delighted to have
so interesting a pupil. I assure you it would please and
flatter him very much.”
Wednesday, January 16.-The architect has told me that
there is a painting of the “Shepherds at Bethlehem "among
his brother's pictures. For the last two days my head has
been filled with this subject; so strong is the impression it
has produced in my mind that I can compare it to nothing
else than the feeling entertained by the shepherds them-
selves—a blending of holy enthusiasm and profound adora-
t1Oil,
368 JOURNAL OF AZAAAAE BASI/ATA TSEFF. [1884.
Can you not already imagine with what mystery, what
tenderness, what sublime simplicity, he will invest this sub-
ject P One who is familiar with his paintings can do so, in
some measure, by observing the mysterious and fantastic
resemblance that exists between the “Jeanne d'Arc" and the
“Soir au Village”—the effect of both which pictures will be
in some sort reproduced in the “Shepherds.” But perhaps
you think it absurd of me to grow enthusiastic about a
painting that I have never seen—that is not even yet in
existence 2 Well, let us suppose that in the eyes of the
majority of people I appear ridiculous by doing so, there
will always be a few dreamers who will take my part ; and,
if need were, I could do without even those.
“Jeanne d'Arc" has never been appreciated in France; in
America it was enthusiastically admired. The “Jeanne
d'Arc,” both in composition and in sentiment, is a master-
piece.
The reception it met with in Paris was a disgrace to the
French people.
Are only the “Phaedras ” and the “Auroras,” then, to meet
with success 2 Neither Millet, Rousseau, nor Corot were
admired by the public until after they had become famous.
What is most to be deplored, in our day, is the hypocrisy
of the enlightened few who affect to see nothing either
serious or elevated in modern art, and who exalt to the
skies those painters who follow the traditions of the old
masters. Is it necessary to point out and insist upon the
fallacies involved in these views of art 2 What then is
high art if it be not the art which, while it renders the
flesh, the dress, and the landscapes with such perfection
that we want to touch them, so to speak, to see if they be
real, endows them at the same time with soul, with spirit,
and with life. The “Jeanne d'Arc" they say is not
high art because the artist depicts his subject, not clad in
armor and with the white and delicate hands of a
1884.] /OURNAL OF MARIE BASHATR 7SEFF. 369
lady, but as a peasant girl and in the midst of homely
surroundings. -
Stupid or dishonest critics praise the “Amour au Village,”
which is inferior to the “Jeanne d'Arc,” with the purpose
of making it appear that the artist excels only in this style,
indignant that a painter who has made peasant life a study
should take it into his head to paint anything else—to paint
a peasant famous in history, for instance, like the “Jeanne
d’Arc.” -
Pharisees and hypocrites
For, after all, any artist can paint flesh, but who can
portray the soul within, the divine spark, as he has done?
No one. In the eyes of his characters I can read their
lives; I almost think I know them. I have tried to feel
this in looking at other paintings, but without success.
Who would prefer as a subject for a painting the execu-
tion of a Lady Jane Grey or a Bajazet to some little girl
who looks at you with clear and animated glance as you
pass her by in the street 2
This great artist possesses a quality which is to be met
with only in the religious paintings of the Italians at a time
when artists were also believers.
Has it never happened to you, on finding yourself alone
of an evening in the country, under a clear and cloudless
sky, to feel your being pervaded by a mysterious longing—
a vague aspiration toward the Infinite ; to feel yourself, as
it were, on the threshold of some great event, some super-
natural occurrence 2 Were you never, in your dreams,
transported into unknown regions 2
If not you would seek in vain to understand Bastien-
Lepage, and I advise you to buy an “Aurora” by Bouguereau
or a historical picture by Cabanel.
And all this is in order to say that I worship the genius
of Bastien-Lepage 2
Yes.
370 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIR 7"SERA. [1884.
Sunday, January 20.-It is a sad confession to make, but
I have no woman friend : there is no woman who loves me
or whom I love.
I am well aware that if I have no such friend, it is
because I allow it to be seen, without intending it, from
what a height “I survey the crowd.”
No one likes to be humiliated. I might console myself by
the reflection that truly great natures are never loved.
Such persons are surrounded by worshipers who bask in
the sunshine of their fame, but who, at heart, hate them and
disparage them when the opportunity to do so presents
itself. They are talking just now of erecting a statue to
Balzac, and the newspapers are filled with recollections of
the great man contributed by his friends. Such friends are
a disgrace to humanity.
They vie with one another to see which will be foremost
in dragging before the public view his most secret faults
and foibles. I would rather have such people as those for
my enemies than for my friends. At least their slanders
would in that case be less likely to be believed.
Saturday, February 23.—At about one o'clock the Maré-
chale and Claire came to meet Madeleine Lemaire, who
wished to see my picture. This lady, besides being a wo-
man of Society, is also a celebrated artist in water-colors,
and obtains very good prices for her pictures. Of course
she said only flattering things of my picture.
I think I must be going to die soon, for my whole life,
with all its stupid details, rises before me—details that it
makes me shed tears of rage to remember. It has never
been my habit to go to balls, like other girls. I would go
to one occasionally—three or four times a year perhaps.
For the last two years, when I no longer cared to do so, I
might have gone as often as I chose.
And is it I, you ask, whose ambition it is to become a
1884.1 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHAEIR 7SEFF. 37t
great artist, who regret not having been allowed to go to
balls more often ? Indeed, yes. And what are my regrets
for now 2 Not for balls, but there are other reunions where
one may meet thinkers, authors, artists, singers, men of Sci-
ence—all those who constitute the world of intellect, in
short. The most rational, the most philosophical person in
the world need not be ashamed of desiring to meet once a
week, or once a fortnight, persons who are the flower of
Parisian intellect. I have always been unfortunate in every-
thing ! Through my own merits I have succeeded in be-
coming acquainted with the best people in Paris, and only
to be humiliated.
I am too unhappy not to believe in a God who could take
pity upon me if he would ; but if there were indeed a God,
would He allow such injustice to exist 2 What have I ever
done that I should be as unhappy as I am 2
It is not in the God of the Bible that I can believe, how-
ever. The Bible is a narrative of primitive times, in which
all that relates to God is treated from the point of view of
a child. The only God I can believe in is the God of phil-
osophy—an abstract being—the Great Mystery—earth,
heaven, the universe, Pan.
But this is a God who can in no way help us ; this is a
God on whom our thoughts may dwell in adoration as we
look up to the stars at night, seeking to penetrate to the
heart of the spiritual universe, & la Renan. But a God who
sees everything that takes place, who interests Himself in
our affairs, to whom we may pray for what we desire—I
should indeed, like to believe in such a God, but if He
existed, would He suffer things to be as they are 2
Tuesday, March 11.-It is raining. But it is not that
alone that depresses me ; I am sick—Heaven has over-
whelmed me with misfortunes.
37.2 JOURNAL OF MAR/E BASA/AIRTSEAEF. [1884.
But I am still at an age when one may find a certain
ecstasy in everything, even in the thought of death.
I fancy there 1s no one who takes so intense a delight in
all things as I do—art, music, painting, books, society, diess,
luxury, gayety, Solitude ; tears and laughter, sadness and
rejoicing ; love, cold, heat; the solemn plains of Russia
and the mountains that surround Naples; the snows of
winter, the rains of autumn, spring with its intoxicating
joys, the calm days and the glorious starlit nights of sum-
mer—I love them and delight in them all. Everything in
nature presents itself to me under an aspect either interest-
ing or sublime ; I long to see everything, to grasp every-
thing, to embrace everything, to enter into the heart of
everything, and to die—since die I must, whether in one
year or in thirty years, I care not which—to die, exhaling
my being in an ecstasy of joy at solving this last mystery of
all, the end of all things, or the beginning of things divine.
And this sentiment of universal love is not the result of
the fever that accompanies my malady. I have always felt
it as strongly as I feel it now. Just ten years ago——in
1874, as I remember, after enumerating the pleasures of
the different seasons—I wrote thus :
“In vain would I seek to choose ; all seasons of the
year, all periods of life, are equally beautiful,”
The good Robert-Fleury dines with us this evening ; he
says that my picture of the little gamins is greatly im-
proved—that it is good, in fact, and that it will be accepted
at the Sa/o/z.
I forgot to say that it is called “A Meeting.”
Wednesday, March 12.-The portrait of Dina will not be
finished in time, so that I shall send on the “Meeting.”
There was a friendly gathering at Mme. Hochon's this
evening. Among those present, besides ourselves, were the
Duchess d'Uzés ; the Countess Cornet, and the Maréchale ;
1884.j JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHAZR 7SEFF. 373
and a number of artists—Cabanel, Jalabert, Siebert, G.
Ferrier, Boulanger, etc. There was music, and Salvayre
played and sang some airs from his “Henri III.” All these
people, not excepting Cabanel, were very friendly to me.
Saturday, March 15.-Abbema came to see my picture
this morning.
I thought the 15th would never come. The weather is
glorious, and on Monday or Tuesday I am going into the
country to work. I will no longer waste my admiration on
Bastien-Lepage. Indeed I know but little of him, his dis-
position is so—reserved ; besides, it is better to spend one's
energy on one's work than in worshiping at any one's
shrine.
Sunday, March 16.—The pictures have been sent away.
I came home at about half-past six so exhausted with
fatigue that the sensation was delicious. Perhaps you may
not believe it, but for me every overpowering sensation,
even the sensation of pain, is a joy.
I remember once, when I had hurt my finger, some years
ago, that for half an hour the pain was so acute that I took
pleasure in it. -
And so it was with the lassitude I felt this evening, lying
in the bath, and afterward in bed, my limbs powerless, my
head full of vague and confused ideas. I fell asleep repeat-
ing words as disconnected as the thoughts that passed
through my head—Cabanel, varnishing-day, the Maréchal,
Breslau, art, Algeria, the line, Wolff.
Wednesday, March 19.—I have discovered an orchard
for the scene of my picture, at Sèvres; I returned home
very much fatigued. Some friends dined with us in the
evening.
Yesterday the election of members to the club of Russian
artists took place. I was unanimously elected.
374 JOURA’.4/ OF JAA/E BAS//ÅA 7 SEAF. [1884.
Claire saw an acquaintance to-day who told her he had
visited Bastien-Lepage not long ago, and that he had found
him very ill ; he met Bastien's physician on the following
day, who said to him : “The man is very ill, but I do not
think his disease is rheumatism ; the trouble is here,” and
he tapped himself on the stomach. So, then, he is really
ill ! He went to Blidah three or four days “go, accom-
panied by his mother.
Saturday, March 22.—I have not yet begun work at
Sèvres, but all my preparations are made.
Julian writes : “Your picture has been accepted and
will receive a No. 3 at the very least.”
What does this at the very least mean P
God be thanked I had not the slightest doubt as to
my pictures being accepted
Monday, March 24.—For the past few days we have lived *
in an atmosphere of discord ; and this has kept me apart
from the others and given me an opportunity to look into
the depths of my inner self. No, everything is too sad to
make it worth while to complain of any one thing in par-
ticular. I am overwhelmed by it all.
I have just re-read a book which I read some years ago
but did not then like. I now admire it greatly. The
style of the book, its execution, so to say, is perfect. But the
question is not one of style alone.—The clouds that darken
my mental horizon make me see the realities of life all the
more clearly—realities so hard, so bitter that I could not
keep from tears if I were to write them down. But I cannot
even write them down. Where would be the use of doing
so 2 What is the use of anything 2 I have spent six years
working ten hours a day to gain what 2 The knowledge
of all I have yet to learn in my art—and a fatal disease. I
went to see my doctor this morning, and I talked with so
<>
1884.] /OURMAZ OF MAR/E BASF/KIRTSEFF. 375
much animation that he said to me : “I see you have not
yet lost your gayety.”
If I still wish to cherish the hope that fame is to recom-
pense me for all my sufferings, I must live, and in order to
live I must take care of my health.
Here are dreams side by side with the frightful reality.
One never believes in any coming trouble until it comes.
I remember once when I was very young I was traveling for
the first time in a railway coach—for the first time I came in
contact with strangers. I had just taken my seat and filled
the two seats next to mine with all sorts of articles, when
two passengers entered the coach. “These seats are
taken,” I said coolly. “Very well,” answered the gentle-
man I addressed, “I will speak to the conductor.”
I thought this was an unmeaning threat—as if we had
been en famille ; and it would be impossible to describe
the feeling of amazement that came over me when the
conductor came and removed my things from the seat,
which the passenger took immediately. This was my first
rea/ity.
For a long time now I have been saying to myself that I
was going to be ill, without really believing it.—But enough
of this, I should not have had the opportunity to give you
all these insignificant details, if it were not that I have been
waiting for my model, and I might as well spend the time
grumbling as doing nothing.
There is a March wind blowing, and the sky is gray and
lowering.
I began my picture—a rather large one—in the old
orchard at Sèvres yesterday. It is a young girl seated
under an apple-tree in blossom, that stands, with other
fruit-trees in blossom also, in a grassy field sown with
violets and little yellow flowers, like stars. The girl sits
with half-closed eyes, in a revery. She leans her head in
tºp
376 JOURA'A L OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1884.
the palm of her left hand, while her elbow rests upon her
knee.
The treatment is to be simple, and the spectator must be
made to share in the intoxication produced in the girl by
the breath of Spring. The sunlight plays among the
branches of the trees.
The picture is to be about five feet in width, and a little
more in height.
So, then, my picture has only received a number 3; and
it will not be even hung upon the line—not even that
This has caused me a feeling of discouragement, hope-
less and profound. No one is to blame, however, if I am
not gifted with genius. And this feeling of discourage-
ment shows me that if I ceased to have faith in my genius
I could no longer live. Yes, if the hope of success should
again fail me, as it did this evening, then, indeed, there
would be nothing left me but to die.
Thursday.—My mind has been greatly preoccupied
about my work. Why have I not yet succeeded in pro-
ducing anything in painting equal to my pastel of three
years ago 2
Monday, A/arch 31.-I have done very little to-day. I
fear that my picture will be badly hung and that I shall
receive no medal.
I remained in a hot bath for nearly an hour, and this
brought on a slight hemorrhage of the lungs.
This was very foolish on my part, you will say, very
likely ; but I am no longer prudent about my health ; I am
discouraged, and almost distracted, from having so many
things to struggle against.
Well, there is nothing to be said—nothing to be done.
If this state of things continues, I may live for a year or so,
gº
1884.] JOUR.V.1 / OF A/.4 KZE AASA/A/R TSEAF. 377
while if my mind were at rest I might live for twenty years
longer.
Yes, this 3 is hard to swallow. Zilhardt and Breslau have
both received a number 3. And why then did I not re-
ceive a number 2 * There are forty members in the com-
mittee, and it seems that I received so many votes for a
number 2 that every one thought I should get it. Sup-
pose I had fifteen votes in my favor, and twenty-five against
me ; the committee is composed of fifteen or twenty men of
note, and twenty wretchedly poor artists who have obtained
the positions they occupy through intrigue. This is well
known ; but even so it is bad enough ; the blow is a crush-
ing one. It has not blinded me to the truth of the matter,
however, and I can see myself as I am. I begin to think
that if my picture had been really good—
Ah, never, never, never, have I touched the lowest depths
of despair as I have done to-day. So long as there is a
lower depth to be reached there is still room for hope, but
when one has set foot, as I have done, on the black and
slimy bottom of the gulf itself; when one says to one's-self
as I have done, “It is neither circumstances, nor surround-
ings, nor the world, that is to blame, it is my own want of
genius,” then there is nothing further to be hoped for ;
then there is no higher power, human or divine, to appeal
to. I can no longer go on working. All is over.
Here, then, is an overpowering sensation. Well, accord-
ing to my theories I Ought to find enjoyment in it. I am
caught in my own trap !
Never mind. I will take some bromide ; that will make
me sleep. And then, God is good, and every great Sorrow
brings along with it some consolation.
And to think that I cannot even tell my griefs to any one;
that I cannot even have the consolation of talking them
over with any one—no, there is no one, no one !
Happy are the simple-hearted ; happy are they who
378 JOUR.V.4 L OF A/.4/C/E B21SI/AIA 7.S// F. [1884.
believe in a God on whom they can call for consolation.—
What should I call on God to console me for 2 Because I
am not gifted with genius.
You see this is the very bottom of the gulf ; I ought to
find enjoyment in it.
That might be the case if there were spectators to my
misery.
Those who become famous have their friends to tell their
sorrows to the world—for they have had friends to whom
they could confide their sorrows. I have none. Even if
I should utter my complaints to any one, if I should say,
“No, I will never paint again ” what then 2 No one is the
loser by it if I do not happen to be gifted with genius.
But of all the sorrows that I hide within my heart because
there is none to whom I can turn for sympathy, the deep-
est, the most humiliating is this : to feel, to know, that I
am nothing !
If this were to continue I could not live.
Wednesday, April 2-I went to-day to Petit's (an exhi-
bition of paintings in the Rue de Sèze); I stayed for an
hour admiring the incomparable paintings of Bastien-Le-
page and of Cazin.
Then I went to Robert-Fleury's and asked him with an
unconcerned air, “Well, how did things go at the com-
mittee 2 ”
“Oh, very well,” he answered ; “when your picture was
inspected some of the members said—not one or two of
them, but several—“Stay, that is good ; it deserves a num-
ber 2.’”
“Oh, monsieur, is it possible 2"
“Yes, and do not think I say this merely to please you ;
it was so. Then the votes were taken, and if the president
had been in his right mind that day, you would have had a
number 2,”
1884.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASI/KIA. TSEFF. 379
“But what fault do they find with the picture ?”
“NOne.”
“How, none ; is it not bad, then 7°
“It is good.” .
“And then P”
“Then it is a piece of ill-luck, that is all. Now, if you
could find a member of the committee to ask to have it
hung on the line, he would have it done, for the picture is
good.”
“And you—could you not have it done 2"
“I am only a member of the bureau whose duty it is to
see that the order of the numbers is not interfered with ;
But if any other member should ask to have it done, be
sure I shall not oppose it.”
Then I went to see Julian, who laughed a little at Robert-
Fleury's advice, and said I might make my mind quite easy;
that it would surprise him very much if I were not on the
line, and that.—And then Robert-Fleury told me that he
conscientiously thought I deserved a number 2, and that,
morally speaking, I have received it. Morally speaking !—
And then it would be only justice
Oh, no ; To ask as a favor that which is my due, that
would be too much
Friday, April 4.—The exhibition of Bastien-Lepage is
no doubt a brilliant one, but the pictures are almost all old
ones. They are : I. A portrait of Mme. Drouet, of last
year. 2. Another portrait of 1882. 3. A landscape with
two women washing in the foreground, and an apple-tree
in blossom, of 1882 also ; 4. His picture for the con-
cours, which was awarded the Prix de Rome (he received
only the second Prix de Rome) of 1875; and then there is
a little sketch made last year at Concarneau—five in all.
“Le Mar de Damvillers,” 6; “Les Bles ou les Faucheurs,”
in which only the back of one little mower is to be seen, 7;
38o /O C.A.V.4/ OF AZ.1A/E B.1 SI/ATA TSAEFF. [1884.
an aged mendicant gathering wood in a forest, makes eight.
“Le Mar de Damvillers,” the mowers, and the mendicant
are in the full sunlight. His landscapes are of equal merit
with his figures, for a truly great artist has no specialty.
I saw an Andromeda in the studio of Bastien-Lepage
which, although small, is a study of the nude such as few
artists could make. Precision of outline, character, nobility
of form, grace of attitude, fineness of tone,—it possesses all
these, and in addition an execution at once broad in Spirit
and exquisite in detail. In short, it is nature itself, the
living flesh. Among twilight scenes the “Soir au Village’’
is a masterpiece. In his poetic style, d la Millet, he has per-
haps gone to the extreme. I say & /a Millet so as to make
my meaning understood, for Bastien is always himself;
and because Millet has painted sunsets and moonlight
Scenes is no reason why others should not do the same if
they choose.
The effect of this “Soir au Village” is wonderful; why
did I not buy it?
He has also painted some English landscapes—views of
the Thames, in which one can almost see the water flow-
ing—that heavy, turbid water that moves onward in its bed
with a snake-like motion. To conclude, nothing could be
finer than his portraits in miniature; they are as fine as the
portraits of the old masters. As for the portrait of his
mother (life-size) the execution of it is wonderful; it is
nature's self, and the illusion is preserved, however closely
the picture be examined. The “Jeanne d'Arc’’ is an inspira-
tion of genius.
Bastien-Lepage is thirty-five years old. Raphael died at
thirty-seven, leaving behind him a greater number of works
than Bastien has yet produced. But Raphael had been
cradled, so to speak, in the lap of duchesses and of cardinals,
who procured for him the instructions of the great Perugino;
Raphael at the age of fifteen made copies of his master's
1884.] JOURAVAZ OF AZAAE/AE AASHAZAC TSEAF. 381
paintings that could scarcely be distinguished from the orig-
inals—at fifteen he was already a great artist. And then,
in those great paintings that we admire as much for the
time in which they were executed as for their merit, the
chief part of the work was done by the pupils; in many of
them, indeed, with the exception of the Cartoons, there is
nothing of Raphael's work.
Whereas Bastien-Lepage in his early years sorted letters
in the post-office in Paris to gain a livelihood. He exhib-
ited, I believe, for the first time in 1869.
In this respect, however, he was no worse off than I, who
have always lived amid surroundings little favorable to art.
True, I took a few drawing lessons in my childhood, as all
children do, and fourteen or fifteen lessons afterward, for
a space of three or four years, still continuing to live in
the midst of these same surroundings. That would give me
six years and a few months of study, but then there were
travels and a serious illness to interfere. But, after all—
what have I accomplished?
Have I accomplished as much as Bastien had accom-
plished in 1874? This question is a piece of insanity.
If I were to repeat in public, even in the presence of
those who are artists themselves, what I have written here
of Bastien, people would declare me to be insane—some
from conviction, others on principle so that they might not
be compelled to admit the Superior merit of so young an
artlSt.
Saturday, April 5.—Here are my plans:
First, I will finish the painting at Sèvres. Then I will
take up seriously the study of sculpture in the mornings,
and of the nude in the afternoons—the sketch for to-day is
already done. That will take me into July. In July I
will begin a painting of ‘’Evening,’’ representing a meadow,
with a far-stretching treeless road fading into the sunset sky
38.2 JOUAEAZAZ O/, //21/0// B.1 SA/A /A 7'SZAZ. [1884.
in the distance. On the road is to be a wagon, drawn by
two oxen and filled with hay, on the top of which an old
man is lying face downward, his chin resting in the palms
of his hands. The Outlines stand in bold relief against the
sunset sky. The oxen are led by a country boy.
That would have a simple, grand, and poetic effect.
As soon as I shall have finished this and two or three
little things I have in hand, I will set out for Jerusalem,
where I shall spend the winter both for my health and on
account of my picture.
And next winter Julian will call me a great artist.
I write all this here because it is interesting to see after-
ward how our plans turn out.
Sunday, April 6.-My aunt left for Russia this evening.
Saturday, April 12.-Julian has written to tell me that
my picture is hung on the line.
Wednesday, April 16.-I go to Sèvres every day. My
picture has taken complete possession of me. The apple-
tree is in blossom, the trees around are full of budding
leaves, in which the sunlight falls, and little yellow flowers
dot the grass; at the foot of the apple-tree the young girl is
seated, “languid and intoxicated,” as Andre Theuriet says,
“by the balmy breath of Spring.” If I can only render the
effect of the sunlight and of the budding life of spring, the
picture will be beautiful.
Tuesday, April 29.-To-morrow is varnishing-day. In
the morning I shall see Figaro and the Gau/ois; what
will they say of me? Will it be good, will it be bad, or will
they say nothing at all?
Wednesday, April 30.-Things are not so bad, after all,
for the Gaulois speaks very well of me; it gives me a sepa-
&
ºº
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1884.] JOURNAL OF MARIAE BASI/AIRTSAEFA. 383
rate notice. The article is very chic. It is by Fourcaud,
the Wolff of the Gau/ois.
The Voltaire treats me in the same fashion as the Gau-
Zois. Both notices are important ones.
The Journal des Arts also mentions me, and Z'Intransi-
geant speaks of me in terms of praise. The other journals
will notice the Exhibition from day to day. It is only
Figaro, the Gaulois, and the Voltaire that give a general
mention of the pictures on varnishing-day.
Am I satisfied? It is easy to answer that question; I am
neither satisfied nor dissatisfied. My success is just enough
to keep me from being unhappy; that is all.
I have just returned from the Salon. We did not go until
noon and we left at five—an hour before the exhibition
closes.—I have a headache.
We remained for a long time seated on a bench before
the picture. It attracted a good deal of attention, and I
smiled to myself at the thought that no one would ever
imagine the elegantly dressed young girl seated before it,
showing the tips of her little boots, to be the artist.
Ah, all this is a great deal better than last year!
Have I achieved a success, in the true, serious meaning
of the word? I almost think so.
Breslau has two portraits, only one of which I have seen,
and that surprised me greatly. It is a copy of Manet—
which I do not like, -and is not so good as her previous
work. Perhaps you will be shocked by the confession I am
going to make, but—this does not grieve me; neither am I
rejoiced at it, however; there is room for every one, but
I confess I am better pleased that the picture is not a
good One.
Bastien-Lepage sends nothing but his little picture of last
year—“La Forge.” He is not yet well enough to go on work-
ing. The poor architect looks very dejected and says he
is going to throw himself into the river,
384 JOUAMAZ OA. MAA'ZZ BASA/A/A 7'SE/A. [1884.
I, too, am sad, and notwithstanding my painting, my
Sculpture, my music, my reading, I believe I am tired of life.
Saturday, May 3–Emile Bastien came to-day at about
half-past eleven. I went down to see him, very much sur-
prised at his visit.
He had a great many pleasant things to tell me ; he says
I have achieved a genuine success.
“I do not mean compared with your previous work, or
with that of your fellow-pupils at the studio,” he said, “but
as compared with that of any artist. I saw Ollendorff
yesterday, who said that if it were the work of a French-
man, the State would have purchased it. “Yes, truly, M.
13ashkirtseff paints well,” he added. (The painting is
signed M. Bashkirtseff.) “I told him that you were a
young girl—and a pretty one, I added. He could not
believe it. Every one has spoken to me of it as a great
success.”
Ah, I begin to believe in it a little, myself. I am always
slow to believe in any piece of good fortune, lest I should
be disappointed afterward.
In short, I shall be the last to believe that people believe
in my genius. But it really seems as if they would, in the
end.
“A genuine and great success,” Emile Bastien says.
Is it then a success equal to that of Jules Bastien, in
1874 or 1875 Ah, if it only were ! I am not yet over-
joyed, however, for I can scarcely believe that. I want to
be overjoyed.
This very good friend of mine has asked me to sign a
paper giving permission to Charles Baude, the engraver,
and an intimate friend of his brother, to photograph and
engrave my painting for the Monde ///ustré. That will be
of very great advantage to me,
1884.] /OURAVAZ OF MAA"/E BASI/ATA TSEFF. 385
He told me also that Friant (who is a man of talent) is
enthusiastic about my picture.
People whom I have never seen talk about me are inter-
ested in me, discuss my merits. What happiness Ah, I
have waited for this and hoped for this so long that, now
that it has come, I can scarcely believe it.
I received a letter from a stranger yesterday asking my
permission to photograph my picture. I prefer that Baude
should do it, however (the One Bastien-Lepage calls Charlot,
and to whom he writes letters eight pages long).
I am going down to mamma's drawing-room now, to
receive the congratulations of all the imbeciles who regard
my pictures as the works of a woman of society, and who
pay any little fool the same compliments as they pay me.
Rosalie, I think, is the one who takes the liveliest satis-
faction in my success. She is wild with joy; when she
speaks to me about it she shows the delight an old nurse
might show at the success of her nursling ; and she talks
of it to everybody, with the garrulity of a portress. For
her this is an event, a piece of good-fortune that has befallen
her.
Monday, May 5.-Death is a thing we write and talk
about lightly enough, but to think one is going to die soon,
to believe it—that is another matter. Do I then believe that
I am going to die soon 2 No, but I fear it.
The fact is not to be disguised; I have consumption.
The right lung is far gone, and the left lung has been
affected for a year past. Both lungs, then. If I were dif-
ferently built, I should look almost thin. Not that I am
much thinner than many other young girls are, but I am
much more so than I was. A year ago my figure was per-
fect—neither too stout nor too thin. At present the flesh
on my arms is no longer firm, and on the upper part of the
arm, near the shoulder, where a smooth round surface was
386 JOUAEAZAZ OF AZAA'//, /321 S//A/AC TSAE//. [1884
to be seen before, the bone is plainly visible. In short, my
health is gone past recovery. “But, wretched creature,”
you will say, “why then will you not take more care of your-
self?” But I take excessive care of myself. I have had my
chest burned on both sides, so that I shall be unable to
wear a low-necked dress for four months to come. And it
will be necessary to continue the burnings from time to time
so that I may be able to sleep. The question is no longer
one of getting well. It may be thought that I exaggerate
matters ; but no, I say only what is the truth. And besides
the burnings there are so many other things to be done. I
do them all ; I take cod-liver oil, arsenic, and goat's milk—
they have bought me a goat.
I may linger on for a while, but I am doomed.
The trouble is that I have had too many things to con-
tend against, and they are killing me ; this was only to be
expected, but it is none the less horrible.
There are so many things to make life interesting ; read-
ing alone would be enough,
I have just obtained the complete works of Zola and
Renan, and some of Taine's works. I prefer Taine's
“Revolution ” to that of Michelet. Michelet is rambling,
and wanting in precision of thought, and notwithstanding
his sympathy with the heroic aspects of the Revolution, and
Taine's evident purpose to depict it on its worst side, I like
Taine's work best. ~
And what is to be said of art 2 Ah, if one could only
believe in a beneficent God who interests himself in our
affairs and arranges them to Our Satisfaction
Tuesday, May 6.—I have been devoting all my time to
reading ; I have read all Zola's works. He is an intellectual
giant.
Here is another man of genius whom the French people
evidently do not appreciate
1884.] /O (A.V.1/ OF JAAR/E BASI/ATA’ TSE/A. 387
I have just received a letter from Dusseldorff, containing
a request for permission to engrave and publish my picture,
as well as some other things of mine. This is amusing.
As for me I cannot believe in it yet. In short, I must
acknowledge that I have achieved a success—every one tells
me so. They did not tell me so last year, however. Last
year I obtained some reputation as an artist, owing to the
pastel; but it was nothing compared to the reputation this
year's picture has given me. Of course it is not an astound-
ing success ; and my name, announced in any drawing-
room to-night, would not create the slightest sensation.
And to convince me of my success and make me perfectly
happy, that would be necessary.
Yes, when my name is mentioned every voice must be
hushed, every head turned in my direction, in order to sat-
isfy me.
Since the opening of the Saſon there is not a single jour-
nal that has not spoken of my picture ; but that is not all ;
there was an article by Etincelle in the Paris of this morn-
ing. It is very chic / I come immediately after Claire and
have as many lines devoted to me as she has I am a
Greuze l I am a blonde, with liquid eyes and the imperi-
ous brow of one destined to become famous; I dress with
elegance; I have marked ability, and my pictures are good
specimens of the realistic school, after the manner of Bas-
tien-Lepage. But this is not all ; I have the smile and the
winning grace of a child. And I am not transported with
delight 2 Well, no, not at all.
Thursday, May 8.-How is it that Wolff has made no
mention of my picture It is possible, indeed, that he may
not yet have seen it ; his attention may have been diverted
by something while he was making the tour of the room in
which it is hung. It cannot be because I am unworthy of
388 JOUR.V.1/ OF AZAR/E BASI/ATA: 7 SEAF. [1884.
engaging the attention of so famous a man, for he has
noticed persons—of even less importance than I.
What is it then 2 Is it a piece of ill-luck, like the num-
ber 3 2 I do not believe in making ill-luck an excuse for
Our want of success—that would be too easy a way of
Soothing one's wounded self-love ; and, besides, it makes
One look foolish. I attribute it rather to my want of
merit.
And the most astounding thing is that this is the truth.
Friday, May 9.-I am reading Zola, and I admire him
greatly. His criticisms and studies are admirable, and I
am delighted with them. To gain the love of such a man,
what would not a woman do º Do you suppose me, then,
capable of love, as another woman might be 2 Oh, Heaven
Well, the affection I felt for Bastien-Lepage was the
same as that I now feel for Zola, whom I have never seen,
who is forty-five years old, and corpulent, and who has a
wife. I ask you if the men one meets in society—the men
one is expected to marry—are not altogether absurd 2
What could I find to say to any one of those the whole day
long 2 -
Emile Bastien dined with us to-day, and told me he
would bring M. Hayem, a well-known art-connoisseur, to
see me next Thursday morning.
He possesses pictures of Delacroix, Corot, and Bastien-
Lepage, and he has a special gift for discovering latent
genius.
The day following the one in which the portrait of Bas-
tien-Lepage's grandfather was exhibited, Hayem went to
see the artist in his studio and gave him an order for a
portrait of his father. It seems he has an astonishingly
keen scent for genius; Emile Bastien saw him standing be-
fore my picture to-day, looking at it.
“What do you think of that 2 " he asked him.
1884.] /OURNAL OF MAA'/AE BASI/AAA’ TSEFF. 389
“I think it very good,” returned the connoisseur; “do
you know the artist 2 Is she young 2" and so on.
This Hayem has been fo//owing me since last year, when
he looked at my pastel, as he did at my painting this year.
In short, they are coming here on Thursday; he wishes
to buy one of my pictures.
Monday, May 12.-After a period of intensely cold
weather, the temperature for the last three days has risen
to 28 or 29 degrees. This is overpowering.
While waiting for M. Hayem's visit, I have been finish-
ing a study of a little girl, in the garden.
I forgot to mention that we net Hecht on the staircase
of the Italiens. He spoke enthusiastically of my picture.
I have not yet achieved the success I desire, however.
But neither had Bastien-Lepage achieved the success he
desired, before he exhibited the portrait of his grandfather.
True, but nevertheless—as I am fated to die soon, I want
success to come quickly.
All the symptoms seem to indicate that Bastien-Lepage
has a cancer in the stomach. It is all over with him, then.
But perhaps they are mistaken. The poor fellow cannot
sleep. It is atrocious. And his porter probably enjoys
excellent health. It is atrocious.
7%ursday, May 15.—E. Bastien came with M. Hayem
this morning to see my pictures. Is it not absurd 2 I can
scarcely believe it to be true : I am an artist. I have gen-
ius—and speaking seriously, not in jest. And a man of M.
Hayem's reputation comes to see my paintings, and cares
to look at what I have done. Can it be possible ?
Emile Bastien is delighted at all this. The other day he
said to me : “It seems to me as if it were I myself who
was concerned.” The poor fellow is very unhappy ; I fear
his brother will not get over this.
390 JOURNAL OF AZAR/E BASI/ATA TSEAF. [1884.
May 15–I spent the whole afternoon walking up and
down my room, very happy, with little shivers running up
and down my back at the thought of the medal.
The medal is for the public ; as a matter of fact, I prefer
such a success as mine, without a medal, to some kinds of
medals.
Saturday, May 17.-I have just returned from the Bois,
where I went with the demoiselles Staritsky, who are in
Paris for a few days ; I met Bagnisky there, who told me
they were discussing the Exhibition at Bogoluboff’s the
other day, and that some one remarked that my pictures
resembled the paintings of Bastien-Lepage.
On the whole, I am flattered by the stir my picture has
made. I am envied : I am slandered ; I am some one ; so
that I may be allowed to put on airs if I choose.
Instead of doing this, however, I cry out in a heart-
breaking tone, “Is it not horrible and enough to discour-
age any one 2 I spend six years—the six best years of my
life—working like a galley-slave, seeing no one, enjoying
nothing ; at the end of that time I succeed in painting a
good picture, and they dare to Say I have received assist-
ance in doing it ! The reward of all my efforts is to be
vilely slandered ”
This I say half-jestingly, half seriously, reclining on a
bearskin with my arms hanging iistlessly by my sides.
Mamma takes it all seriously, however, and this drives me
wild.
They give the medal of honor to X , let us suppose ;
naturally I cry out that it is an injustice, that it is a shame ;
that I am furious, etc.
Mamma : “But, for Heaven's sake, do not get so excited ;
they have not given it to him ; it is not true, they have not
given it to him. And if they have done so, they have done
it on purpose ; they know your disposition ; they know you
1884.] /O URAWAZ OA A/AAAA. AAS//K/R7 SEAF. 39t
will fly into a rage about it. They have done it purposely,
and you allow yourself to be caught in the trap, like a
little fool ’’ -
This is not an accusation, remember ; it is only a sup-
position ; but wait until X receives his medal, and you
shall see
Another example : The novel of the pitiful creature Y,
who happens to be in fashion just now, has reached—I
don't know how many editions. Naturally, I am enraged.
“You see,” I cry, “this is what the public like ; this is
what their minds feed upon O tempora / O mores / "
Would you believe that mamma begins the same tirade
Over again, or almost the same as in the case of X. This
has already happened more than once. She is afraid I
shall break in pieces at the slightest shock; that it will kill
me ; and she seeks to save me from this fate by such means
as cause me an attack of fever in the end.
Again : X, Y, or Z chances to say in the course of a
visit, “Do you know that the ball at Larochefoucauld's was
a very brilliant affair 7”
I scowl at this. Mamma observes it, and five minutes
later says something, as if by chance, that is calculated to
disparage the ball in my eyes—if she does not try to prove
that it has not taken place at all. -
It has come to this—inventions and childish subterfuges ;
it makes me foam with rage to think that they should believe
me so easily imposed upon.
Tuesday, May 20.—I went to the Salon at ten o'clock
this morning with M. H. He says my picture is so
good that people think I have received assistance in paint-
ing it.
This is outrageous. *
He had the daring to say that Bastien has never com-
posed a picture, that he is a portrait-painter ; that his pic-
392 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1884.
tures are only portraits, and that he has never done any-
thing in the nude. The audacity of this Jew amazes me.
He spoke of the medal and said he would interest himself
about it ; he knows all the members of the committee.
We went from the Salon to Robert-Fleury's. I told him
very excitedly that I was accused of not having painted my
own picture.
He said he had heard nothing about it ; that such a thing
was not mentioned by any member of the committee ; that
if it had been mentioned, he was there to contradict it. He
thought me much more agitated than I really was, and
came home with me to breakfast, so as to soothe and con-
sole me. “How can you let everything agitate you in this
way ?” he said. “Such things should be treated with the
contempt they deserve.”
“I only wish one of the committee would say such a
thing in my presence,” he added, “I should be furious, I
would annihilate him on the spot.”
“Ah, thank you, monsieur,” I said.
“No,” he returned, “you must not thank me ; the ques-
tion is not one of friendship, it is one of justice ; and I
know what you can do better than any one else.”
He repeated all these pleasant things to me again and
again, and also said that my chances of receiving the medal
were good ; one can never tell with certainty, of course,
but it appears that I have a good chance.
Saturday, May 24.—The medals of the first and second
classes are to be awarded to-day ; to-morrow those of the
third class.
To-day is warm and I feel tired. The France ///ustré has
asked my permission to reproduce the painting. Some one
called Lecadre has written to me asking permission also.
I have granted it in both cases ; let them reproduce it as
much as they will.
1884.] JOUAMAL OF MARIE BASHAIRTSEFF. 393
And then medals are awarded to paintings that are not
so good as mine. Oh, I am not at all uneasy ; true genius
will make itself recognized under all circumstances ; only
it is tiresome to be waiting for anything. It is better not
to count upon it. The mention was promised as a certainty;
the medal is doubtful, but it will be unjust if I do not re-
ceive it.
Evidently.
Sunday, May 25.—What have I accomplished since the
first of May 2 Nothing. And why P Ah, woe is me !
I have just come from Sèvres ; it is frightful ; the land-
scape is so changed that it will never do ; it is Spring no
longer. And then my apple-blossoms (in the painting)
have turned yellow ; I had mixed in too much oil. I was
an idiot, but I have altered it; well, we shall see. But this
picture must be finished. What with the Salom, the news-
papers, the rain, H–– and other stupid things of the kind,
I have lost twenty-five days ; this is maddening ; but there'
is an end to it all now.
The medal is to be awarded to-day, and it is now four
o'clock. The rain is falling in torrents. Ilast year I was
sure of receiving it, and all that troubled me was having to
wait for the news. This year I am by no means sure of
receiving it, and I am much more tranquil than I was then.
This year it is yes or no, without any doubt about the
matter. If it is yes, I shall know it by eight o'clock this
evening. Meantime I shall go recline in the easy-chair by
the window, and amuse myself looking out at the passers-
by while I am waiting for the news.
It is now twenty minutes past five, and I am not much
more tired than if I had remained idle all this time without
waiting for anything.
It vexes me to think of that oil that has turned my apple-
blossoms yellow. When I looked at them for the first time
394 JOUA’.V.4/ OF ..]/AA'/E BASI/AAA' 7 SEAF. . [1884.
the perspiration broke out on my face. Let us hope it will
not be very noticeable, however.—In two hours more I shall
know. Perhaps you think I am very nervous about the
matter. No, I assure you ; I am not much more nervous
than I have often been after spending an afternoon listless
and alone, doing nothing.
In any case I shall learn the result from to-morrow's
papers. -
I am tired to death waiting ; I am feverish, and I have a
slight headache.
Ah, I shall not receive it, and it is the thought of what
mamma will say that most annoys me ! I do not wish my
affairs to be pried upon by others, my feelings to be com-
mented upon by them. It makes me turn hot, as if I had
committed some immodest action. No matter what my
feelings are, I wish to be allowed to indulge them in peace.
Mamma will imagine that I am grieving, and that exasper-
at,éS me.
The air is close and foggy ; I can scarcely breathe.
It is thirty-five minutes past seven ; I am called to dinner.
All is over.
Monday, A/ay 26.-This is better ; instead of stupidly
waiting, I am now indignant, but indignation is a feeling
one need not conceal and is rather refreshing than other-
wise. Twenty-six medals were awarded yesterday ; there
are still six more to be awarded. M has received a
medal for his portrait of Julian.
What can be the reason that I have received no medal 2
For certainly pictures no better than mine have received
medals.
Injustice 2 That is an excuse I am not very fond of.
It is one that any fool can claim.
They may admire my picture or not, as they choose, but
it is an undeniable fact that it contains seven figures, life-
1884 ) JOURNAL OF MARIE BASF/AIR TSEAF. 395
size, grouped together, on a background that has some
merit also. Every one whose opinion is worth having
thinks it very good, or at least good ; some persons have
even said that I received assistance in painting it. Even
the elder Robert-Fleury, without knowing whose the pic-
ture was, thought it very good ; and Boulanger has said to
people who do not know me that he does not like that
style, it is true, but that the picture is well executed and
very interesting.
What can be the reason I have received no medal then P
Paintings without any merit whatever have been awarded
medals; I know very well that this is often the case. But
on the other hand, there is no artist of merit who has not
received one or more medals. What then P what then P I
also have eyes to see ; my picture is a composition.
Suppose I had painted those urchins in the costume of
the Middle Ages, and executed the work in a studio—which
is much easier than to work in the open air—against a
background of tapestry. *
I should then have a historical picture which would be
very much admired in Russia.
What am I to believe 2
Here is another request for permission to reproduce my
picture ; it is from Barschet, the celebrated editor.
This is the fifth I have given. And what then 2
Tuesday, May 27.—It is over. I have received no
medal.
Oh, it is humiliating ! I had had hopes up to this morn-
ing. And if you but knew the things that have received
medals | *º.
Why am I not disheartened by this 2 I am very much
surprised at it, however. If my picture is good, why has it
not received a prize 2 -
Intrigues, you will say.
396 /O CRAſ.1/ OF J/.1 K/E B.4 SHAZR 7SAEFF. [1884.
But all the same, if my picture is good, why has it not
received a prize 2 I have no wish to pose as an unsophisti-
cated child who ignores that there are such things as in-
trigues, but it appears to me that if the painting really had
merit—
Then the trouble is that the painting is bad 2 No, not
that either.
I have eyes to see for myself——and then, others have
praised it. And how about the newspapers ?
Thursday, May 29.-I have had a fever all night, and my
nerves are in a state of the most frightful irritation ; it is
enough to make one mad. This irritation of the nerves,
however, is due as much to having passed a sleepless night
as to my not having received a medal.
I am very unhappy. I wish that I could believe in God.
Is it not natural to look up to some power above when One
is sick and miserable and unfortunate 2 One would fain
believe in an Omnipotent Being, whose aid one has only to
invoke in order to receive it; to whom one can address
one's-self without being slighted or humiliated, and to
whom one has access at all times. When physicians fail to
help us, we ask that a miracle may be wrought ; the miracle
is not wrought, but while we are waiting for it we are less
miserable ; this is not much consolation. If there be a
God, He must be a just God ; and if He is just, how can
He allow things to be as they are 2 Alas 2 if we let
thoughts like this enter into our minds, we can no longer
believe in a God. Why live 2 What purpose is served by
dragging on longer this miserable existence 2 To die
would have at least this advantage : One might then learn
what this other life is that people talk so much about ; that
is to say, if there be another life—which is what we shall
learn when we are dead,
1884.] JOUA.V.A L OF J/21A/E BASI/AAA’ TSEFF. 397
Friday, May 3o.—I have been considering that it is very
foolish on my part to take no thought of the only thing in
life worth having—the one thing that can compensate for
every want, that can make us forget every misery—love,
in a word. Two beings who love each other believe each
other to be morally and physically perfect, morally so,
especially. One who loves you must of necessity be just,
loyal, generous, and ready to perform a heroic action with
simplicity.
Two beings who love each other believe the universe to
be what the philosophers, such as Aristotle and I, for in-
stance, have dreamed it to be, admirable and perfect, and
this is, in my opinion, the chief attraction love possesses
for the soul.
In our intercourse with our family, with our friends, with
the world, some glimpse of the weaknesses of humanity is
sure to be had ; here of avarice or of folly, there of envy,
of meanness, or of injustice; the friend we love most
dearly has thoughts which he conceals from us, so that, as
Maupassant says, man is always alone, for even in their most
confidential moments there will still remain some thought
hidden from him in the bosom of his friend.
Well, love works this miracle of blending two souls in
one. It is only an illusion, it is true, but what matter 2
That which we believe to exist, exists. Love makes the uni-
verse appear to us such as it ought to be. If I were
God—
Well, what then 2
Saturday, May 31.-Villevielle has just told me that the
reason I did not receive a medal was because I made a fuss
about last year's mention, and spoke publicly of the com-
mittee as idiots. It is true that I did so.
My picture is not indeed a very large one, nor is it very
bold in style; if it were, the “Meeting "would be a master-
398 yO ('A'.V.1 / OF ..]/.1/0/AE /3.1S//A/A 7"S/E/F/. [1884.
piece. But is it necessary that a painting should be a
masterpiece to obtain an insignificant third-class medal
The engraving of Baude has appeared, accompanied by an
article which says that the public are disappointed at my
having received no medal. My painting is dry, it is said.
But they say the same thing of Bastien's painting.
Is there any one in the world who can say that the por-
trait of M has more merit than my picture has 2
Bastien-Lepage received eight votes for his “Jeanne.
d'Arc.” M received a medal for his portrait. And the
great M received twenty-eight votes, exactly twenty
more than I received. There is neither conscience nor
justice in the world. Truly I know not what to think.
I went downstairs when H came, in order to show
this Jew that I am not cast down.
I appeared so haughty and unconcerned while we chatted
of photographs, engravings, patrons of art, etc., that this
son of Israel finally made up his mind to transact some
business with me—even though I have received no medal
“I will buy your pastel ” (“Armandine"), he said, “and the
Head of the Laughing Baby.” Two He arranged the
matter of the purchase with Dina, but we referred him, as
to the price, to Emile Bastien. I am very well satisfied.
Sunday, June 1.—For a month past I have done nothing!
Yes, I began the works of Sully-Prudhomme yesterday morn-
ing and I have been reading them ever since. I have two
of his books, and I like them extremely.
I trouble my head but little about verse ; when it is bad
it annoys me, but, otherwise, I think only of the idea ex-
pressed. If people like to make rhymes, let them do so,
provided only that they do it in such a way as not to dis-
tract my attention from the thought. And the thought is
what pleases me in Sully-Prudhomme. There is an ele-
vation of style, a subtlety of reasoning, that is almost ab-
1884.] /O UAE.V.4 L OF A/AA’ſ E BASI/ATA’ TSEAF. 399
stract in his works, which is in harmony with my own way of
thinking.
I spent several hours, stretched on my divan or walk-
ing up and down on my balcony, reading the preface to
“Lucretius,” as well as the work itself—“De Natura
Rerum.” Those who have read the book will be able to
appreciate this.
To understand this work great concentration of thought
is necessary. Even those accustomed to deal with such
subjects must find it difficult reading. I understood all I
read, though the meaning would at times escape me ; but
on such occasions I read the passage over and over again
until I had grasped the thought. I ought to admire Sully-
Prudhomme greatly for writing things which I find it diffi.
cult to understand.
He is as familiar with the management of thoughts as I
am with the management of colors. *
Then he ought to admire me greatly too, for with a few
“muddy paints,” as the antipathetic Theophile Gautier says,
I can create a countenance that will express human emo-
tions, landscapes that will reflect Nature in all her aspects—
the sky, the trees, the atmosphere. Probably he thinks
himself a thousand times superior to a painter, because he
is able to ransack the secret recesses of the mind. But what
does he or any one else learn from that 2
How mind works 2 To give to the intellectual processes,
swift and elusive as they are, names—it seem to me in my
ignorance that this is an unprofitable occupation for the
mind. It is an interesting and refined amusement, and
one that requires the exercise of skill, but what end does it
serve 2 Is it by giving names to strange and abstract
things that the great writers and thinkers of the world have
been formed.
“Man,” these metaphysicians say, “can take cognizance
of an object only in so far as he comes into relations with it,
40O JOUAVAL OF MARIE BASHAVR 7SEFF. [1884.
5 y
etc.” The greater number of my readers will be able to
make nothing out of this. I will cite another passage:
“Our knowledge, therefore, cannot exceed the knowledge
expressed in our categories, as applied to our perceptions.”
Good ; we can understand no more than we can understand.
That is self-evident.
If I had received a thorough and systematic education, I
should be a remarkable person. Everthing I know I have
taught myself. I myself drew out the plan of my studies at
Nice, with the professors of the Lyceum, who could not get
over their amazement at the intelligence displayed in it. In
forming it I was guided partly by my own ideas in the
matter, partly by ideas gathered in the course of my reading.
Since then I have read the Greek and Latin authors, the
French and English classics, contemporary writers—every-
thing I came across, in short.
But all this knowledge is in a chaotic state, notwith-
standing the efforts I have made, through my natural love
of harmony, to reduce it to order. •
What is there in this writer, Sully-Prudhomme, to attract
me 2 I bought his works six months ago, and tried to read
them then, but cast them aside, after a time, as agreeable
verses, indeed, but nothing more. To-day I found thoughts
in them that enchanted me and read on for hours, under
the influence of François Coppée's visit. But neither Coppée
nor any one else has ever spoken to me of him. In what
then does his attraction for me consist, and how have I came
to discover it only now Ż
I might, by a great effort of the mind, succeed in making
a philosophical analysis of this great achievement of the
human intellect—“De Natura Rerum.” But what purpose
would it serve 2 Would it make me alter a single one of
my opinions 2
Thursday, June 5.-Prater is dead ; he had grown up with
1884.] JOURNAL OF AZAR/F, BAS//KIA 7'SEFF. 4O I
me ; they bought him for me at Vienna in 1870; he was
three weeks old at the time, and had a habit of hiding be-
hind the trunks, among the papers in which parcels came
wrapped from the shops.
He was my faithful and attached dog ; he would whine
when I left the house, and pass whole hours at the window,
waiting for my return. Afterward, in Rome, I had a fancy
for another dog, and mamma took Prater, who was always
jealous of his rival, however. Poor Prater, with his tawny
hide, like a lion's, and his beautiful eyes; I blush for my-
self when I think of my heartlessness
My new dog, who was called Pincio, was stolen from
me in Paris. Instead of taking back Prater, who had never
been able to console himself for my abandonment of him, I
was foolish enough to take Coco I. and afterward the real
Coco. This was base, it was despicable. For four years
these two animals were alway ready to devour each other,
and finally it was necessary to shut Prater in an upper room,
where he was kept a prisoner, while Coco walked over
people and did as he chose. His death was due to old
age. I spent a couple of hours with him yesterday ; he
dragged himself to my side, and rested his head upon my
knee.
Ah, I am a pretty wretch, with my affectionate sentiments.
What a despicable character is mine ! I shed tears as I
write, and I think the while that these tears will procure
me, with those who read me, the reputation of having a
good heart. I always intended to take back the poor brute,
but never went beyond giving him a lump of sugar, or a
caress, as I passed him by.
You should have seen his tail at such times It would
turn round and round so fast that it looked like a wheel.
It seems, after all, that the poor creature is not yet dead ;
I had thought he was dead because I no longer saw him in
his room ; he had hidden himself behind a trunk or a bath-
4O2 JOURNAL OF AZAR/E BASHR/R7 SEAF. [1884.
tub, as he used to do at Vienna, and I thought they had
taken away his dead body, and were afraid to tell me of it.
But his death must certainly take place either to-night or
t()-m Orl'OW.
Robert-Fleury found me crying to-day. I had written
to him in regard to the reproduction of my picture, and
he came in answer to my letter. It appears I had neglected
to sign a little paper by means of which others were to be
prevented from reproducing the picture, and thus, perhaps,
involving me in a law-suit. You must know that I am very
proud of all these requests for permission to reproduce my
picture, and I should be proud even of a law-suit.
Friday, June 6.—I have been thinking a great deal about
the soirée at the Embassy; I only fear that something may
occur to spoil it for me. I can never believe in the possi-
bility of anything pleasant happening to me. Everything
may seem to be propitious, but in the end something is
always sure to occur, some obstacle to oppose itself to the
realization of my hopes. This has been the case for a long
time past.
We went to the Salon to-day—I, for the purpose of see-
ing the picture that had received the medal. We met
Robert-Fleury there, and, as we were standing before one
of the pictures that had been awarded a second-class medal,
I asked him what he would say if I had shown him a pic-
ture like that.
“In the first place, I hope you will take good care not
to paint pictures like that,” he answered seriously.
“But how about the medal then 2 ” I asked.
“Oh, well,” he answered, “he is a man who has been
exhibiting for a long time, and then—you can understand
how it is—”
Saturday, June 7.—We are preparing for this night's
event in silence.
1884.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASI/KIA TSEFF. 4O3
I am to wear a gown of white silk mull. The bodice is
trimmed with two pieces of the mull, crossing each other in
folds, in front, and fastened on the shoulders with knots of
the material. The sleeves are short and trimmed in the
same way. There is a wide, white sash with long ends fall-
ing behind. The skirt is made of the mull draped from
left to right, and falling to the feet. In the back are two
lengths of the material, the one touching the ground, the
other a little shorter. My slippers are white and quite
plain. The general effect is charming. My hair is dressed
à la Psyché, and is without ornament. The drapery in the
front is a dream. It is all so simple and elegant that I shall
look very pretty. Mamma will wear a black damask gown
covered with jet, with a long train, and diamonds.
Sunday, June 8.-I looked as well as I have ever looked
in my life, or as it would be possible for me to look. The
gown produced a charming effect, and my complexion was
as fresh and blooming as in the old days at Nice or Rome.
People who only see me as I am every day iodked at me
with amazement.
We arrived a little late. Madame Fredericks was not
with the Ambassadress, with whom mamma exchanged a few
words. I was very calm and very much at my ease. We
met many acquaintances. Madame d'A ,whom I saw at
the Gavinis, but who had not bowed to me, bowed to me
last night very graciously. I took the arm of Gavini, who
looked very well with his ribbons and stars ; he presented
Menabrea, the Italian Minister, to me, and we discussed art
together. Afterwards M. de Lesseps talked to me for a
long time about his children and their nurses, and the shares
of the Suez Canal. Then Chevreau gave me his arm, and
we took a turn through the rooms together.
As for the charges d'affaires and the attaches, I neglected
them in order to devote myself to the old men, with their
4O4 JOUR.Y.1/ OF AZ.4/º/E BAS//KIA 7'SEFF. [1884.
decorations. Ilater on, having duly burned incense at the
shrine of fame, I chatted with some of the artists who were
there ; they were very curious to know me, and asked to
be presented to me. But I was so pretty and well-dressed
that they will be convinced that I did not paint my picture
without assistance. There were Cheremetieff, Lehman, a
very amiable old man, of some talent, and Edelfeldt, who
has a great deal of talent.
The latter is a handsome, though vulgar, young man—a
Russian, from Finland. Altogether I spent a very pleasant
evening. The chief thing, you see, is to be pretty ; every-
thing depends upon that.
Tuesday, June Io.—How interesting it is to watch the
passers-by in the street ; to note the expression on their
faces, their peculiarities ; to obtain glimpses into the souls
of those who are strangers to us; and to endow all this
with life, or rather to picture to ourselves the life, of each
of these strangers
One paints a combat of Roman gladiators, which one has
never seen, from Parisian models. Why not paint the
gladiators of Paris from the Parisian populace, also 2 In
five or six centuries this would be antiquity, and the fools
of that time would regard it with veneration.
Saturday, June 14.—We had a great many visitors to-day,
as it is mann.nna's birthday. I wore a very handsome gown—
gray taſſeta, with a white mull vest in the style of Louis XVI.
Monday, /une 16–We went to-night to see Sarah Bern-
hardt in “Macbeth " (Richepin's translation). The Gavinis
were with us, I so seldom go to the theater that I enjoyed
it. The declamatory style of the actors, however, offended
my artistic sense. How much more agreeable it would be
if these people only spoke naturally
1884.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHA'ſ & 7'SEFF. 405
Marais (“Macbeth ") was good at times; his intonation
was so theatrical, so artificial, that it was painful to listen to
him. Sarah, however, is always admirable, though her
voice is no longer the silvery voice it was.
Tuesday, June 17.—I am tormented by the thought of
my picture, and the hands are still to be done ! It interests
me no longer—this apple-tree in blossom, and these vio-
lets ; and this peasant girl half-asleep ! A canvas three
feet in length would have been quite large enough for it,
and I have made it life-size. It is good for nothing.
Three months thrown away !
Wednesday, June 18–I am still at Sèvres | What tor-
ments me is that I have an attack of fever every day. And
then it seems impossible for me to grow fat. Yet I drink
six or seven glasses of milk a day.
Friday, June 20.—The architect has written to me from
Algiers. At the end of my letter to him I had drawn our
three likenesses, with a medal around the neck of each.
To Jules I had given the medal of honor, to myself a medal
of the first, and to the architect a medal of the second class,
for next year's Salon. I also sent him a photograph of
“The Meeting.” And he tells me he showed them both to
his brother, who was delighted to be able to form some
idea of the picture he had heard so much about, and which
he thought very good.
“How stupid they are,” he says his brother exclaimed,
“not to have awarded a medal to this painting, which seems
to me very good indeed . "
He would like very much to have written to me, Emile
adds, but it was not possible for him to do so. He still
suffers greatly ; notwithstanding this, however, he has re-
solved to start for home a week from to-day. He charged
406 JOUA'A'.1/ OA. MAR// BASI/ATA: /SE/A. [1884.
the architect to give me his friendly regards, and to thank
me for the embroidery.
A year ago this would have delighted me. He would
like to have written to me ! I can only take a retrospective
pleasure in this, for at present such things are almost indif.
ferent to me.
At the end of the letter is my likeness, with the medal of
honor for 1886 around the neck.
He must have been touched by the delicate manner in
which I sought to console his brother in my letter. The
letter began seriously, with comforting words, and ended
with pleasantries, according to my custom.
Wednesday, /une 25-I have just been reading my journal
for the years 1875, 1876, and 1877. I find it full of vague
aspirations toward some unknown goal. My evenings
were spent in wild and despairing attempts to find some
outlet for my powers. Should I go to Italy 2 Remain in
Paris 2 Marry 2 Paint? What should I strive to become 2
If I went to Italy, I should no longer be in Paris, and my
desire was to be everywhere at once. What a waste of
energy was there 2
If I had been born a man, I would have conquered
Europe. As I was born a woman, I exhausted my energy
in tirades against fate, and in eccentricities. There are
moments when one believes one’s-self capable of all things.
“If I only had the time,” I wrote, “I would be a sculptor,
a writer, a musician ”
I am consumed by an inward fire, but death is the inevit-
able end of all things, whether I indulge in these vain long-
ings or not. -
But if I am nothing, if I am to be nothing, why these
dreams of fame, since the time I was first able to think 2
Why these wild longings after a greatness that presented
1884.] /OURNAL OF MARIE BASHR/R7 SEAF. 407
itself then to my imagination under the form of riches and
honors 2
Why, since I was first able to think, since the time when
I was four years old, have I had longings, vague but intense,
for glory, for grandeur, for splendor 2 How many charac-
ters have I been in turn, in my childish imagination | First,
I was a dancer—a famous dancer—worshiped by all St.
Petersburg. Every evening I would make them put a low-
necked dress on me, and flowers in my hair, and I would
dance, very gravely, in the drawing-room, while every one
in the house looked on. Then I was the most famous prima
donna in the world ; I sang and accompanied myself on the
harp, and I was carried in triumph, where or by whom I do
not know. Then I electrified the people by my eloquence.
The Emperor of Russia married me ; that he might be able
to maintain himself on his throne. I came into personal
relations with my people ; I explained my political views to
them in my speeches, and both people and sovereign were
moved to tears. º
And then I was in love. The man I loved proved false,
and was afterward killed by some accident, generally a fall
from his horse, just at the moment when I felt that my love
for him was beginning to decrease. When my lovers died
I consoled myself, but when they proved false to me I fell
into despair and finally died of grief. -
In short, I have pictured every human feeling, every
earthly pleasure to myself as superior to the reality, and if.
my dreams are to remain forever unrealized, it is better
that I should die.
Why has not my picture been awarded a medal 2
The medal It must be because some of the committee
thought I had received assistance. It has happened once
or twice already that medals have been given to women
who, as has afterward been discovered, had received assist-
ance in their work ; and when a medal has been once
408 JOUAMAZ OF M/AM/E BASI/K/RTS/CAEA.. [1884.
awarded the recipient has the right to exhibit on the follow-
ing year, and may send the most worthless or insignificant
picture if he chooses.
Yet I am young and elegant, and have been praised by
the papers | But these people are all alike. Breslau, for
instance, said to my model that I would paint a great deal
better if I went less into society. They think I go out every
evening. How deceitful appearances are But to suspect
that my picture is not all my own work is too serious a
matter; thank Heaven, they have not publicly given utter-
ance to their suspicions, however ! Robert-Fleury told me
he was surprised that I had not received a medal, for that
every time he spoke of me to his colleagues of the Com-
mittee, they responded, “Aſ is zery good; it is a very inter-
esting picture.”
“What do you suppose they mean when they say that 2"
he asked me.
Then it is this suspicion.
Friday, June 27.—Just as we were going to take a drive
in the Bois, who should appear beside the carriage but the
Architect . They arrived in Paris this morning, and he
came to tell us that Jules is a little better; that he bore
the journey well, but that, unhappily, he cannot leave the
house. It would give him so much pleasure, his brother
added, to tell me himself how greatly my picture had been
admired by every one to whom he had shown the photo-
graph in Algiers.
“Then we will go to see him to-morrow,” said mamma.
“You could not give him a greater pleasure,” he
answered ; “he says your picture—but no, he will tell it
to you himself to-morrow ; that will be better.”
Saturday, June 28.-We went, according to our promise,
to the Rue Legendre.
1884.] yo UK.V.1/ OF J/4 AE/E B.15//ÅA 7 SEAF. 4O9
He rose to receive us, and took a few steps forward to
meet us; he seemed mortified at the change that had taken
place in his appearance.
He is changed, indeed, very much changed ; but his dis-
ease is not in the stomach ; I am no doctor, but his looks
are enough to tell me that.
In short, I find him so changed that all I could say was :
“Well, so we have you here among us again.” He was not
at all reserved ; on the contrary he was as cordial and
friendly as possible. He spoke in the most flattering terms
of my picture, telling me again and again not to trouble
myself about the medal—that the success of the picture
itself was sufficient.
I made him laugh, telling him his illness would do him
good ; that he was beginning to grow too stout. The Archi-
tect seemed enchanted to see his invalid so gay and so amia-
ble. Thus encouraged, I grew talkative. He complimented
me on my gown, and even on the handle of my parasol. He
made me sit at his feet on his reclining chair. How thin
he has grown And his eyes look larger than they were
and very bright, and his hair looks uncared-for.
But he looked very interesting, and since he has asked
me to do so, I shall go to see him often.
The Architect, who accompanied us downstairs, asked us
to do so also. “It makes Jules so happy,” he said ; “it is so
great a pleasure for him to see you ; I assure you he thinks
you have a great deal of talent.”
I write all these details about the reception I met with,
because it made me very happy.
But the feeling I have for him is a maternal one, very
calm and very tender, and one of which I feel proud, as if
it conferred a new dignity upon me. He will recover from
this, I am sure.
J/onday, /une 30.-I could scarcely keep from cutting
4 IO JOURNAL OF MAA'ſ E BASI/ATA 7 SEAA. [1884.
my painting to pieces to-day. There is not an inch of it
painted to please me.
And one of the hands is still to be done | But when this
hand is done there will be only so much the more to be
undone ! Ah, misery !
And it has cost me three months—three months
I have been amusing myself painting a basket of straw-
berries such as were never before seen. I gathered them
myself, picking a few green ones also, for the sake of
the color.
And such leaves | In short, wonderful strawberries,
gathered by an artist, with the delicate touch and coquettish
air of one engaged in an unaccustomed Occupation.
And among them is a branch of red gooseberries.
I walked with them through the streets of Sèvres, and
in the railway coach I held the basket in my lap, taking
care to keep it slightly raised, so that the air might pass
beneath, and prevent the heat of my dress from spoiling
the strawberries, not one of which had a speck or spot on it.
Rosalie laughed : “If any of those at home were only to
see you now, mademoiselle !” she said.
“Could this be possible 2 " I thought.
“But then, it is for the sake of his painting, which
deserves it, “not for his face, which does not. There is
nothing however, which his painting does not deserve.”
“Then it is his painting that will eat the strawberries?”
Tuesday, /u/y 1.-Still at that odious Sèvres But I
got home in good time, before five o'clock. My picture is
almost finished.
I am in the deepest dejection, however. Everything
goes wrong with me. It would be necessary that some
great event should take place in order to dispel this gloom.
And I, who do not believe in a God, have fixed my hopes
upon God,
1884.] yo UAE.V.4 L OF MAR/E BASHAVA 7'SEFſ. 4 II
Formerly, after these fits of depression something would
always occur to bring me back to an interest in life.
My God, why hast thou given me the power to
reason 2 It would make me so happy if I could but
believe blindly.
I believe and I do not believe. When I reason I no
longer believe. But in moments of extreme joy or extreme
wretchedness my first thought is always of that God who is
so cruel to me. -
Wednesday, /u/y 2.—We went to see Jules Bastien to-
day—this time to his studio. I really think he is growing
better. His mother was there. She is a woman of about
sixty, and she looks to be forty-five or fifty ; she is much
better looking than her picture. Her hair is of a pretty
blonde color, with here and there a silver thread or two.
Her smile reveals goodness of heart; and with her black
and white gown she presents quite a pleasing appearance.
She embroiders with skill from designs of her own.
The two upper front teeth of Bastien-Lepage are far
apart like mine.
Thursday.—I went to see Potain this morning at about
seven o'clock. He made a superficial examination and or-
dered me to Eaux-Bonnes. Afterward he will see, he says.
But I have read the letter which he gave me for his col-
league. In it he says that the upper part of the right lung
is gone, and that I am the most unmanageable and impru-
dent patient he has ever had.
Afterward, as it was not yet eight o'clock, I went to see
the little doctor of the Rue de la Echiquier. He impressed
me as being a very serious person ; he appeared disagree-
ably surprised by my condition, and insisted strongly that
I should consult some of the shining lights in the profession,
Bouchard or Grancher, for instance.
4 I 2 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHR/RTSEFF. [1884.
As I at first refused to do this, he offered to accompany
me, and I at last consented.
Potain pretends that my lungs have been in worse con-
dition than they are at present, but that an unexpected im-
provement took place in them, and that the old trouble has
now returned, but will soon pass away again.
And Potain is such an optimist that when he speaks thus
I must be in a very bad way indeed.
Little B , however, is not of this opinion ; he says
that my disease had indeed at one time assumed a more
serious form than it now presents, but that the attack was
an acute one which they thought would carry me off Sud-
denly ; this did not happen, and that is the improvement
that has taken place. The chronic trouble, however, has
now become aggravated ; in short, he insists on my seeing
Grancher.
I will do so.
So, then, I have consumption
That, and everything else. The prospect is not very
encouraging.
And nothing to console me in the least for all this.
Friday, July 4.—The Sèvres picture is here in my stu-
dio. I might call it “April.” The name is of little con-
sequence, however, if the picture itself were only good,
which it is not.
The green of the background is at once both bright and
muddy, and the figure of the girl herself is not in the least
like what I had intended it to be.
I have hurried through with it as it was, without waiting
to make it better, but there is nothing of the sentiment I
had intended in the picture—nothing at all. In short, it is
three months thrown away.
Saturday, July 5.—I have a charming new gray linen
1884.] yo URNAL OF MARIE BASHRIRTSEFF. 4IS
gown ; the waist is a blouse, without any trimming except
the lace around the neck and sleeves. The hat is an ideal
one ; it is trimmed with a large and coquettish-looking bow
of antique lace. It was so becoming to me that I thought
of going to the Rue Legendre; only I feared it might seem
as if I went there too often. And yet why should I think
so 2 I go there simply as a fellow-artist, an admirer, to
help to make the time pass pleasantly for him while, he is
so ill.
We wént there, accordingly. His mother was delighted
to see us; she patted me on the shoulder, and said I had
beautiful hair. The Architect is still downcast, but the
great painter is a little better.
He ate his soup and his egg before us. His mother runs
for whatever he wants, and waits on him herself so that the
servant may not have to come in. And he takes it all quite
naturally and accepts our services with the greatest sang-
froid, without manifesting the least surprise. Some one in
speaking of his appearance said that he ought to have his
hair cut, and mamma mentioned that she used to cut her
son's hair when he was a child, and her father's when he
was sick. “Would you like me to cut yours ?” she added;
“I have a lucky hand.”
We all laughed, but he consented immediately; his
mother ran to bring a peignoir and mamma set to work at
once, and succeeded very creditably in her task.
I wanted to have a hand in it, also, but the stupid fellow
said I should be sure to commit some folly; I revenged
myself by comparing him to Samson in the hands of Dalilah.
That will be my next picture -
He condescended to smile at this.
His brother, emboldened by his good-humor, proposed to
cut his beard also, which he did slowly and solemnly, his
hands trembling slightly while he did it.
This altered the expression of his face completely; it took
4 I 4 JO (A’.YA/ OF ..]/AAA BASI/AIA 7. SAEFF. [1884.
away the sickly look it had before worn ; his mother gave
little cries of joy when she saw him. “Now I see my boy
again,” she said, “my dear little boy, my dear child !”
She is an excellent woman—so amiable and unaffected ;
and then she has the greatest admiration for her distin-
guished son.
They are very worthy people.
Monday, July 14.—I have commenced the treatment
which is to cure me. And I am perfectly tranquil concern-
ing the result.
Even the prospects in regard to my painting seem
better.
What opportunities for study does the Boulevard des
Batignolles, or even the Avenue Wagram, present to the
artist |
Have you ever watched the faces of the people who
frequent those streets 2
With each one of the benches one may connect some
tragedy or some romance. See the Social outcast, as he sits
there, one arm leaning on the back of the seat, the other
resting on his knee, looking around him with furtive glance;
the woman with her child seated in her lap ; the busy, bust-
ling woman, sitting down to take a moment's rest ; the
grocer's boy reading his little newspaper, as if he had not a
care in the world ; the workman fallen asleep in his seat ;
the philosophic or the hopeless man silently smoking. Per-
haps I let my imagination run away with me, but look at
all this any day at five or six o'clock in the evening, and
judge for yourselves.
Yes, that is it !
I think I have found a subject for my picture.
Yes, yes, yes! I may not be able to execute it, but I am
quite satisfied as to the subject. I could dance for joy.
How differently do we feel at different times |
1884.] JOURNAL OF MAR/E BASHK/RTSEFF. 4 I5
Sometimes life seems a void, and sometimes—I begin to
take an interest in everything again—in all my surroundings.
It is as if a sudden flood of life had come into my soul.
And yet there is nothing to rejoice about.
So much the worse; then I shall find something to cheer
and please me even in the thought of my death.
Nature intended me to be happy, but,
Pourquoi dans ton ocuvre celeste
Tant d’éléments si peu d'accord 2
Tuesday, July 15.—Every time I see people sitting on
the benches in the public parks or streets an old idea of
mine occurs to me—that here are to be found splendid
opportunities for the study of art. It is always better to
paint scenes in which the characters are in repose, than
scenes of action. Let it not be thought that I am opposed
to action in painting, but in scenes where violent action is
represented there can be neither illusion nor pleasure for
persons of refined tastes. One is painfully impressed
(though one may not be conscious of the fact) by this arm
which is raised to strike, but which does not strike, by these
legs depicted in the act of running, and which remain
always in the same position. There are violent situations,
however, in which one can imagine the actors as for an
instant motionless, and for the purposes of art an instant is
sufficient.
It is always preferable to seize the instant following a
violent action rather than the one preceding it. The “Jeanne
d'Arc’’ of Bastien-Lepage has heard mysterious voices; she
hurries forward, overturning her spinning-wheel in her
haste, and stops suddenly to lean against a tree. But in
scenes where the arm is raised to strike, in which action is
portrayed, the artistic enjoyment is never complete.
Take the “Distribution of Flags by the Emperor at
Versailles.”
416 JOUAMAZ OF AZ.1/C/E BASI/ATA TSEFF. [1884.
Every one is rushing forward with arms raised ; and yet
the action does not shock the artistic sense, because the
figures are depicted during a moment of expectation, and
we are ourselves moved and carried away by the emotion of
these men ; we share in their impatience. The spirit and
force of the painting are prodigious, precisely because it is
possible to imagine an instant during which the action is
arrested —an instant during which we can tranquilly con-
template this scene, as if it were a real scene and not a
painting.
But action, whether in sculpture or in painting, is never
capable of the same Sublimity of treatment as repose.
Compare the pictures of Millet with the most powerfully
treated scenes of action you are acquainted with.
See the “Moses" of Michael Angelo ; he is motionless, but
he is alive. His “Penseroso" neither moves nor speaks, but
this is because he wills it to be so. He is a living man who
is absorbed in his own reflections.
The “Pas-mêche” of Bastien-Lepage looks at you and you
listen as if he were going to speak, because he lives. In
Lepage's “Foins "the man lying on his back, his face covered
with his hat, sleeps ; but he is alive The woman sitting
down is in a revery, and is motioniess, but we feel that she
is living.
No scene can satisfy the artistic sense completely but
one in which the characters are in repose. This gives us
time to grasp its beauties, to possess Ourselves of its mean-
ing, to endow it in our imagination with life.
Ignorant or stupid people think scenes of repose more
easy to paint than Scenes of action.
When I die my death will be caused by indignation at
the stupidity of human naturc, which, as Flaubert says, has
no limit.
During the past twenty years Russia has produced admir-
able works in literature,
1884.] /OUAMAZ OF MARIA AASHA’/RTSEPA. 417
In reading Count Tolstoi’s “Peace and War,” I was so
impressed by this fact as to exclaim involuntarily, “Why,
this is equal to Zola ’’
And this is true. There is an article in the Revue des
APeux Mondes to-day devoted to our Tolstoi, and my heart,
as a Russian, leaped for joy when I read it. It is by M. de
Vogüé, who was Secretary of the French Embassy in Rus-
sia. He has made a study of our literature and manners,
and has already published several remarkably just and pro-
found articles on this great and wonderful country of mine.
And I, wretch that I am—I live in France ; I prefer to be
a stranger in a strange land to living in my own country !
Since I love my country—the beautiful, the great, the
glorious Russia—I ought to go there to live.
But I, too, labor for the glory of my country—though I
may never become a celebrated genius like Tolstoi
But if it were not for my painting, I would go there to
live ; yes, I would go ! But my art absorbs all my facul-
ties ; everything else is only an interlude, an amusement.
Monday, July 21.——I walked for more than four hours to-
day in search of a background for my picture ; it is to be a
street, but I have not yet fixed on the particular spot.
It is evident that a public Seat on a boulevard on the out-
skirts of the city is very different from a seat in the Champs-
Elysées, where porters, grooms, nurses, and idlers sit.
Here there is no field for the artist ; here there is no
soul, no romance. With the exception of some particular
case these people are nothing more than human machines.
But the outcast who sits on the edge of yonder bench,
how he appeals to the imagination That is the real man—
a man such as Shakspeare might have portrayed.
Now that I have discovered this treasure I am possessed
by an unreasoning dread lest it should escape from me
before I can fix it on canvas. What if the weather should
418 JOUAMAZ OF MAA/A, BAS//KMA 7'SEFF. [1834.
not prove propitious, or if it should be beyond my powers
of execution ?
Well, if I have no genius, then Heaven has chosen to
mock me ; for it inflicts upon me all the tortures that a
genius could suffer—Alas !
Wednesday, July 23.−My picture is sketched in, my
models have been found. I have been running about since
five o'clock this morning—to Villette and to Batignolles;
Rosalie spoke to the various people I pointed out to her.
The whole affair is neither very easy nor very pleasant.
Friday, August I.--When I treat you to moving phrases
you must not allow yourselves to be too much affected by
them. . . .
Shall I ever know what it is to love 2
For my own part I think love—impossible—to one who
looks at human nature through a microscope, as I do.
They who see only what they wish to see in those around
them are very fortunate.
Shall I tell you something 2 Well, I am neither an ar-
tist, nor a sculptor, nor a musician ; neither woman, girl,
nor friend. My only purpose in life is to observe, to reflect,
and to analyze.
A glance, a face I see by chance, a Sound, a pleasure, a
pain, is at once weighed, examined, verified, classified, noted.
And not until this is accomplished is my mind at rest.
Saturday, August 2–Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday,
Friday—five days, and my picture is finished. Claire and
I commenced on the same day, with the same subject, on a
canvas 3 ft. 4 x 3 ft. 3—a picture of some size, as you see—La
Bievre, immortalized in his verse by Victor Hugo: in the
background is a farmhouse ; in the foreground a young
girl sits by the river-side talking to a youth who stands on
the opposite bank.
1884.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASI/k’IRTSEFF. 419
And is the picture a good one 2 There is something too
hackneyed in the sentiment of the composition for this to
be the case, and then I wished to finish it quickly. It is
amusing to hear them criticise it; one says, “What a pretty
scene !” Another says the picture has no merit whatever,
and yet another, “It is very good indeed; a really pretty
painting !” Claire has not yet finished hers.
Good heavens ! how many things there are that shock
me ! Almost all true artists are like me in this respect.
I wonder at people who can eat great pieces of raw fat
mutton.
I wonder at those fortunate people who can swallow
raspberries whole, without minding the little insects that
are almost always to be found in them.
As for me, I must first examine them closely, so that the
pleasure of eating them does not pay me for the trouble.
I wonder at people who can eat all sorts of hashes and
stews, without knowing what they are composed of.
I wonder at, or rather I envy, simple, healthy, common.
place natures, in short.
Thursday, August 7.-We have sent a little ice-box to the
Rue Legendre ; he wished to have one that might stand
near his bed.
I only hope he may not think we are paying him all these
attentions in order to get one of his pictures for a mere
song ! -
My picture is sketched in colors. But I do not feel
very strong. I find it necessary to lie down and rest very
frequently, and when I get up again I am so dizzy that for
some moments I can scarcely see. At last, at about five
o'clock I was obliged to leave my work, and go for a turn
in the deserted walks of the Bois.
Monday, August 1 I.-I left the house at five this morn-
420 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHA'ſ & TSAEAEF. [1884.
ing to make a sketch for my picture, but there were so
many people in the streets already that I was compelled to
return home furious. No less than twenty persons had
gathered around the carriage, although it remained closed.
I drove through the streets again in the afternoon, but
succeeded no better.
I went to the Bois.
Tuesday, Aug. 12.—In short, my friends, all this means
that I am ill. I still struggle against the feeling, and try to
drag myself about, but I thought this morning that I should
at last have to succumb––that is to say, lie down and give up
work. But suddenly I felt a little stronger, and I went out
again in search of some hints for my picture. My weak-
ness, and the preoccupation of my thoughts, keep me apart
from the real world, which, however, I have never seen so
clearly as I do now. All its baseness, all its meanness,
stand out before my mind with saddening distinctness.
Foreigner though I be—not to speak of my youth and
my ignorance—I find passages to criticise in the writings of
the best authors and poets. As for the newspapers, I can-
not read half a dozen lines in one of them without throwing
it aside in disgust, not only because of the style, which is
that of a scullion, but because of the sentiments expressed.
There is no honesty in them. Every article is either written
to serve a purpose, or is paid for.
There is neither good faith nor sincerity to be found any-
where.
And what is to be said of men, who call themselves men
of honor, who will deliberately falsify the truth through
party spirit?
It is disgusting.
We came home to dine after leaving Bastien, who is still
in bed, though his eyes are bright and he seems to be free
from pain. He has gray eyes, the exquisite charm of which
1884.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHAVRTSEFF. 42 I
vulgar souls cannot be expected to appreciate. Do you un-
derstand what I mean by this? Eyes that have looked into
the eyes of Jeanne d'Arc.
We spoke of the picture, and he complained of not
being sufficiently appreciated. I told him he was appre-
clated by those who had souls to understand him, and that
“Jeanne d'Arc’’ was a work which people admired more than
they dared say to his face.
Saturday, August 16.-This is the first day I have been
really able to work in the fiacre, and I came home with such
a pain in my back that I was obliged to have it bathed and
rubbed. *
But how well I feel now ! The Architect put my paint-
ing in place this morning. His brother is better. He went
for an airing to the Bois to-day. They carried him down-
stairs in an easy-chair. Felix told me this when he came
for some milk this afternoon.
For a week past Bastien has been drinking goat's milk—
the milk of our goat. Imagine the joy of our people. But
this is not all. He condescends to be so friendly with us
that he sends for it himself whenever he has a fancy for it.
This is delightful.
He will soon be lost to us then, since he is growing
better. Yes, our good times are coming to an end. One
cannot go visit a man who is well enough to go out.
But I must not exaggerate things. He went to the Bois,
but he was carried there in an easy-chair, and he went back
to bed again on his return home. That does not mean that
he is well enough to go out. -
Tuesday, August 19.-I was so exhausted that I had
Scarcely strength enough to put on a linen gown and go to
see Bastien. His mother received us with reproaches.
Three days' she said, three days without coming to see
422 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASI/KIRTSEFF. [1884.
him! It was dreadful! And when we were in his room
Emile cried out: “All is ended, then? We are friends no
longer?” “So, then, you have deserted me?” said he
himself. Ah, I ought not to have stayed away so long.
My vanity tempts me to repeat here all his friendly
reproaches, and his assurances that never, never, never
could we come too often. - -
Thursday, August 21.-I do nothing but lounge about all
day, except for a couple of hours in the morning—from
five to seven—when I work out-of-doors in a carriage.
I have had a photograph taken of the scene I have chosen
for my picture, so as to be able to copy with exactness the
lines of the sidewalk. -
This was done at seven this niorning ; the Architect was
there at six. Afterwards we all drove home, I, Rosalie, the
Architect, Coco, and the photograph. -
Not that the presence of the brother was at all necessary,
but it was pleasant to have him with us. I always like to
have a guard of honor around me.
All is over ! • He is doomed !
Baude, who spent the evening here with the Architect,
told it to mamma. -
Baude is his most intimate friend—the one to whom he
wrote the letter from Algiers that I read.
All is over, then.
Can it be possible?
I cannot yet realize what will be the effect of this crush-
ing news upon me. *
This is a new sensation—to see a man who is under sen-
tence of death.
Tuesday, August 26.-All the confused thoughts that
have filled my brain and distracted my mind have now set-
tled immovably around this new misfortune.
*
1884 1 JOUR.V.A L OF MARIE BASI/K/RTSEFF. 423
It is a new experience—to see a man, a great painter—to
see him, in short—
Condemned to die
This is something not to be lightly spoken of.
And every day, until the day arrives, I shall be thinking,
“He is dying!”
It is horrible
I have summoned all my courage, and now I stand, with
head erect, ready to receive the blow.
Has it not been thus with me all my life?
When the blow comes I shall receive it without flinching.
At times I refuse to believe it, I rebel against it; I give
way to lamentations, when I know that all is ended.
I cannot utter two sentences connectedly.
But do not imagine that I am overwhelmed; I am only
profoundly engrossed by the thoughts of how it will be with
me—afterward.
Saturday, August 30.-It seems that matters are growing
worse. I am unable to do anything. I have done nothing
since the Sèvres picture was finished—nothing, that is to
say, except two miserable panels.
I sleep for hours at a time in the broad daylight. I have
finished the sketch for my picture, but it is laughable !
The canvas is there; everything is ready, I alone am
wanting.
If I were to write here all I feel !—the terrible fears that
assail me!—
September is here now, winter is not far distant.
The slightest cold might confine me to bed for a couple of
months, and then, the convalescence—
And my picture! So that I should have sacrificed every-
thing without—
Now is the moment to believe in God and to pray to Him.
Yes, the fear of falling ill is what paralyzes me; in the
424 JOUA’AA / OF A/AA'ZZ BAS//K//07 SEAF. [1884.
state in which I am, a heavy cold would put an end to me
in six weeks.
And that is how I shall die at last.
For I am resolved to work at my picture in any case
and, as the weather will be cold—and if I do not take cold
working, I shall take cold walking; how many people there
are who do not paint; and who die all the same—
Here it is at last, then, the end of all my miseries! So
many aspirations, so many hopes, so many plans—to die at
twenty-four, on the threshold of everything.
I knew that this would be so. Since God could not
grant me all that was necessary to my life, without ceasing
to be just, He will let me die. There are so many years
in a lifetime, so many—and I have lived so few—and
accomplished nothing!
Wednesday, September 3.−I am making the design for the
Zºgaro, but I am obliged to leave off work from time to time,
to rest for an hour or so. I have a constant fever. I can
obtain no relief. I have never before been so ill as I am
now, but I say nothing of it to any one; I go out, I paint.
What need of further words? I am sick, let that suffice.
Will talking about it do any good? But going out is an-
Other thing, you will say.
It is a disease that permits of doing that in the intervals
of comparative ease.
7.hursday, September 1 I.-On Tuesday I began a study in
the nude, of a child. It might make a very good picture if
well treated.
The Architect was here yesterday; his brother desires to
know why we have neglected him for so many days. So
we went to the Bois in the afternoon, hoping to see him,
but we arrived late; he was taking his usual turn through
the walks; we waited for him, and you should have seen
1884.] JOURNAL OF AZ.1A/E B21SA/AIRTSEFF. 425
the surprise of all three to find us there. He grasped both
my hands in his, and when we were going home he took a
seat in our carriage, while my aunt returned with his mother.
It is as well to get into this habit.
Saturday, September 13.−We are friends; he likes me;
he esteems me; he finds me interesting. He said yester-
day that I was wrong to torment myself as I do; that I
should consider myself very fortunate. There is not an-
other woman, he says, who has accomplished as much as I
have done in as short a time.
“You have a name,” he added; “every one knows who
Mlle. Bashkirtseff is. There is no doubt about your suc-
cess. But as for you, you would like to send a picture
every six months to the Salon; you are impatient to reach
the goal. But that is quite natural, when one is ambitious;
I have passed through all that myself.”
And to-day he said: “They see me driving with you; it
is fortunate that I am sick, or they might accuse me of
painting your picture.”
“They have done that already,” responded the Architect.
“Not in the papers!”
“Oh, no.”
Wednesday, September 17.-Few days pass in which I
am not tormented by the recollection of my father. I ought
to have gone to him and nursed him during his last illness.
He made no complaint, for his nature was like mine, but
fmy neglect must have made him suffer cruelly. Why did I
not go? -
It is since Bastien-Lepage has come back—since we have
visited him so often and shown him so many little atten-
tions, given him so many marks of our affection—that I feel
this especially.
In mamma's case it was different, they had lived apart
426 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASI/AIRTSEFF. [1884.
for so many years—until within five of his death—but I, his
daughter!
It is just, then, that God should punish me. But if we
go to the root of the matter, we owe our parents no duty, if
they have not protected us and cared for us from our
entrance into the world.
But that does not prevent—but I have no time to analyze
the question.—Bastien-Lepage causes me to feel remorse.
This is a chastisement from God. But if I do not believe
in God? I scarcely know whether I do or not, but even if
I did not, I still have my conscience, and my conscience
reproaches me for my neglect.
And one cannot say absolutely, “I do not believe in
God.” That depends on what we understand by the word
God. If the God we desire to believe in, the God who
loves us, existed, the world would not be what it is.
Though there be no God to hear my evening prayer, yet
I pray to Him every night in despite of my reason.
“Sile ciel est desert, nous n'offensons personne,
Si quelqu'un nous entend, qu'il nous prenne en pitié.”
Yet how believe?
Bastien-Lepage continues very ill; we found him in the
Bois, writhing with pain; none of the doctors have been
able to relieve him; it would be well to bring Charcot to
see him some day as if by chance. When we were alone
Bastien said it was abominable to have neglected him for
two whole days.
Thursday, September 18.-I have just seen Julian' I
have missed him indeed, but it was so long since we had
seen each other that we had but little to say. He thought
I had a successful and contented look. There is nothing,
after all, but art; nothing else is worth a thought.
The whole family are with Bastien-Lepage, his sisters as
1884.] /OURNAL OF MAA'ZA. B. 1S//KIA 7'SEEF. 427
well as his mother; they are to remain with him until the
end; they seem to be good women, though garrulous.
That tyrant of a Bastien-Lepage will insist upon my tak-
ing care of myself: he wants me to be rid of my cold in a
month; he buttons my jacket for me, and is always care-
ful to see that I am warmly clad.
Once when they were all sitting on the left side of his
bed, as usual, and I had seated myself on the right, he
turned his back to the others, settled himself comfortably,
and began to chat with me softly about art.
Yes, he certainly has a feeling of friendship for me—of
selfish friendship, even. When I said to him that I was
going to resume work again to-morrow, he answered:
“Oh, not yet, you must not desert me!”
Friday, September 19.-He continues to grow worse;
we scarcely know what to do—whether to remain in the
room while he is groaning with pain, or to go out.
To leave the room would look as if we thought him very
ill; to remain would seem as if we wished to be spectators
of his sufferings!
It seems shocking to speak in this way—as if I were
wanting in feeling. It seems as if one might find words
more—that is to say, less.—Poor fellow!
Wednesday, October 1.—Nothing but sorrow and annoy-
ance!
But why write all this down?
My aunt left for Russia on Monday; she will arrive
there at one in the morning.
Bastien-Lepage goes from bad to worse.
I am unable to work.
My picture will not be finished.
Here are misfortunes enough !
He is dying, and he suffers intensely. When I am with
428 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHAVRTSEFF. [1884.
him I feel as if he were no longer of this earth; he already
soars above us; there are days when I feel as if I too soared
above this earth. I see the people around me; they speak
to me, I answer them, but I am no longer of them. I feel
a passive indifference to everything—a sensation somewhat
like that produced by opium.
At last he is dying; I still go to see him, but only from
habit; it is only his shadow that is there: I myself am
hardly more than a shadow.
He is scarcely conscious of my presence. I am of no use
to him; his eyes do not brighten when he sees me; he likes
me to be there, that is all.
Yes, he is dying, and the thought does not move me; I
am indifferent to it; something is fading out of sight—that
is all.
And then everything will be ended.
Everything will be ended.
I shall die with the dying year.
Thursday, October 9.-It is as you see—I do nothing.
I am never without fever; my physicians are a pair of
imbeciles. I have sent for Potain and put myself into his
hands again. He cured me once before. He is kind,
attentive, and conscientious. After all, it seems that my
emaciation, and all the rest of it, do not come from the
lungs, but from some malady I contracted without knowing
when, and to which I paid no attention, thinking it would
go away of itself; as for my lungs, they are no worse than
before.
But it is not necessary for me to trouble you with my
ailments; what is certain, however, is that I can do nothing.
Nothing!
Yesterday I went to dress myself to go to the Bois, and
twice I was on the point of giving up, I was so overcome
with weakness.
1884.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHA IATSEAF. 429
I succedeed at last, however.
Mme. Bastien-Lepage has been at Damvillers since Mon-
day last, for the vintage, and, although there are women
enough about him, he was glad to see us.
Sunday, October 12.-I have not been able to go out for
the past few days. I am very ill, although I am not con-
fined to bed.
Potain and his substitute come to see me on alternate
days.
Ah, my God! and my picture, my picture, my picture!
Julian has come to see me. They have told him, then,
that I was ill.
Alas! how could it be concealed? And how shall I be
able to go see Bastien-Lepage?
Thursday, October 16.-I have a constant fever that is
sapping my strength. I spend the whole day in the draw-
ing-room, going from the easy-chair to the sofa and back
again.
Dina reads novels to me. Potain came yesterday, and is
to come again to-morrow. This man is no longer in need
of money, and if he comes to see me so often, it must be
because he takes some little interest in me.
I cannot leave the house at all, but poor Bastien-Lepage
is still able to go out, so he had himself brought here and
installed in an easy-chair, his feet supported by cushions.
I was by his side, in another easy-chair, and so we remained
until six o'clock.
I was dressed in a white plush morning-gown, trimmed
with white lace, but of a different shade; Bastien-Lepage's
eyes dilated with pleasure as they rested on me.
“Ah, if I could only paint!” he said.
And Il-
There is an end to this year's picture!
43O JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHAIRTSEFF. [1884.
Saturday, October 18.-Bastien-Lepage comes almost
every day. His mother has returned, and all three came
to-day.
Potain came yesterday: I am no better.
Sunday, October 19.--Tony and Julian are to dine with
us to-night.
Monday, October 20.-Although the weather is magnifi-
cient, Bastien-Lepage comes here instead of going to the
Bois. He can scarcely walk at all now ; his brother sup-
ports him under each arm; he almost carries him.
By the time he is seated in his easy-chair the poor fellow
is exhausted. Woe is me! And how many porters there
are who do not know what it is to be ill! Emile is an
admirable brother. He it is who carries Jules on his shoul-
ders up and down their three flights of stairs. Dina is
equally devoted to me. For the last two days my bed has
been in the drawing-room, but as this is very large, and
divided by screens, poufs, and the piano, it is not noticed.
I find it too difficult to go upstairs.
-**===-
The journal stops here—Marie Bashkirtseff died eleven
days afterward, on the 31st of October, 1884.
A VISIT TO MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.*
BY FRANCOIS COPPEE.
LAST winter I went to pay my respects to a Russian lady
of my acquaintance who was passing through Paris, and who
was stopping with Madame Bashkirtseff at her hotel in the
Rue Ampère. -
I found there a very sympathetic company of middle-aged
ladies and young girls, all speaking French perfectly, with
that slight accent which gives to our language, when spoken
by Russians, an indescribable softness.
In this charming circle, with its pleasant surroundings, I
received a cordial welcome. But scarcely was I seated near
the “samovar,” a cup of tea in my hand, when my atten-
tion was arrested by a large portrait of one of the young
ladies present—a perfect likeness, freely and boldly treated,
with all the fougue of a master's brush. “It is my daughter
Marie,” said Madame Bashkirtseff to me, “who painted
this portrait of her cousin.”
I began by saying something complimentary. I could not
go on. Another canvas, and another, and still another,
attracted me, revealing to me an exceptional artist. I was
charmed by one picture after the other. The drawing-room
walls were covered with them, and at each one of my ex-
clamations of delighted surprise, Madame Bashkirtseff re-
peated to me, with a tone in her voice of tenderness, rather
than of pride, “It is by my daughter Marie"—or, “It is my
daughter's.”
* Printed in the catalogue of Marie Bashkirtseff's paintings exhibited
in Paris in 1885, shortly after her death.
43I
432 APPENDIX.
At this moment Mlle. Bashkirtseff appeared. I saw her
but once. I saw her only for an hour. I shall never for-
get her. Twenty-three years old, but she appeared much
younger. Rather short, but with a perfect figure, an oval
face exquisitely modeled, golden hair, dark eyes kindling
with intelligence—eyes consumed by the desire to see and
to know everything—a firm mouth, tender and thoughtful,
nostrils quivering like those of a wild horse of the Ukraine.
At the first glance Mlle. Bashkirtseff gave me the rare
impression of being possessed of strength in gentleness,
dignity in grace. Everything in this adorable young girl
betrayed a superior mind. Beneath her womanly charms,
she had a truly masculine will of iron, and one was reminded
of the gift of Ulysses to the young Achilles—a sword hidden
within the garments of a woman.
She replied to my congratulations in a frank and well-
modulated voice—without false modesty acknowledging her
high ambitions, and—poor child ! already with the finger of
death upon her—her impatience for fame.
In order to see her other works we all went upstairs to
her studio. There was this extraordinary young girl en-
tirely “in her element.”
The large hall was divided into two rooms. The studio
proper, where the light streamed through the large sash, and
a darker corner heaped up with papers and books. In the
one she worked, in the other she read.
By instinct I went straight to the chef-d'oeuvre—to
that “Meeting” which at the last Salon had engrossed so
much attention. A group of little Parisian street boys,
talking seriously together, undoubtedly planning some mis-
chief, before a wooden fence at the corner of a street. It
is a chef-d'oeuvre I maintain. The faces and the attitudes
of the children are strikingly real. The glimpse of meager
landscape expresses the sadness of the poorer neighbor-
hoods.
AA’A/ZAVAD/X. 433
At the Exhibition, before this charming picture, the pub-
lic had with a unanimous voice bestowed the medal on
Mlle. Bashkirtseff, who had been already “mentioned ” the
year before. Why was this verdict not confirmed by the
jury 2 Because the artist was a foreigner 2 Who knows 7
Perhaps because of her wealth 2 This injustice made her
suffer, and she endeavored—the noble child !—to avenge
herself by redoubling her efforts.
In one hour I saw there twenty canvases commenced ; a
hundred designs—drawings, painted studies, the cast of a
statue, portraits which suggested to me the name of Frans
Hals, scenes made from life in the open streets; notably’
one large sketch of a landscape—the October mist on the
shore, the trees half stripped, big yellow leaves strewing the
ground. In a word, works in which is incessantly sought,
or more often asserts itself, the sentiment of the sincerest
and most original art, and of the most personal talent.
Notwithstanding this, a lively curiosity impelled me to
the dark corner of the studio, where I saw numerous vol-
umes on shelves, and scattered over a work-table. I went
closer and looked at the titles. They were the great works
of the greatest intellects. They were all there in their own
languages—French, Italian, English, and German ; Latin
also, and even Greek, and they were not “library books,”
either, as the Philistines call them, “show books,” but well-
thumbed volumes, read, re-read, and pored over. A copy
of Plato, open at a sublime passage, was on the desk.
Before my visible astonishment Mlle. Bashkirtseff low-
ered her eyes, as if confused at the fear that I might think
her a “blue stocking,” while her mother proudly kept on
telling me of her daughter's encyclopedic learning, and
pointed out to me manuscripts black with notes, and the
open piano at which her beautiful hands interpreted all
kinds of music.
Evidently annoyed by the expression of maternal pride,
434 AAAAAW/D/X.
the young girl laughingly interrupted the conversation. It
was time for me to leave, and moreover for a moment I
experienced a vague apprehension, a sort of alarm—I can
scarcely call it a presentiment.
Before that pale and ardent young girl I thought of some
extraordinary hot-house plant, beautiful and fragrant beyond
words, and in my heart of hearts a sweet voice murmured,
“It is too much ”
Alas ! it was indeed too much. A few months after my
one visit to the Rue Ampère I received the sinister notice
bordered with black, informing me that Mlle. Bashkirtseff
was no more. She had died at twenty-three years of age,
having taken a cold while making a sketch in the open
air. Once again I visited the now desolate house. The
stricken mother, a prey to a devouring and arid grief, unable
to shed tears, showed me, for the second time, in their old
places, the pictures and the books. She spoke to me for a
long time of her poor dead child, revealing the tenderness
of her heart, which her intellect had not extinguished. She
led me, convulsed by sobs, even to the bed-chamber, before
the little iron bedstead, the bed of a soldier, upon which the
heroic child had fallen asleep forever. . . .
But why try to influence the public In the presence of
the works of Marie Bashkirtseff, before that harvest of hopes
wilted by the breath of death, every one would surely expe-
rience, with an emotion deep as my own, the same profound
melancholy as would be inspired by edifices crumbling before
their completion, or new ruins scarcely risen from the ground,
which flowers and ivy have not yet covered. . . .
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