Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Tuesday, 14 September 1875

All this time the tip of my nose has been itching — and well! what do we learn? The death of the Baroness de Delvig, a lady we had known at Schlangenbad.
Laugh at that, now.
I return exhausted. The heat annihilates one!
We visited the Palazzo Panciatichi and its picture gallery.
The picture that struck me most is the Judgement of Solomon, in medieval costume. There are several other such naïvetés. I respect old pictures — which does not prevent me from seeing their faults. A Venus had such badly made feet! One would say she had been wearing high-heeled shoes — my feet are far better.
There are very beautiful and very curious things in this palace — worth millions. And to think it is ugly, wretched scoundrels who have it all!
What I love best are the portraits — because they are not invented, composed, arranged. There is also a curious collection of miniatures; there is a fine La Vallière.
Why on earth does one no longer dress as one used to?
Present fashions are ugly. And almost all my dresses are made in the fashion.
It is true that until marriage I cannot reasonably risk presenting myself as in a painting. There are certain costumes I can adopt. I must choose a style — it is at the Pitti that I shall decide. Once married, my style is entirely settled: mythological, Empire — or rather Directoire, but more decent, very decent. There are those delicious gowns, crossed in front as if by chance, gathered at the waist by a belt. Oh! the
women of today do not know how to dress — the most elegant are badly turned out. [Crossed out: what am I saying.]
At any rate! Have patience — if God will grant me the grace to become what I wish, you will see a woman turned out rather well.
From there we go to the Casa Buonarroti, but there is such a crowd and the heat is so intense that one cannot see properly.
Then to the al Museo delle pietre dure.
Superb mosaics!
Then to the alla galleria delle belli arti — I shall not describe it; those who want to see must go themselves. Besides, it would require a volume, and the description would give no idea of it.
I adore painting, sculpture — art, wherever it is found. I could spend entire days in these galleries, but my aunt is unwell, exhausted — she can barely follow me — and I sacrifice myself. Besides, life lies before me; I shall have time to see it again. Then we go to see the painting of Michelangelo on the block of marble in which he is carving his Moses. It is very well done. There is a man who immortalised himself! There was a time when I had the idea of becoming a great painter. But Bensa — that unworthy professor — stole three years from me! And a year that I lost myself — that makes four! Oh!!
At any rate! This winter I shall do nothing but paint, sing, and read.
I shall be in Rome.
It is one o'clock in the afternoon — time to go out — but I do not dare disturb my aunt.
Ah! she has just got up and is dressing. It is so hot — the last day of delle feste del centenario. There is a crowd everywhere.
Having seen so much beauty I become sad. I would like to possess all these treasures — or at least a few of them. Blessed are those who can afford these whims. I — I can barely dress myself and travel.
Ah, my God — will there not come a day when I am satisfied, when I have a palace, paintings, statues, antiquities!
At the Palazzo Pitti I find not a single costume to copy — but what beauty, what painting!
Must I say it? I dare not — there will be an outcry. Let us speak in confidence: well, Raphael's Madonna della Sedia does not please me. The Virgin's face is insipid, the complexion not natural, the expression more that of a chambermaid than of
the Holy Virgin, mother of Jesus.
Oh! but there is a Magdalene by Titian that ravished me.
Only — there is always an "only" — she has too thick wrists and too fleshy hands: fine hands for a woman of fifty.
There are things by Rubens and Van Dyck, ravishing; Falsehood by Salvator Rosa is very natural, very well done. I do not judge as a connoisseur — what most resembles nature pleases me most. Is not the aim of painting to imitate nature? There are altogether too gross anachronisms of costume: le Marie al sepoloro, by Van Dyck I believe, are dressed in pointed bodices and tunics, and a man beside them wears a page's cap of the 15th century. A page's cap beside the tomb of Christ at the moment of the Resurrection.
I greatly love the full, fresh face of Paolo Veronese's wife, as painted by him. I love the type of his faces. I adore Titian, Van Dyck — but poor Raphael... provided that nobody knows what I am writing, or they will take me for a fool. I do not criticize Raphael — I do not understand him; with time I shall doubtless come to understand his beauties.
However the portrait of Pope Leo... I no longer recall which one, I believe, is admirable.
A Virgin with the infant Jesus by Murillo caught my attention — it is fresh, it is natural.
To my great satisfaction I found the picture gallery smaller than I had thought. These endless galleries are killing — labyrinths more terrible than that of Crete.
The Gobelins with which the corridor connecting the Pitti to the Uffizi galleries is hung enchanted me. How fortunate is this king, to have such treasures! What ceiling paintings, what furnishings!
Then we walk through the galleries of sketches by the great painters, the gallery of engravings. I love engravings very much, but my aunt, who takes only very little interest in all these things and who is exhausted from following me about, shows herself so tired that I take pity on her and we go out. I spent two hours in the palace without sitting down for an instant, and I am not tired — things I love do not tire me. As long as there are pictures to see, and above all statues, I am iron. Ah! if they made me walk through the
Louvre or the Bon Marché — or even Worth's — ah! then I would be in tears within three quarters of an hour.
We drive about the city still in the landau — we are lucky to have a very good one and very good horses.
After dinner we dress and go out again — first to the Cascine where there is not a soul, then up the hill where there are illuminations. Few people. It is the third and last day of the centenary celebrations of Michelangelo Buonarroti.
The whole city is illuminated, all the surrounding hills too; the crowd has flooded the streets — one seems to sink into an ocean when passing between a wall of dark people on each side of the carriage. It is magnificent to see: people cry out, march, gesticulate. We begin climbing the hill along the viali Michelangelo, Galileo, etc., but near del piazzale Michelangelo the carriages are stopped by very polite policemen, and one must go on foot to the concert being given in the great pavilion of the piazza. The old towers, the porte Sante — all of it seems to be on fire. The whole hill is wrapped from top to bottom in bands of flame; an immense crowd, music at every step! After a fairly long consideration, I decide to step down from the carriage, philosophically lift my white train, take my aunt's arm, and plunge in up to the chest into this howling dark crowd. Only those who know me can understand what an extraordinary thing I was doing: two women alone, in the midst of this rabble ferocious with joy and triumph. Along the way I collect several Guarda quell angelo, ou che bella bionda o bianca come una fata!, but this pleases me only moderately, and without stopping to hear the concert we return to the carriage, followed by two young men saying flattering but disagreeable things aloud.
The crowd increases at every moment. I am tranquil — I see the crowd; I do not see society. Ah! if anyone were to show me even three carriages of the great world, I would go home weeping with rage. But no one shows them to me — I enjoy the illuminations, I admire, I am tranquil, and all goes well. Truly this hill with its gigantic illuminated steps, these porte Sante gleaming with light at the top — it is a spectacle fit for a king! And there is not a single one! O Victor Emmanuel.
My cousin! You are letting a superb opportunity escape you!
We descend again with much difficulty on account of the
countless carriages drawn up along the whole ascent. The cathedral with its tower seems to be burning; the Palazzo Vecchio with its colonnade and statues, in the light, is more beautiful than anything I have yet seen.
The battistero di San Giovanni with its doors by Benvenuto Cellini — all of this at evening produces a surprising effect.
Add to this an immense and animated crowd. One goes mad from seeing so many masterpieces. At every step one stumbles against a surprising work!
A cheap tavern beside a palace; a watermelon vendor beside a marble statue.
There are pictures and statues even in... well, everywhere.
No journey has satisfied me as much as this one — I find at last things worthy of being seen. I adore these dark palaces — Strozzi, Orso, etc. — I adore these immense doorways, these superb courtyards, these galleries, these colonnades. It is majestic, it is grand, it is beautiful!
Ah! the world degenerates — one wants to sink into the earth comparing the miserable modern constructions to these gigantic stones piled one upon another and rising to the sky. One passes under bridges joining palaces at a prodigious height.
O my girl! husband your expressions — what will you say of Rome?

Notes

"Al Museo delle pietre dure" — "to the Museum of Hard Stones" — the Florentine museum specializing in pietra dura mosaics. ↩
Marie writes "belli" (masculine plural) where Italian requires "belle" (feminine plural). ↩
"Delle feste del centenario" — "of the centenary celebrations." ↩
"Le Marie al sepoloro" — "The Marys at the Tomb." ↩
"Policemen" is in English in the original. "Guarda quell angelo, ou che bella bionda o bianca come una fata" — "Look at that angel, oh what a beautiful blonde, white as a fairy!" ↩
The famous bronze doors of the Baptistery are by Lorenzo Ghiberti, not Cellini. Marie's error. ↩