Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Friday, 14 January 1876

At eleven o'clock Katorbinsky came — my young Polish painting teacher — and with him he brought a model: a true Christ-like face, the lines and shading slightly softened. This unfortunate man has only one leg — he poses only for his head. Katorbinsky tells me this is the model he used for his Christs.
I must confess I was slightly intimidated when told to copy from life, just like that, straight away without preparation. I took the charcoal and boldly drew the outlines. — "Good," said the master, "now do the same with a brush."
I took the brush and did what he said.
— Good, he said again — now paint.
And I painted, and after an hour and a half it was done. My poor model had not moved — and I could not believe my eyes. With Bensa it had taken me two or three lessons just for the pencil outline and to copy from a canvas; whereas here everything was done in one session and from life — outlines, colours, background. I am pleased with myself, and if I say so it is because I deserve it — I am very strict, and it is difficult to satisfy myself, above all to satisfy my own self.
[Written across the page: Old fool]
I recall Nina's words and laugh with visible satisfaction.
The weather is fine today; we go to the Villa Doria, which does not enchant me; then to the Pincio — but it begins to rain again and we descend, and on our way down we encounter Count Blondoff, who makes a movement of surprise on seeing me, then greets my mother.
At five o'clock we go to Monseigneur de Falloux — a lean, dark, agile, old priest, bewigged, Jesuitical, hypocritical, and (I am certain) in his day a great lover of women.
He receives us very civilly in his remarkable rooms, full of things in the [Crossed out: finest] best taste — Gobelins, paintings, etc. And all this serves as a dwelling for a vile Jesuit! Well then —
Home again, I feel sad — I have the Nice-sickness. I want — that is, I would like — to return to Nice; I wish winter were already over. If I do not return this instant it is not because I cannot, but because I do not wish to.
I am sad — but I study.
At first I am ill at ease — but that will pass; we shall make acquaintances, I shall go into society. It is not surprising that I am sad — I am so accustomed to Nice, and habit is, as they say, a second nature. Audiffret does worry me a little — but Audiffret is a secondary concern.
There is nothing so calming as supper. Before, I was wretched and sad; after, I am tranquil and almost indifferent. No doubt if I were in Nice, if I had before my eyes the romance between the Surprising One and the Olive, I should not speak so — but I am in Rome, I see nothing, and out of sight, out of mind. That is how it is for me most of the time. A letter from Nice rouses me, irritates me — then, after two or four days, I fall back into an indifferent and monotonous waiting for spring, for the return to Nice. I make plans, knowing in advance they are useless — but I make them because these dreams amuse me. I must always have someone to think of and for whom to think; at present it is Audiffret — so much the better for him.
Nothing is lost in this world — where then would my love go? Every creature, every person has an equal part of this fluid enclosed within them; only, according to their constitution, their character, and circumstances, they appear to have more or less of it — but every person loves continuously, only different objects; and when they appear not to love at all, the fluid departs towards God or towards Nature in words, in writing, or simply in sighs and thought. Now there are creatures who drink, eat, laugh, and do nothing else — in them the fluid is either absorbed by animal instincts, or scattered over all objects and all people indiscriminately; these are the persons called benevolent, who as a rule cannot love well. There are also creatures who love no one — as the vulgar saying goes; this is inaccurate. They always love someone, only in a manner different from others and peculiar to themselves. But there are yet other unfortunates who genuinely love nothing, because they have loved and love no more. Another error! They love no more, it is said — well, then, why do they suffer? They suffer because they still love and think they no longer do — or because of thwarted love, or the loss of a cherished person.
[One line cancelled: But there are monsters who]
In me more than in anyone else the fluid makes itself felt and manifests itself incessantly. If I kept it confined within myself it would make me burst — I shed it like a beneficent rain on an unworthy red geranium that does not even suspect it. Since it must flow over someone, let it flow over the unworthy geranium — for I do not love the Surprising One because forced to by his beauty, but rather because I must love someone and I happened upon him. And now he pleases me, and I imagine a great many things, and I accustom myself to the idea of thinking only of him; once accustomed, I de-accustom myself with great difficulty.
I think I have tangled myself up somewhat — let me reread. I have reread — well, no, I have not tangled myself up; how badly I express myself — but if one does not bring ill will to it, one understands what I mean.
But here is what I have devised. The Surprising One no doubt does not read the letters from Cimiez — absorbed as he is by the grave occupations that the winter season in Nice entails; he need only glance at the envelope to guess what it is and not read it. What a pity — it would even be distressing were there no remedy. Ma c'è rimedio. Udite e saprete. Before reaching him, all the letters will pass through Saetone's hands, and Saetone will read them — Saetone is very curious.
[Words blacked out: I received a letter] from Collignon with a thousand wishes and affectionate words. Ricardo arrived at one twenty-seven with a bottle of champagne under his arm to drink to our health. What a pity I had forgotten.

Notes

A model with a naturally Christ-like physiognomy, adapted for religious painting by softening the lines — a common studio practice for sacred works. ↩
Fusain: charcoal; the standard drawing medium for preliminary studies from life. ↩
Wigs (perruques) were still worn by elderly French clergy in the 1870s as a lingering remnant of 18th-century fashion. ↩
Gobelin tapestries: manufactured at the Manufacture des Gobelins in Paris, the most prestigious French tapestry works since the 17th century; a mark of the highest cultural taste. ↩
Le mal de Nice: Marie's coinage for homesickness specifically for Nice — a longing for the city, her routines, and (unstated but implied) for Audiffret. ↩
Loin des yeux, loin du coeur: the French proverb equivalent to "out of sight, out of mind." ↩
"Ce fluide" — this fluid: Marie's philosophical theory that love is a physical substance distributed within every person, which must find expression somewhere. A characteristic blend of Romantic mysticism and quasi-scientific reasoning. ↩
The "unworthy red geranium" — Marie's botanically contemptuous nickname for Audiffret: a common, showy, provincial flower, unworthy of her extraordinary fluid of love. ↩
Ma c'è rimedio. Udite e saprete. (Italian): "But there is a remedy. Listen and you will know." — Marie switches to Italian for a conspiratorial aside. ↩