Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Saturday, 3 November 1877

Monsieur Robert-Fleury had already corrected everyone when I arrived. I presented my drawings to him and hid behind — or rather under — his stool as usual. Well, I was forced to come out from there, so many agreeable things did he say to me.
— The contours are still naïve, no doubt, but the suppleness and truth of it are astonishing. That movement there is really very fine. You lack experience, naturally, but you have everything that cannot be learned — do you understand? Everything that cannot be learned. What you do not have [Words blacked out: can be learned, and you] you will learn. Yes... it is astonishing, and if only you are willing to work, you will produce very fine things — I give you my personal guarantee.
And so shall I, Monsieur.
In the afternoon I had Schaeppi and Breslau — one painting, the other drawing me. At four o'clock the harp teacher arrived, and immediately after him — guess who — my big brother.
Not knowing how to manage it all, I continued for a few moments to pose for my artists, play the harp, and talk to Paul de Cassagnac.
Maman came home directly — a welcome reinforcement — but I could not dismiss the harp teacher; he refused to leave and kept showing me the instrument, crying out in that habit of his: Courage! Mademoiselle, c-cour-courage.
I was in my studio dress — that is, a black alpaca blouse, a copper-buckle belt, a marvellous waistline, a black velvet cap. A little chemisette... a jabot and cuffs: altogether in the Schiller style.
Paul found a host of classical likenesses in me — among others, young Raphael, on account of my hairstyle.
In the end, everything passed off in the pleasantest way imaginable.
I shall say nothing new in saying that Cassagnac is solemn, shall I?
In short, we go to the reopening of the Italiens with Poliuto — an opera I do not adore, but one that gave me pleasure this evening. It has been a long time since I heard Italian music... Poliuto is not quite that, but it helped me endure the evening with patience. For our entire escort, the frigate captain — a meagre arrangement.
A very long faille skirt, pointed bodice, both white. Neck and arms bare, also white. My hair on my head. Nothing swollen in my face — quite the contrary — and as presentable as I can be.
Ferrand from Naples ogled me in the way one does... in Naples. I was confusing him with de Rosa or someone else — no matter; it was very kind of him to look at me like that.
On the way out there was a young Russian whom I quite captivated, so to speak... He has seen me for some time now in Paris, though rarely.
Blanc supped with us and we joked a great deal about the Italiens, Italy, and all of that. Then he drew me almost aside and said:
— You know, joking aside, it is rare that anyone is looked at as you were looked at this evening. This is not Italy, and if people here did as they do there, it would be thought very odd; what happened tonight is the very most that can be done in Paris.
— Really!
— I assure you, it is a success...
— Impossible.
— And a Parisian one.
— But then it is... very fine?
— [Word blacked out; But] certainly, it is a success... something quite different from Italy.
— Oh! How happy I am!
Will you pass me some galantine?
But there I am with a host of friends! Marcuard, Blanc, Cassagnac, des Perrières. Blanc carves out for himself, at Cassagnac's expense, a frankness that is entirely... natural.
It is two o'clock; I am enjoying my Sunday. From time to time I interrupt this historical chronicle to examine an anatomy book and some écorché drawings I purchased today. Cassagnac has promised to make himself available to me if he is ever flayed.
Blanc said we were looked at because we were the only presentable women there.