Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Saturday, 12 October 1878 (Evening)

Robert-Fleury is beginning to do his Carolus: he comes and goes (he has received a great medal at the Exposition Universelle), he chats after giving corrections, lights a cigarette, throws himself into an armchair. All that is indifferent to me — I know he adores me as a student. Julian too. The other day the Swedish girl gave me some advice; whereupon Julian called me into his study and told me I must follow my own nature — that the painting would be weak at first, but it would be mine; whereas "if you listen to others I will no longer answer for anything."
He is willing for me to try sculpting, and will ask Dubois to advise me.
For the first time in Paris I walked out with pleasure. I was properly dressed, properly coiffed; I had taken my time, had not hurried. Dina staying with Maman, I had the seat of honour — sitting with one's back to the horses is a torment rather than a promenade. Every Saturday I shall do likewise. It is so stupid to go to the Bois any old how. Today I found myself again; I had success — everyone looked at me. A mourning dress and a feathered felt hat: an elegant, proper, and chaste ensemble. Alexandre has the prettiest horses and prettiest carriage in Paris. He is truly very chic.
The ignoble Blanc was also there — one had to acknowledge him. Then...
Shabbily dressed, distracted, stooping —
M. Gautier approaches;
A Niçois — not even in his Sunday best — affecting elegance.
Yes, it is he — Pépino, from the days of the three graces. He seemed genuinely pleased to see us; we acknowledged each other several times, and he had his cab draw up to ask for our address, just as Alexandre passed us driving his delicious black horses.
If I were someone, I should take Pépino under my wing and make a great man of him — he is barely twenty-three, and is extremely intelligent, with the kind of intelligence that could be shaped into a most remarkable mind. But the poor fellow is employed at the Crédit de Nice, and his only ambition is doubtless to marry 100,000 francs in dowry with time. It is sad, for he is handsome too. Very tall, slender, supple — we used to compare him to a palm tree in Nice. Since I draw academic studies I divine his, reconstituting him from his neck and hands: a round neck like a column, surmounted by a head of antique proportions — that is to say, small by our standards, accustomed as we are to seeing plain people of no more than six or seven heads' height. I wager that Gautier's academy has eight heads, like the ancient statues. Enormous brown eyes, slightly surprised, intelligent and naïve.
A mouth just large enough not to be too small, surmounted by a twenty-three-year-old's moustache.
A matte, creole complexion, and in the whole aspect of his face an air of candour almost childlike — combined, remarkably, with an expression of fineness and even of uncommon strength.
And then in the whole being there is something laughing, nonchalant, good-natured, southern.
And see, good people — this boy of whom one could make a marvel! He is nothing: a little Niçois, too tall, and that is all. He has as much disposition to become a celebrated man as I have to become a great painter.
What a pity I began so late! What a pity he will never begin.
At thirty this boy could have been admirably beautiful, had he taken to living cleanly — I do not even say elegantly — and set his face toward ambition. He is still too tall, too uncertain, and later he will become a Nice horror. What a pity.
I find the Deceased so admirable that by way of a compliment to Albert Gautier I shall say he enters the Cassagnac genre physically. But the Deceased is thirty-five, fat, married... It will happen, however, that we shall come face to face somewhere this winter. That will not be amusing.
Would Pépino be eloquent? He was not brought up with that in view, and has doubtless never even read Demosthenes and Mirabeau, the poor wretch. And now here it takes hold of me as it did a year ago — then I was in a rage to spirit away and elevate little Alexandrine. Today I want to regenerate Albert Gautier and make of him everything I cannot be myself. When I complain of being a woman, I am told that women can exert enormous influence and govern intelligent men. Yes — but for that one would have to see someone, speak to someone, and not be condemned to a mother, an aunt, a cousin, Mlle Oelsnitz, and a promenade in the Bois.

Notes

Paul Dubois (1829–1905), celebrated French sculptor and director of the École des Beaux-Arts; his willingness to advise Marie indicates the level of esteem Julian's atelier had achieved. ↩