Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Saturday, 26 October 1878

Imbecile, idiot, clumsy oaf, fool. Poor man, poor great Newfoundland, poor black pearl.
I am ready to forgive him, sometimes — and sometimes I think the superior being I had imagined ought to have been incapable of...
"I was offered a charming girl with a dowry of six million, and I refused her," he said once when we were speaking of marriage.
"And why is that, Monsieur? The girl was charming, you say."
"Yes, but there was a stain in the family — and for me, that is worth no treasure on earth."
And this was said with that great face tilted upward, that raised nose, those disdainful eyes. Fie! The filthy beast. Oh! Upon my word, the filthy beast.
Daughter of a priest and an adventuress, a household that received only men, bold manners, dubious acquaintances, and the mother a... private kept woman. A bad reputation! And this is the woman he went and married! Good Lord — after all, it seems Paul de Cassagnac is entertaining at the rostrum, but otherwise he was simply a gentleman, a journalist, son of a writer, of a poor family, who — thanks to his whole family's adventurous way of life — would find it hard to marry well. Such is the word of Mme Gavini, who is the echo of all the world, of all Paris. So be it.
Here is something I shall always regret, and with good reason.
And to think, to think that it is my own fault!!
My painting is much better, and my figure study very good. Moreover, Robert-Fleury promises to come and see me at home and give me guidance on my sculpture, which I am about to begin within a few days.
He judged our competition.
1. Breslau
2. Myself.
In short, I ought to be pleased — it is kind of him to take me under his wing for sculpture, is it not. I believe Breslau adores him in secret; they all adore him a little. As for me, you will have noticed that I have never said whether he is young or old, dark or fair.
But I shall tell you now. The rather illustrious Tony Robert-Fleury is the son of the celebrated Robert-Fleury, member of the Institut and dean of all manner of things, former director of the École de Rome.
Tony is a quiet, measured painter. He draws admirably, composes well, handles colour poorly, paints not badly, wins medals, is a Chevalier de la Légion d'Honneur, sells his canvases to the State. The Massacre of the Poles, Dr Pinel at the Salpêtrière, The Last Day of Corinth, etc. Little brilliance, but solid knowledge, a considerable reputation, and he teaches superbly. What more could one ask? Furthermore: forty-two years old, looking no more than thirty-five; pale, dark, bearded, blue eyes. Strong, firm features — thick, even. Slightly consumptive, which repels me (see Balzac's Peau de chagrin). Excellent character, gentle manners tinged with gentle mockery — though this comes from speaking to women, many of whom would be furious at being treated like boys. He is very strict about work in general and feels obliged to soften this strictness with unctuous pleasantries and paternal smiles. Before him these women are like pupils before a true master — and so am I, because I see only the teacher. At the beginning Julian overawed me too, and I never spoke to him without blushing.
This morning, as Robert-Fleury spoke to me in the corner among the portfolios about my sculpture, I listened like a baby — wide-eyed and ingenuous, cheeks changing colour, hands awkward.
He could not help smiling as he spoke, and neither could I — for I was thinking that I smelled of fresh violets, that my naturally wavy hair, dry and light, was deliciously lit, and that my hands, holding I know not what, fell into charming attitudes.
Breslau says that the way my hands touch objects is a beauty in itself, though my hands are not classically beautiful.
But one must be an artist to perceive this beauty. Bourgeois or society people pay no attention to the way one grasps objects, and would prefer plump — even fat — hands to mine. One would even have to be Breslau, who invents compliments to appear original and profound, and is not entirely sure of herself in any case.
Between six and eleven o'clock I found time to read five newspapers, two installments of Duruy, and... Candide, which disgusted me.
I am afraid these academic successes may harm me. I am almost ashamed that things go smoothly, and because people tell me "much better" or "very good," I feel neither the difficulty nor any sense of progress.
It seems to me that I am a child, and when one says the same things to Breslau, it seems to me that she is a great artist.
There is something that ought to be a little reassuring.