Friday, 30 April 1880

My little American, whose name is Alice Brisbane, comes at ten o’clock and we go together. I am keen to go almost alone so as to see first where my painting is placed. But my dear family must play a dirty trick on me to start with: I ask for five francs and am sent four. So I send Rosalie to ask for twenty francs. But they are afraid to entrust them to me, and they send Rosalie to change them secretly at the grocer’s. You know, I invent nothing — this is the pure truth. So I go to the Salon very fearful, imagining the worst things so that they will not happen. And indeed, nothing I had foreseen: my painting is not yet hung. I only just find it towards noon among a thousand other canvases, not yet hung, but I find it in the outer gallery, where I had already been shocked to find Breslau placed.
Indeed, you can see how Wolff treats the gallery — and yet there are works by Renoir and other well-known artists there. Amélie is exhibiting a large and handsome portrait of Léon Say. Not bad at all, very bold, with presence, very fresh. But the hands look as though they were done by Robert-Fleury senior. God forgive me this supposition if it is not true. The fact is that since Léon Say posed only for the head, it was easy to get the old man to help with the hands.
The portrait is very well placed and shows well.
As for Breslau, placed like me in the gallery and on the line like me, she has produced a very poor piece of painting — or at least something as disagreeable to look at as possible. It is the portrait of Monseigneur Viard. I believe what ruined her is too great a pursuit of subtlety in tones: everything is grey — the background representing greyish wood panels, chapel decorations, oratory, the armchair — everything is dirty; the head is also very dirty.
But there are faces like that; one could have made something of it with a different arrangement. That said, there is good drawing and a certain breadth of execution in the hands. The other students are not worth discussing...
As for Bastien-Lepage, it strikes one first as something empty — the effect of open air.
Joan of Arc, the real one, the peasant girl leaning against an apple tree, holding a branch of the tree in her left hand — which is perfection, as is the arm. The right arm hangs along the body; it is an admirable passage.
The head thrown back, the neck extended, and the eyes that look at nothing — prodigious clear eyes — the head produces an extraordinary effect.
She is the peasant, the girl of the fields, stunned, suffering from her vision.
The orchard surrounding the house in the far background is quite natural, but there is... in short, it is quite natural, not quite enough; it seems to come forward and detracts from the figure. The figure is sublime and moved me so strongly that even as I write this I am holding back tears.
Tony’s ceiling painting is very graceful and pleases me.
That is the main thing for me — and now for the rest! After lunch we were — or so I thought — to go as a family. But no: my aunt went to church, and Maman wanted to go too, and it was only upon seeing me astonished and offended that she resolved to come, with very bad grace. I do not know if it is my modest placement that enrages them, but no matter — that is no excuse, and it is truly hard to have such a family. At last, ashamed of her indifference or of whatever one might call it, she goes — this sublime mother — and the three of us, she, Dina, and I, encounter first the whole atelier and then acquaintances, then Julian. The young Audiffret ladies rush towards us, amiable and pleasant, asking about my painting, not yet hung. Soutzo, Bojidar — whom I greet like a tradesman.
We take Julian with us and discuss changing the painting’s position; he gives us a note for someone. We accompany him as far as the Bourse, having to go to Savarre’s. Maman talks to him about marrying Amélie; we laugh about it.
I must confess I am vexed by the coldness of my dear family, whom I cordially detest.
What would you have? Since I have Julian’s note, I am very eager to dine and hurry everyone, but then, dinner finished, my dear mother asks me if I want to go to the Salon because she needs to go to church. I was dumbfounded. Isn’t that just perfect?
[In the margin: Annotation by Mme Bashkirtseff
This is not true; she adored her family, but in moments of vexation one says what one does not think — it is human.]
So I do not go. Then naturally they come to beg me to go, and Dina comes to say that I am very foolish to be capricious, etc.
written across the page They go without me to attend to my affairs. Oh, how they torment me today! And while we were going to the Salon, Maman asks me the most senseless questions. Have I varnished my painting?
“Why, not yet.”
“Perhaps someone told you — perhaps someone told you on purpose not to varnish it so that it would look uglier.”
“Ah! If Breslau did not look for complications where there are none, it would not be so bad!” Meaning that I shall go astray if I do as Breslau does. Do not think it is because I am on edge that this seems so irritating to me. For outings, theatres, soirées, it is always the same thing. The other evening at the Pascalis’, I was dropping with sleep and she insisted on staying — I was obliged to say very harshly that I would leave alone.
I believe they are ill. I can only breathe at the atelier or with strangers.
Going out with my family has long been a torment.

Notes

In French in the original: cimaise. The picture rail at eye level, the coveted hanging position at the Salon; in English exhibition parlance, “the line”. ↩