Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Wednesday, 12 October 1881

And this morning he scraped his copy and abandoned the work, and looks like someone who has received a blow to the heart… These are moments of sweet suffering one recognizes in others from having passed through them oneself. One's head is dizzy — it seems as though something has broken inside you; one could weep at nothing, and with that an indifference resembling lassitude and despair — yet one is not unhappy. It may very well be painting alone or some other thing… but I imagine myself to be the cause of his distress… I finish my copy of the Forge of Vulcan by Velázquez; judging by the public, it must be good. The poor devil artists who make reduced copies of famous paintings for sale come several times a day to watch me work — and the art students, and the foreigners — several English, French, and Spanish among them, speaking to each other — have said the most flattering things. And when I step away they climb the ladder to look at my large brushstrokes and see how it is painted — in short my poor

# Mercredi 12 octobre 1881

little [blacked out: there would be reason to be] puffed up with pride if one were [blacked out: less] ambitious. The Spanish are amusing — two or three painters, by the look of them, came to view my work, then went to speak with a copyist at the left who told them who was making that magnificent copy (I was at the other end of the room); whereupon they, in passing before me, bowed deeply and made a very approving gesture toward the canvas, murmuring something — besides, these immense triumphs do not let up, they even prevented me from working well. Escobar accompanies us to the Retiro, which is decidedly more elegant than the Bois. Escobar is amiable and gallant as a Spaniard, but I do not think I have turned his head. That Paris — I have always detested it physically, always, always. How much more [blacked out: sympathetic] Madrid is, despite its irregular streets and its poor appearance in comparison to Paris. You see Paris — it is what it brings you. When it brings you something… and then that stupid Europe tacitly recognizing it as its capital — but I detest it as a city: its wearisome elegance, its shops, its courtesans, its new houses — it is terribly anti-artistic. Only Rome and Madrid resemble it a little. Ah! The South. I am of the South myself — born in Ukraine, grown up in Nice — and I adore the South.

enfants il y aurait [Mots noircis: de quoi] etre bouffie d'orgueil si on [Mot noirci: etait moins] ambitieux. Les Espagnols sont amusants, deux ou trois peintres d'apres les apparences sont venus regarder mon oeuvre apres quoi ils sont alles causer avec un copieur a gauche qui leur a dit qui faisait cette magnifique copie (j'etais a l'autre bout de la salle) alors eux en passant devant moi m'ont profondement saluee en faisant un signe tres approbateur vers le tableau et en marmottant quelque chose, du reste ces triomphes immenses n'arretent pas, cela m'a meme empechee de bien travailler. Escobar nous accompagne au Retiro qui est decidement plus elegant que le Bois. Escobar est aimable et galant comme un Espagnol mais je ne crois pas lui avoir tourne la tete. Ce Paris je l'ai toujours deteste au physique, toujours, toujours, combien Madrid est plus [Mot noirci: sympathique] malgre ses rues irregulieres et son apparence pauvre en comparaison de Paris; voyez, Paris. C'est pour ce qu'il vous rapporte. Quand il vous rapporte et puis cette imbecile d'Europe qui le reconnait tacitement pour capitale mais je le deteste comme ville, son elegance fatigue, ses magasins, ses cocottes, ses maisons neuves, c'est terriblement anti-artistique. O Rome et Madrid lui ressemblent un peu. Ah ! le midi. Je suis du midi moi, nee en Ukraine et grandie a Nice et j'adore le midi.