Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Saturday, 14 October 1882

In the end my aunt abandoned me at the frontier and it is with Paul that I travel. I make sketches at the stations, and on the way I read Tra las Montes — in this fashion I revisit Spain, for Gautier's travel book is a coloured photograph. What is it, then, that prevents me from loving Th. Gautier unreservedly?
What is it in this travel book that catches? When he recounts some funny episode one does not laugh — and he says: it was the most farcical thing in the world, or the most comic, or it was of a farcicality, etc., etc.
It gives the impression of a gentleman who, before telling a story, says he laughed himself mad at it... But there is something else... It is perhaps not sincere, as literature — or rather... It does not flow naturally... Now it is above all when he speaks of art that one must admire him, they say; he does not speak of it much in this journey, and above all! He omits Velázquez. I cannot understand that from a man who was so enamoured of painting. He speaks of Goya — Goya was doubtless a great artist, though I know only his paintings; his drawings and etchings are apparently admirable.
He speaks of Goya — but Velázquez. He speaks of Murillo and the magic of his painting. But Velázquez — he is the man who painted most admirably; no one has ever painted more truly: it is of a frankness, a sincerity! It is flesh itself — and from the point of view of painting it is the summit of art.
We have five hours to wait for the train here... The place is called Znamenka, and here I am to speak of Gautier and Velázquez, etc. It is cold and grey... If it were less cold, what weather for plein air.
I was looking at the peasants with their clothing bleached by the open air, as in all countries, and no sun — and I assure you that Bastien's paintings are prodigiously true. It is grey, it looks flat, it has no substance, say those who have not looked well at nature outdoors and who are accustomed to studio violence — but it is like that; it is entirely right, admirably true. There is a happy man — Bastien! I left with the grief of my failed fisherman. But I shall try to do it again in March for the Salon. It was that idiot Tony who made me redo it! One should have left the background and the clothing and worked only on the head. And that Orleanist who wanted blacks and forcefulness where there are none! Always convention, the academy!
Paul says the two princes are entirely charming and that they each have two hundred thousand rubles in income. It tempts me greatly — but the moment I imagine it becoming possible I draw back for fear it would interfere with my painting... I should like to be back already...
Paul is asleep on a sofa, Rosalie is asleep. I am cold.
What vexes me is travelling with my brother — people who see us take us for husband and wife and it embarrasses me... It is horrible that people should think a thing which if... I do not know, but it sets my nerves on edge.
People look at me and say to themselves quite naturally and at once that I... It sets my nerves on edge. There are some twenty military men eating while waiting for the train, and they look at me... For it is funny to say, but for four days in every station I have been the prettiest woman there; all the women here are absolute monsters... So these people see me with Paul and say to themselves quite naturally that I am probably his wife... And it sets my nerves on edge... In short, it is nerve-racking. I judge from my own experience... When I look at people I immediately think... In short, a rapid excursion into their existence — and in the end this misapprehension annoys me... It is irritating that people should think things that are not so... And it deprives me of prestige — not precisely prestige — you understand...