Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Tuesday, 5 December 1882

I have just read Honorine at a single sitting, and I wish I possessed that sublime eloquence of the pen, so that in reading me one might find interest in my flat existence. It [words blacked out: is curious that] the account of my failures and my obscurity would give me what I seek and shall keep seeking... But I shall not know... And besides — for people to read me and find their way through these thousands of pages, must I not first become someone...?
I posed for the penultimate time at Tony's. He has never — he is not an artist; this being in white cotton socks and felt slippers no longer interests me in any way. His studio is arid, prudent and proper, like him. There are bourgeois armchairs from 1845 and a dreadful little narrow hard sofa. [Words blacked out: It is] not poverty, however. A shed, a few sketches, a wide low divan covered in a rag would be preferable. But I do not know why I speak of it when I think only of myself — that is, of my painting. Uncertainty and discouragement keep me idle — reading the whole evening, then suffering remorse that sends fire through my arms; but I am also either quite alone or with my family, and it is stupefying.
I search for excuses in vain... I am not an artist — it is no one's fault... In Nice, among Dina, Bojidar, Nini, with those young people, I was entirely different — I drew, I made sketches and studies in the evenings... Here I am paralysed the moment I leave regular work...
Undertake something? What? It is only studies that are needed — and there is only one per week... I write, stopping at every word, for I cannot find words to paint the dreadful disturbance, the prostration, the terror I feel at having nothing to hold on to. What has happened? Nothing. Then what? I would joyfully consent to live only ten years in order to have talent immediately and realise my dreams...
There are things that have happened... When I used to say to myself: will Julian not take one of my studies to show the men — to prove that women can work well too.
[Words blacked out: And one fine day, as they were telling me] this, Julian came upstairs, took the head I was working on and carried it down. And then yesterday — two or three days ago — we went to the Hôtel Drouot; there was a jewellery exhibition; Maman, my aunt, Dina were admiring several parures; I disdained them all, except for a row of enormous, prodigious diamonds of which I had a sudden great longing. To have two would already be pretty — but one must not dream of such a miracle; so I contented myself with thinking that perhaps one day, by marrying a millionaire, I might have earrings of that size or a clasp, since stones of that weight can scarcely be hung from ears. This was truly the first time I had understood jewels. Well — last evening those two diamonds were brought to me: my mothers had bought them for me, and I had only said, without the slightest hope of getting them: "those are the only stones one could want to have." They sold for four thousand francs and are worth twenty or twenty-five thousand. The stones are yellow — otherwise they would cost three times as much. I amused myself with them all evening, holding them in my pocket while I modelled and Dusautoy played the piano and Bojidar and the others talked. Those two stones spent the night near my bed and I did not let them out of my sight during the sitting.
Ah! if other things that seem equally impossible could also come to pass... Even if they were yellow and cost only four thousand instead of twenty-five.
But after all, this great grief is absurd — I cannot complain of it to anyone. It would be ridiculous. For by my own calculations I am mathematically at Breslau's year of failure! And remember I am counting only our years of painting, and that before she painted she had already drawn — a whole, fairly complete artistic education that she possessed before I knew how to hold a stick of charcoal. Well? Well. And in the first place — am I not making myself anxious through my own fault? What proves my vocation for painting or sculpture? I drew at three years old — but all children draw like that; then I constantly intended to work, I tried; and finally, after some ten daubs, I arrive at the port of salvation, at father Julian's. And there a succession of efforts begins — I push myself, I constrain myself, I kick myself and reproach myself. Whereas for writing it goes by itself. At ten years old I note impressions on scattered scraps of paper; then I begin to write this illustrious journal; and at fifteen or sixteen I sketch out an immense novel.
And since then I have a good dozen plans for stories, novels, even plays... Not counting this illustrious journal which absorbs my time, my ideas, and everything.
And I write with pleasure, with sweep — and if I let myself go I would do nothing else; in short, it is natural to me as drawing and painting are natural to Breslau. So then, O new Balzac — what are you waiting for, my angel? A shock. I don't know what.
And then that is not all — I have only recently come to understand painting, and that after a few studies and real efforts; whereas literature I understood instantly: the moment I read I could discern the beautiful... and the bad; and everything that falls under my eyes — even the feuilletons, when I skim them I immediately see the effort, the craft, the talent breaking through, the tricks of the trade. You understand — I grasp the fabric of the craft as Breslau must grasp it in painting. So then, what are you waiting for, my angel? An adorable trade, which allows one to be as deaf as one likes, and nearly blind, and crippled, and everything. But that is heaven. So what will you do, my heart? I am going to put one or two short stories in order — they are practically ready already.
And I have a method for producing them. We shall see after. No — if only you knew: there in that drawer, there are newspaper articles, essays... There are...
And I used to get up in the night to write things that seemed worth keeping, and ideas... And journalism...
You don't know this dream of an ideal newspaper... But for a newspaper one needs to be free — and a man, besides... Ah! I am going to attend to this seriously... But I don't know French. You think so? Ah, what happiness.

Notes

Honorine (1843): a short novel by Balzac, written with great emotional force, about a husband who searches for his estranged wife across years. The "sublime eloquence" Marie admires is Balzac's ability to make an apparently small domestic story feel like a universal drama of suffering and renunciation. ↩
The Hôtel Drouot: the principal public auction house of Paris, founded in 1852 on the rue Drouot. All significant art and jewellery sales passed through it. Going to view a sale at Drouot was a standard Parisian leisure activity for the cultured classes. ↩