Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Sunday, 22 April 1883

Only two pastels were accepted with first-rank priority: mine and Breslau's.
Breslau's painting is not on the cimaise. But her portrait of the Figaro administrator's daughter is.
My painting is not on the cimaise either — but Tony assures me it can be seen very well, and that the painting below it is not large. The head of Irma is on the cimaise and in a corner: place of honour, consequently. In short, he says I have a good hanging.
Only — since the painting is not on the cimaise — Machiavelli whispers a stratagem to me. I have just written to the excellent, naïve architect a letter in which I tell him that a machination is being plotted against me, the result of which would be a few disagreeable lines from Wolff about my hanging.
Wolff does not know me and will have no reason to reject the information, all the more since it will reach him from a gentleman who… But it is too long to explain. In short: you who know Wolff — if you could parry this well-laid blow, etc. Is it not abominable to have to struggle against so much ill-will even before one has proved one's talent? It makes one want to infuriate the whole world — I should like very much to have talent and articles! It is not a Christian sentiment, but never mind!
We shall see whether it does any good. It is written with a bad pen, there are ink blots — in short, I appear to be in the grip of strong emotion.
As on almost every evening, there are guests to dinner — the Engelhardts, Dusautoy, or the Princess, or all together. I listen to them and tell myself: here are people who do nothing and spend their lives saying foolish things or gossiping. They are happier than I am… Their troubles are different and they suffer as much. But they do not enjoy everything as much as I do. A quantity of things escapes them — nothings, subtleties, reflections that are for me a field of observation and a source of pleasures unknown to the common sort. But perhaps I [words blacked out: am perhaps] more susceptible than most to these contemplations — to the grandeur of nature as much as to the thousand details of Paris. A passer-by, the expression in a child's or a woman's eyes, an advertisement, what do I know? — when I go to the Louvre, crossing the courtyard, mounting the staircase worn by the groove left by the millions of feet that have trodden it; opening that door, and the people one meets there — one invents stories for them, follows them into their inner life, imagines their existence; in an instant, then other thoughts, other impressions… All of it interconnects, and all of it is various. There is subject for… what do I know. And if since this great misfortune I am less than everyone, there are perhaps compensations…
Oh! No. Everyone knows it — and the first thing one must say upon mentioning me: she is a little deaf, you know? — I do not know how I can write it.
Can one accustom oneself to such an affliction! Let it happen to an old man, to an old woman, to some unhappy wretch. But to a young being, living, vibrating, burning with life!!!