Wednesday, 23 May 1883

The whole night without sleeping, wrapped in opium, numb and dreamless yet aware of every hour passing, free from mental agitation. Utterly weak this morning. They are voting today on those contemptible mentions. Had I not taken the syrup, I should not have slept regardless and would be in a terrible state. God knows what a day this will be. I have just slept for more than two hours. It is five o'clock in the evening. I have done nothing, and shall do nothing. Tomorrow morning is the reopening of the Salon.¹ Despicable Julian! Why did he raise such hopes in me! I should have been so much calmer. This evening everything will be decided. There are only a few more hours to endure. Ah! This is not cheerful. There are so many parties in Paris, and I am shut up within four walls. They mentioned Mlle Martinoff at Mme de Pourtalès's… And I am to be denied even that sort of artistic consolation! So much promised, and which gave me barely any pleasure to begin with. The pettier the thing the more vexing it is — one might at least grieve over something worth grieving for. But to be blackballed by some notary's clerk!… No. It would be without will… It is not unpleasant. Saint-Amand, Dusautoy, Alexis, the Engelhardts. I shall not need to trouble myself planting in Saint-Amand the idea of marrying me. For some time already he has been speaking of it — half in jest, half in earnest — and falls in with all my ideas. What does he think? Does he truly believe I belong entirely to art? Why not? Or else— I leave everyone and try to fall asleep… A gentle sleep, as in the daytime. For at night I did not sleep — and yet it was like a dream, and I could not direct my thoughts; I tried several times to turn my mind to romantic things but the narcotic vapour left me without will… It is not unpleasant. ---

Thursday, 24 May 1883

I have it! And here I am, reassured and calm — not happy, I will not say that… Satisfied, perhaps… I learn it from the newspapers. Those gentlemen did not trouble themselves to write a single word. Listen to the story. I believe fairly firmly that nothing ever happens quite as one fears or as one hopes. I was trying to picture how it would happen. I would have it or I would not. Very well. If I do not have it — I already know the effect, since the day before yesterday and yesterday evening I was thinking I had not. And if I do have it, well, that will be agreeable; I could perfectly well imagine how it… would be. So what will actually happen? Where will the surprise come from? To have it without having it, and not to have it while having it. At half past nine we go to the Salon and at our very door we meet Bojidar, beaming, with his father, who comes to congratulate me. We take the young man along. And I arrive in my room and I see my painting — moved — hoisted to the very top, above a large canvas representing tulips of a blinding size and colour, signed by a second-rate artist. Then the possibility that the placard mention honorable might be attached to Irma becomes real — I rush to it. Nothing. I go at last to the odious pastel, and I find it there. I fly in one bound to Julian's and I am there, speaking for more than half an hour, scarcely able to speak at all. I could have wept. He seems very astonished. But — since the opening of the Salon, since they had seen my canvases, the pastel had not been mentioned, and besides he was certain that I would be moved and placed on the cimaise…² In short, a reward… Even when granted in another section, it ought surely to protect one against an ascent of this kind… He seems full of heart, writing urgent, persuasive telegrams to Cot, Lefèvre, and Tony. But it is very late. In short I am desperate and say everything I think of Tony — that eunuch of art. That indifferent man, that liar, that blockhead. I ought to have expected it. You will remember: we thought little Brisbane had been refused; I wrote to him and he replied at length — four pages — that he had tried everything to save her and had not succeeded. She had been admitted, and he had been absent. The same thing here. I write to him: > Monsieur, > I learn from the newspapers that I have obtained an honourable mention, and you may judge of my joy at this such unexpected thing.³ I write to thank you and to say that I am absolutely desperate. > My painting has been moved in order to hang it higher — above a pile of terrible tulips by M. Benner, the Alsatian patriot, the brother of that Benner who is a fake Henner and paints nymphs in dark green. > And the placard is on the pastel. It is a disaster. If you could do anything for me I should be truly grateful — it is for the last time, of that he may be certain. I do not wish to be ridiculous and I am not soliciting success. But what has been done here is outrageous. > In everyone's opinion I deserve nothing — yes, it is the painting that deserves something. > I am neither stupid enough nor mad enough to have asked for anything. I hoped for nothing. Had they given me nothing, I should have found it perfectly acceptable. > And here is a reward that becomes an excessively humiliating thing. > I am utterly desperate. > Nothing would have been fair. This is appalling. > Your devoted > Marie I do not know how I have the patience to recount all this. At one o'clock I go home, and Villevielle, Zillhardt, and Claire arrive. I appear very content in front of Zillhardt. Once she has gone, and Bojidar arriving with Dina, I let my indignation overflow entirely. And it is considerable, just, and it hurts. Here is Tony's reply: > Mademoiselle, > I receive your letter and am sorry that your joy is not unalloyed. > I was unable to oppose the moving of your painting for the reason that I should have harmed you in the eyes of three or four jurors who were keenly interested in the painting you replaced. Dear reader, I commend to you these words, which I underline. Savour them. > "I did right, since the goal was achieved." I commend to you also, O reader, the sentence above. > "As for the placard: you did not have sufficient votes for the painting, whereas your pastel obtained, on the contrary, a very honourable number of votes." > If the number is very honourable, three votes fewer would hardly dishonour it. To continue: I cannot single-handedly battle the entire jury; I did what I thought best, or at least believed I did. Calm yourself and do not see things in so dreadful a light. > There are many people who would be happy in your position. > Believe me, Mademoiselle, in my best and most devoted sentiments. > Tony Robert-Fleury.⁴ There. I can feel the aches and pains that this Homeric struggle against the united jury must have cost him. If such a struggle was necessary, what then is the meaning of his letter on the day I was admitted, from which I extract this particular sentence, which I especially commend to you: > "I need not tell you that your paintings were very well received." He need not even tell me — so natural a thing it is. No, I reply to him, simply, this: > Monsieur, > All things considered, and viewing the matter with the utmost composure, I consider myself to have received a slap in the face.⁵ > Your devoted pupil. > Marie Bashkirtseff While this correspondence is being exchanged and I am commenting, with a colourist's precision, on this baseness, this infamy, this injustice — several letters of congratulation arrive for me. A mention for the pastel is idiotic, but so be it! But to move my painting up! It makes me weep alone in my room as I write this. The mention on the pastel is a snub,⁶ a stupidity, a grief — but to go and move the painting… And you know what they will say — they are saying it, I am certain. They say, or will say, that I am being pushed forward by M. Robert-Fleury because he painted my portrait. He is incorruptible. How admirable. But long before the portrait was ever thought of, he considered me his only interesting pupil along with Breslau, and showered me with the greatest encouragement. And after the portrait he never hesitated to say it was bad when it was bad. And so I trusted him. And when he spoke so highly of this painting, I could well believe him. And I believe him still. I call God and all honest people to witness: last year they awarded second-class medals for things that were far below my level. And this year too, for that matter. Everyone will tell you it is true. People think it very good of me to be indignant. I cannot accept so much bad faith, so much dirty scheming. I do not understand this artistic-electoral cooking.⁷ It is infamous. When shall I be as much of a scoundrel as the rest of them, and stop being indignant. Urged by Claire, I write to Bastien-Lepage, whose great talent I hold to be a guarantee of justice: > Monsieur, > The stupendous jury of this year has just awarded me a mention in a distant section — I know not why. And at the same time my painting has been sent up to the heavens.⁸ I find that is rather high, and I am quite young for an apotheosis. A system of compensation, no doubt. > In short, I am very grieved. Please have me brought down — they will not dare refuse you — and there are paintings below so dreadful that mine could perfectly well be among them. > Accept, Monsieur, the expression of my best regards. > Marie Bashkirtseff. > P.S. I was admitted with a number.⁹ Claire takes me to dine at her house and we go to the Bois in the evening. And there it is. Well, I am willing to believe that true talent breaks through on its own. Agreed. But it is necessary to be set afloat first. Bastien-Lepage himself was supported in his early career by his master, M. Cabanel. When a pupil shows promise, the master must keep their head above water for a moment. If they sustain themselves, that proves they are someone; if not, so much the worse. Oh! I shall get there. Only it is a delay, and not through any fault of mine. To fail to make use of certain advantages strikes me as a kind of injustice! Bojidar and Dina have made complaints to the administration — in vain, naturally. And Bojidar has pinched the famous placard and brought it to me. That piece of cardboard bearing the words: mention honorable. I immediately tied it to Coco's tail. She didn't dare move, filled with terror. In short I am desolate, vexed, miserable. The painting up there is a laceration… But my despair has been, for those around me, an amusing spectacle. I am always a spectacle, and when I should like to weep I say witty things — one must not tire people, one must always be a diversion, a novelty… One would think I am one because I choose to be… Ah! I no longer need to coddle that wretched creature Robert-Fleury, for all the good he has done me… What a relief to no longer be subjected to his debilitating advice.