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 reach my gallery 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 an artist of the second class.
Then the possibility that the placard honourable mention might be attached to Irma becomes real — I rush to it. Not there. I go at last to the odious pastel, and I find it there.
I dash straight to Julian’s, and there I am, 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 line…
In short, a reward…
Even when granted in another section, it ought surely to protect one against an ascent of this kind… He seems all 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:
Copied letterLettre de Marie à Tony Robert-Fleury (copie), 24 mai 1883
Monsieur, I learn from the newspapers that I have obtained an honourable mention, and you may judge of my joy at so unexpected a thing. 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 heap of terrible tulips by M. Benner, the Alsatian patriot, the brother of the 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 whatever. I hoped for nothing. Had they given me nothing, I should have found it perfectly right. And here is a reward that becomes an excessively humiliating thing. I am utterly desperate. Getting nothing would be fair. This is appalling. Your most devoted Marie
I do not know how I have the patience to tell you all this. At one o’clock I go home, and Villevielle, Zillhardt and Claire arrive.
I put on a very pleased face for Zillhardt. Once she has gone, and with Bojidar arriving with Dina, I let all my indignation overflow.
And it is considerable, and just, and it hurts me.
Here is Tony’s reply.
Copied letterLettre de Tony Robert-Fleury à Marie, 24 mai 1883 (copie, avec les remarques de Marie au lecteur)
Mademoiselle, I have received your letter and I 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 minds of three or four jurors who were keenly interested in the painting you replaced. Friend 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 enough votes for the painting, whereas your pastel, on the contrary, won a very honourable number of votes.” If the number is very honourable, three votes fewer would not have dishonoured it. Let us go on. I cannot single-handed fight the entire jury; I did my best, or at least I believed I was doing my best. Calm yourself and do not see things in so dreadful a light. There are many people who would be happy in your place. Believe me, Mademoiselle, with my best and most devoted sentiments. Tony Robert-Flery.
There. I can feel the aches and pains that this Homeric struggle against the whole jury in coalition must have given him. If one has to struggle as hard as that, what then is the meaning of his letter on the day I was admitted, from which I detach this 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 is it. No, I reply to him with this, simply:
Copied letterLettre de Marie à Tony Robert-Fleury (copie), 24 mai 1883
Monsieur, All things considered, and viewing the matter with the utmost composure, I consider myself to have received a slap in the face. Your most devoted pupil. Marie Bashkirtseff
While this correspondence is being exchanged, and I am commenting with a colourist’s touch on this baseness, this infamy, this injustice, several letters of congratulation arrive for me.
A mention for the pastel is idiotic, but let that pass! But to move my painting up! It makes me weep all alone in my room as I write it. The mention on the pastel is a snub, a stupidity, a grief — but to go and move the painting… And you know what people are saying — 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. Very fine. But long before there was any question of the portrait he considered me his only interesting pupil, along with Breslau, and lavished the greatest encouragement on me.
And then, after the portrait, he never hesitated to say a thing 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 gave second-class medals to things that were nowhere near as good as mine. And this year too, for that matter. Everyone will tell you it is true. People think me very naïve to be indignant.
I cannot accept so much bad faith, so much dirty scheming.
I do not understand this artistic-electoral cookery. It is infamous. When shall I be as much of a scoundrel as the rest, so as to stop being indignant?
Urged by Claire, I write to Bastien-Lepage, whose great talent makes me believe him fair.
Copied letterLettre de Marie à Jules Bastien-Lepage (copie), 24 mai 1883
Monsieur, The stupendous jury of this year has just awarded me a mention in a distant section, I do not know why. And at the same time my painting has been sent up to the heavens. I find that it is too high, and that I am very young for an apotheosis. A system of compensation, no doubt. In short, I am very grieved. Have me brought down — they will not dare not to listen to you, and there are paintings down below so dreadful that mine could well be among them. Accept, Monsieur, the expression of my best regards. Marie Bashkirtseff. N.B. I was admitted with a number.
Claire takes me to dine at her house and we go to the Bois in the evening.
And there it is.
Well, I am quite willing to believe that true talent breaks through on its own. Agreed.
But one has to be set afloat to begin with. Bastien-Lepage himself was supported in his beginnings by his master, M. Cabanel.
When a pupil shows promise, his master must hold his head above water for a moment. If he keeps afloat, that means he is someone; if not, so much the worse. Oh! I shall get there.
Only it is a delay, and not through any fault of mine.
Not to make use of certain advantages revolts me, like an injustice!
Bojidar and Dina have complained to the administration, in vain of course. And Bojidar has pinched the famous placard and brought it to me. That piece of cardboard with the words: honourable mention.
I immediately tied it to Coco’s tail, and he did not dare move, he was so terrified. In short I am desolate, vexed, unhappy. That painting up there is a heartbreak…
But my despair has been an amusing spectacle for those around me. I am always a spectacle, and when I should like to weep I say amusing things; one must not weary 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 humour that nasty brute Robert-Fleury, for all the good he has done me…
What a relief no longer to have to endure his debilitating advice.

Notes

In French in the original: mention honorable (the wording of the Salon placard). ↩
In French in the original: cimaise. The picture rail at eye level, the coveted hanging position at the Salon; in English exhibition parlance, “the line”. Works placed high were said to be “skied” — barely visible, an effective demotion. ↩
The irony is deliberate: the mention was not unexpected at all — it had been extensively promised. ↩
Marie spells the name “Robert-Flery” in the original, perhaps a slip of anger. ↩
Soufflet — literally a slap in the face. In 19th-century French honour culture, a deliberate formal insult demanding satisfaction. ↩
Camouflet — literally smoke blown in someone’s face; by extension, a calculated humiliation or snub. ↩
Cuisine artistico-électorale — Marie’s satirical coinage for the backroom dealing by which jury votes were traded and manipulated. ↩
Au ciel — literally “to the heavens”: the top rows of the Salon, where paintings were hung out of sight and effectively buried. ↩
To be “admitted with a number” meant the painting was assigned a specific catalogue number and given a proper placement — the normal expectation for accepted works. ↩