Friday, 25 May 1883
First thing in the morning I go to Julian's to show him Tony's letters. Sincerely indignant, very restrained, and quite eloquent.
And when Cot arrived it was very fine. To begin with, Cot is the most amiable of men — his talent was briefly fashionable and is of no importance, but he is a jury member and a good one. I regret that I cannot transcribe here this hour-long conversation in which I was truly very brilliant; when one is in that state, one listens to oneself with delight.
> Ce que l'on comprend bien s'énonce clairement,
> Et les mots pour le dire arrivent aisément.
My painting will doubtless not be moved — it is too late — but I spent a charming hour, and those two venerable old gentlemen will tell you so: I am certain I gave them a rare performance. A superior being, sincerely moved, translating her indignation into pointed words and philosophical reflections tempered by original and witty jokes.
I am well aware that one never says such things about oneself — but do me justice: do I not also say when I am stupid, awkward, humiliated… dreadful?
In short I try to work; Bojidar is here all day and I tell him I despise him.
But here is something in the style of a sensational news article.
The rabbit punch.
Here is what I receive:
> Dear Mademoiselle,
> My brother received your letter at the moment of his departure for a journey.
> He charges me to let you know that he found time to write and hopes very much that you will receive what you ask for and so richly deserve.
> I am delighted by your reward, which you have so greatly merited, and I very much regret not being able to come and congratulate you most sincerely.
> Please believe in the friendship of your devoted
> Émile Bastien-Lepage.
It is the architect who replies!!!! Then there is a moment of black despair. "O Richard, ô mon roi, l'univers t'abandonne" — a feeling of desolation, of abandonment, of dreadful melancholy.
He did not even take the trouble to reply. And even the vile architect did not rush over. Not only does the great man remain absolutely cold, but his cook of a brother… Then this note:
> "First, I charge you to tell your brother that he might have bestirred himself to the extent of replying to the letter I had the mistake of writing to him. Next, I very much regret that you have broken both your legs and that this prevents you from coming to congratulate me.
> Marie Bashkirtseff."
And now… So long as this catastrophe of a painting leaves my mind free — so long as I can work… Yes, for I must, I must, I must get there.
Ah! I am in a mood to enter into battle with the entire universe — to write insolences to every jury member, to call them what they are, dirty schemers, and to sign it, sign it, sign it.
It is not a matter of the mention — they could have hung it on the umbrella I left in the cloakroom, as I told Cot; that is not my concern. What is unworthy is the moving of my painting…
A mention in any section ought to protect one against such things, all the more since the painting helped to win it for me.
In short… it is odious.
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