Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Friday, 3 August 1883

Bastien-Lepage is maddening when one studies nature at close quarters; when one wants to render it absolutely, it is impossible not to think constantly of this immense artist.
He possesses all the secrets of the skin — what others do is painting; he is nature itself.
People speak of Realists! But the Realists do not know what Reality is — they are coarse and believe themselves to be truthful.
Realism does not consist in the representation of a vulgar thing, but in the rendering — which must be perfect.
I do not want it to be painting — I want it to be skin, and to live! When one has worked like a dog all day, one ends up cruelly reproaching oneself for having worked badly and produced something dry and painted!
And the memory of that monster from Damvillers crushes you. It is broad, it is simple, it is true, and all the details of nature are there! Ah — wretchedness!
And sculpture — well, I work almost every morning on studies. As for the great machine, the ironwork was set up this evening by a gentleman sent by Carriès — I had asked for a workman and he sent a friend of his; in short, he showed me how to arrange the wire etc. etc. And I gave fifty francs — it is expensive, but an artist cannot be paid like a workman.
Tchernitsky, otherwise known as the madwoman — old Tchoumakoff and the priest.
I sleep.
I catch myself speaking with Saint-Marceaux's intonations. Come now — which do I prefer? I don't know. But on Bastien's side there is some indefinable thing that makes me regard his conquest as a matter of revenge.
Saint-Marceaux is more agreeable. Oh! Yes. The architect says Saint-Marceaux must esteem me. Possible — and besides, he finds me original and charming. As for Joan of Arc's compatriot, I displease him. I feel it.
Understand — it is nothing, since Saint-Marceaux has an attachment; besides, neither one nor the other is a marrying man... but [Crossed out: no] — in any case, I displease him.
It is sad to displease even a woman — it crushes [Crossed out: crushed] me when I am face to face with a being whom I displease. It is not humiliating — the most beautiful can displease — but it is annoying. Only perfect indifference can...

That idiot believes me at his feet; I led him to believe it, and received him with such agitation the time he came — the day he said to me in a very gentle tone: "come now, be calm; I am not very frightening; I am a man like any other." That is rather pretty. If he only knew how little I care... As long as a person does not seem puffed up with themselves I can admire them — but the moment a being takes me at my word and believes — my God, I have not feeling enough, of every kind, to mock it sufficiently, inwardly...
How to let him know!...
Saturday, 4 August 1883