Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Sunday, 26 August 1883

We go to spend the day at the Canroberts'.
My aunt, Dina, myself, the Marshal, the Maréchale, Claire, Louis who is eleven, and the brother of seventeen who is on holiday. They are all charming — but toward six o'clock I am glad to go home to talk and laugh freely; one grows tired when one is not free of all formality…
Today at the Tuileries there is the great fête in aid of the victims of the Ischia earthquake. As at these charity fêtes, there is an illustrated paper for sale with sketches by celebrated artists and a few lines by great writers. Dumas, among others, devotes a column to the disturbance that such an event must cause in the souls of those who believe in a Christian and Catholic God.
Let Sodom and Gomorrah pass. Let even Herculaneum and Pompeii pass — for there God was punishing those who sent his apostles to martyrdom, asserting His power, making Himself known at last. But here. Where are the atrocious and unspeakable crimes of Ischia? And what need had this uncontested God to assert His power?
In the end, Dumas believes it is better not to waste one's breath in words, but to stand shoulder to shoulder and count only on oneself.
He is quite right — for if our impieties were the cause of this act of wrath, if the atheism one professes needed to be reproved, then one ought to have struck a hotbed of atheism, a great centre, so as to demonstrate that this terrible miracle was done for that purpose. But to strike this poor Catholic, clerical, and peasant island — and through the agency of a volcano, which is the one thing that can be explained scientifically! It cannot therefore be a demonstration of anything, and if it is one, it entirely escapes all those for whom it was intended — it serves no purpose whatsoever. Everyone is stupefied by this abominable injustice, and no one sees a lesson in it. I say this to the pious Dina (for lack of a better audience), and she replies that it is some kind of warning, and that God had no need to choose — since at this hour Sodom and Gomorrah are more or less everywhere! Then I demand a Flood — or else! My God, I no longer understand you.
He exasperates you, drives you to despair, unhinges you, leads you to doubt — and when you have doubted, He punishes you for it. I renounce Him before Dina, yet submit inwardly… It is cowardly, but one has everything to fear from an Unknown who is all-powerful and unjust. In vain shall I renounce Him — I shall go and pray on my knees all the same, for He frightens me. Under such conditions I have nothing to expect from Him…
He has always drenched me in miseries… and for three years I have been half-dead. And what execrable thing have I done?
And my poor wretched parents? Follies at most.
Now I am frozen with terror — for He has still many things He could take from me if He wished. He can make me blind, make me poor, send me a disfiguring illness.
Then one could say it is… And yet no — for I turn toward Him all the same, despite all my reflection and good sense.
He can also make things difficult for me at the next Salon. Through the Canroberts, one controls the entire Jury. Princess Mathilde receives all the great men, and they will be glad to please her.
Well, it would be the very devil if I am unhappy on that score — for I shall be surrounded by very powerful protection. That is what is needed for the Jury's prizes. It will not confer a true success if I do not deserve it, but it can give one a medal.
And medals — alas, one only gets them through protection.
Even if the talent is genuine, it must be helped.
[Two half-pages torn out]
And without talent, one can reach prizes through protection — but it is neither effective nor pleasing.
But in any case it is plain to see every day. Thank God, there is in me enough substance that a little… assistance will merely be the means of placing me where I belong.
And was not Raphael protected from the age of ten by his uncle Bramante? And Michelangelo… and all of them? They were drawn from nothing by duchesses and popes who had discernment enough to distinguish talent.
And now every promising student is under his professor's wing. And Jules? Jules… To begin with, the professor or protector must give some support — if one is worth nothing, one sinks in the end. For protection is only truly useful at the outset. Then, if one deserves it, one is championed by a Wolff who introduces one to the public — and after that it is for the artist to sustain himself… Without neglecting the Wolffs, however, for without publicity one is forgotten, and with being forgotten the dealers disappear. What remain are the true connoisseurs — and there are few of them, delighted to buy for nothing.
And if the line is ominous, I feel all the emotions of genuine grief.
The Great, Great, Great question is: shall I be Wolff-ified [sic] next year? And the idea that I might not be plunges me into deadly anxiety.
Then the secondary questions: will Jules be in love with me? Yesterday the book said yes; this evening, no. In any case, Jules is erased.
How strange — it passed so quickly, yet I had feared that impression.
Besides, what is the use?
If it had persisted I would have married Saint-Amand. We encountered Émile this morning, and I adopted a stern air.