Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Monday, 1 October 1883

Our great writer Turgenev, who died a fortnight ago, is dispatched to Russia today. A great farewell ceremony at the station. Speeches by M. Renan, by M. About, and by Virouboff — a Russian who spoke French very well and moved the crowd more than the others.
About spoke rather quietly and I heard little; Renan — whom I see now through the lens of Saint-Marceaux's bust — was very good, and the final adieu rang out. [Blacked out word: the painter] Bogoluboff also delivered a speech. In sum, I am proud to see a Russian honoured by these horrible, arrogant French.
I love them, but I despise them. They let Napoleon die at Saint Helena — that is an immense, monstrous, abominable crime. An eternal shame… And other things… Yet… Caesar was assassinated too… And they jeered Lamartine, who in antiquity would have had altars raised to him, as Dumas fils so rightly says.
And then there is another personal grievance: they fail to appreciate Bastien-Lepage. We went to the Salon after Turgenev, and I cannot see this sublime painting without explosions of enthusiasm — interior explosions, for my idiotic family would think I was in love with him.
Meissonnier! But Meissonnier is nothing but a conjurer!
He makes microscopic things in such a way as to cause such amazement that it nearly borders on emotion. But as soon as he steps outside this tiny format, as soon as his heads measure more than a centimetre, it becomes stiff and ordinary — yet no one dares say it, and everyone admires, though all his canvases at this Salon are merely good and correct…
But is it art?
Costumed figures playing the harpsichord, or on horseback, or…
In short, many genre painters [sic] do as much. What interest is there in watching Louis XIII ladies lunch or sing, or any lords whatsoever?… What I have seen that is striking and beautiful of his is, first, Les Joueurs de boules on the Antibes road. It is a scene taken from life, albeit in period costumes, full of air and sun, so small and so perfectly executed that one is left astounded. Then himself and his father on horseback, on the same road, I believe. Then Le Graveur en eau-forte. The movement and expression are captured and are true — this man who thinks, who works, who is perhaps in the grip of something, touches and interests us, and the details are miraculous. There is also a Louis XIII cavalier looking from a window, same format, and again a just movement, a human, natural, simple action — a particle of life at last. For the rest, I rank him among good, well-executed genre paintings which, without the masterpieces I have cited, would not suffice for Meissonnier's glory. His portraits, when the head measures only two centimetres, are cardboard — and the larger it is, the worse.
He is a manufacturer of technical feats [Blacked out words: I bow] and stand aside — he will never move me. But look at Bastien's small portraits! The majority would cry out loudly if I said they are far superior to Meissonnier's. And yet it is an incontestable truth.
But all the envious use an old, recognized talent as a club with which to beat those who seem dangerous to them. Nothing can compare with Bastien's portraits. Contest his paintings… well, one can manage — you may simply not understand them. But his portraits! Since the beginning of the world to our own day, nothing better has been done.
And if I were not ashamed of not being able to… In short, if I were to sit for my portrait, I would not always hear him… It is an abominable obstacle — I will not humiliate myself, and… That is something which robs me of half my talent, for I cannot even make portraits without confessing… It is horrible. It is not true. I am dreaming. Portraiture… But one makes friends, positions, whole worlds through portraits… for nothing.
It is an enormous resource that God removes from me. There are notable, interesting, influential, amusing people whom I could paint if I could converse… But to be perpetually terrorized thinking: he will speak to me and I shall not hear!
Misery of me.
Bojidar, who was with us, dines here with his parents; and in the evening old Baron Linsingen turns up and we tease him without his suspecting it, of course.