Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Saturday, 6 October 1883

Good, honest, excellent Tony comes to see my painting. Good, honest, excellent — that lets you know he did not tear it to pieces. His first words were: "It is of a very good aspect."
Enfin voici ce qu'il dit du tableau, il est bien, très bien, il y a des morceaux excessivement bien Qe cite les mots mêmes) des morceaux comme je n'en ferai peut-être jamais mieux. Le gavroche de droite et celui du premier plan qui tourne le dos sont tout à fait bien. Mais le fond a besoin d'être éclairci à droite et cela fera gagner énormément parait-il mes figures que je [ne] dois plus toucher, sauf deux yeux à faire un peu moins noirs... C'est un travail de deux heures. I interrupted him at once: "No, Monsieur, I beg you — if you spare me, I cannot go on. That terrible Julian says everyone spares me, that I know nothing, that —" "But I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle — I have always treated you as a perfectly serious pupil, as someone who works with complete seriousness —" "Monsieur Julian says I know nothing… that —" "And you let yourself be taken in by those teasing remarks…" And this charming man laughed with great good humour at my naïveté… So here is what he says of the painting: it is good, very good; there are passages extremely well done (I quote his exact words) — passages the like of which I may never do better. The street urchin on the right and the one in the foreground with his back turned are absolutely right. But the background needs lightening on the right, which will apparently make my figures gain enormously; the figures themselves I must not touch, except for two eyes to be made a little less dark… A two-hour job.
I ought to be mad with joy. But I am not, because I do not share the opinion of my excellent master — I can do better… What I have done is therefore not right, not enough. I see better; I ought to paint what I see. He is too indulgent.
What will the public say? Will it be noticed? How to know? He thinks it is good — do not send it to Nice; keep it for Paris.
He says it is good. But goods are relative, and a relative good I do not want. It is good for the studio, for me — but for everyone? Is it strong? He finds the small figure seen from behind perfectly drawn; one can feel, he says, his little legs through his trousers — he is perfectly planted!
He perhaps thinks I calculated the anatomical subtleties deliberately.
I copied without thinking of anything — besides, it seems to me that talent is unconscious…
Here is what I am writing to Tony at this very moment.
Dear Master, I ought to be too happy at what you said of the painting, and here I am almost discontented. But please do not take what I am about to say as affected modesty. I am absolutely sincere, and I write to you so that you may know I deserve complete frankness — that I judge myself soundly and can hear cruel truths, because I am convinced that one day I shall be able to hear pleasant ones. Besides, your delicacy as a true great artist (caught!) will make you understand my scruples when I face my own assessment. Ought I to esteem myself more highly? Yes — if your judgment is strictly fair. You said good, and for certain passages very good. Those are very large words. Good in relation to whom? Good in relation to what? Good [Blacked out: in relation to] what circumstances? I will not, I will not, I will not have a relative good. It means nothing. If you saw this painting at the Salon as the work of a young unknown, would you say merely that it is good? That is the kind of good that concerns me; and even if you said good I would not agree with you — I want it to be so much better! At any rate, for this painting you will perhaps not retreat, but in future judge me in such a way that I may… Do not be indulgent — I ask this of your friendship for your very proud pupil. Marie… Do not write to me — that would be a certificate — but we shall talk on Monday.
And then I have read a novel by our illustrious Turgenev at one sitting and in French, to understand the impression he makes on foreigners.
He was a great writer, a very subtle mind, a very fine analyst, a poet — a Bastien-Lepage.
His passages are as beautiful, and he describes the smallest feelings as Bastien-Lepage paints them.
What a sublime artist. Those who do not understand him are fools, fools, fools.
Millet! Well — he is as poetic as Millet; I say that foolish sentence for the imbeciles who would not otherwise understand. Everything that is great, beautiful, poetic, subtle, true — in music, in literature, in everything — brings me back to this wonderful painter, this great psychologist, this admirable poet. He takes subjects considered vulgar by society people… and extracts from them the most penetrating poetry.
What is more ordinary than a little girl tending a cow or a woman working in the fields? Has it not been done before!
But no one has done it as he has. He is quite right — yes: three hundred pages in a single canvas!
But there are perhaps fifteen of us who understand him.
Turgenev too painted the peasant — the poor Russian peasant — and with what truth, what simplicity, what sincerity. And it is moving, and it is poetic, and it is great.
Unfortunately abroad this cannot be understood, and it is his studies of society that have made him chiefly known.
And this admirable artist is devoured by a Mackay.
What will Tony say? Is my painting good? I would thank God for it. That blessing has brought me luck. Tony may say it is very good — and others too — yet that would not make me happier, since I do not find it my maximum… Can one ever find one's maximum? I want to start all over again… And still! I see only Bastien. It will always be inferior to his…! So —