Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Saturday, 12 January 1884

M. Franceschi came this morning — Jules Franceschi the sculptor, naturally. He treated my attempts at modelling with a well-founded disdain, but paid me great compliments on my painting. He says a medal is certain, and that he is speaking of my picture to his intimate friend Wolff.
At two o'clock, a visit from Boulanger, who said the same as Franceschi — save for the words "medal" and "Wolff."
The Maréchale comes to collect Claire and me, and we go to Lefebvre's and then to Tony's. Franceschi and Boulanger are two old-schoolers — all the more reason to be pleased by their approval; both of them said: "I detest this kind of thing — but in this kind of thing, it is very good."
They also made criticisms that flattered me, for they show the work is being taken seriously.
As for Lefebvre, I must confess I have not done sufficient justice to his talent. I saw at his studio things of an ideal form. Exactness, firmness, grace — carried to the utmost. I prefer his line to that of M. Ingres; in Lefebvre there are delicacies of line that literally enchant the eye. And nothing vague, nothing irresolute — an implacable and ravishing precision. No one paints the nude as he does... It is not, granted, a rich and painterly beauty — but there are refinements and exquisite delicacies combined with great power.
He is a master. His portraits are admirable — though lacking brilliance and perhaps something beyond.
But the form is so right that it makes one forget everything, or nearly. [Struck through: And to think] There is the man who should have painted my portrait! And to think I expected to find in Tony that faithful interpreter of my person...
Tony — that is competence... more or less. He is a sketch, in the end.
Lefebvre's appearance does not at all match his talent — he looks like a fat hairdresser. He has a charming wife and pretty children, and he draws as well as Bastien-Lepage.
At first he had not quite understood who I was — he did not recognise me and asked how I was, taking me probably for my cousin. This mistake lasted half an hour. [Words blackened: and afterwards, he became] very amiable, thanking me for the honour I did him in calling, adding that he was particularly delighted to see me, etc., etc.
He will come to see my studio next Sunday.
These are people from the Julian atelier, and that fat Jew never thought to send them to me. The Canroberts are angels.
"What — it is you, Mademoiselle! It is you?"

"Why yes, Monsieur."

"Oh! but then allow me to say I am particularly delighted, etc."

What a change of countenance that was! And when I am famous, such things will be far more pronounced...
This evening to dinner only a few people — the truly intimate ones. The Gavinis, Géry, Saint-Amand, Julian, Villevieille, Tchernitsky who arrives by chance.
I dress in white for the New Year and am very agreeable. Towards eleven o'clock the Maréchale and Claire arrived — they had been at Mlle de Saint-Martin's marriage contract signing.
And that is all — at midnight we drink champagne and exchange wishes.
It seems the first person one sees after midnight must be a dark-haired man — I closed my eyes at midnight; a few seconds after, Julian was telling me to open them, watch in hand; and it is indeed a man, and he is dark-haired.
Well, I enter the year in a passable — even good — fashion. I have heard nothing but artistic encouragement, and this evening there are only friends around me, and stylish ones at that... I am expressing myself like a cook... Speaking of cooks: the poor architect was invited this evening and he wrote me such a stupid letter! He tried to answer my jokes with jokes in return... But it is so leaden — one would think him a Prussian.
And his brother is like that? Also? Probably. Ah! my children — if only I could have talent — the night before last [words blackened: I could not fall asleep] until very late, for I was laughing alone in my bed composing the following unspeakable couplets:

Well-known tune in Montmartre.

He was not handsome at all, So he pleased no one much, Though he had sable-hair brushes in Montmartre.

He had the look of a little Aztec, And his brother was an archi-tec, Both of them loved the woman named Bashkirtseff in Montmartre.

He had painted two lovers And it was nothing famous, The canvas being green all over in Montmartre.

Since he had paid the dealer in flowers The dealer refused him colours, He could have committed murders in Montmartre.

But when he had seen my pictures He found them so beautiful, so beautiful, That his mouth remained open in Montmartre.

Seeing himself so quickly surpassed He found himself embarrassed And went to weep under a mound in Montmartre.

Then — and this was the bouquet — He got drunk at the barkeep's, Having green absinthes bought for him in Montmartre.

At last abandoned by Albert Wolff, He hid under the name of Adolphe, Spending the whole day doing nothing but groan rue Legendre.

When he died like an old rat Only his brother wept for him, For Émile is a tender soul rue Legendre.

Signed: Manet
I have only ever liked verse like that.
I am going to sleep with the sweet and strengthening conviction that I do not care a fig for this little peasant painter — oh! but to such a degree that he can [struck through: hardly help but] adore me now that I despise him in earnest.

Notes

Jules-Elias Franceschi (1825–1893): French sculptor, member of the Institut de France, known for decorative and monumental work including pieces at the Paris Opéra. His mention of Wolff would have been a significant promise. ↩
Albert Wolff (1835–1891): the most powerful art critic in Paris, writing for Le Figaro. His support could make or break a Salon career; he had famously attacked the Impressionists but championed academic realists. ↩
Julian: Rodolphe Julian (1839–1907), founder of the Académie Julian. Marie's epithet reflects the casual antisemitism of her social milieu; Julian was not in fact Jewish. ↩
Marriage contract signing (le contrat): in French bourgeois and aristocratic society, the signing of the marriage contract was a formal social occasion, often attended by a wider circle than the wedding itself. ↩
The verses are a mock chanson in the style of a Montmartre street-song, with refrains ending in Montmartre and rue Legendre (where the Bastien-Lepage family lived). "Adolphe" is Marie's contemptuous nickname for Jules Bastien-Lepage. "Aztec" (astèque) was contemporary slang for an ugly or outlandish-looking person. "Archi-tec" rhymes with "astèque" and refers to Gabriel Géry's profession. The attribution "Signed: Manet" is a joke at Manet's posthumous expense — himself recently pilloried in the press. ↩