Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Friday, 25 January 1884

We have just come from the Bastien studio to see three canvases by the architect — not impressive, and I fear I did not conceal my feelings. And paintings by the real one, new and old ones...
This morning I look at it with a... cold eye.
The heart of things...
What do I mean by the heart of things or of people? Simply what they are — and I cannot explain it, it is, in short... To see the contradictions, the sketches, the gropings of an artist like Bastien; the human side, weak, vulnerable — to imagine it. One does not know why or on what occasion. That even la Mackay should... drop him — that puts me in a mood of gentle glee — and then to rummage in the corners of his studio and find weak paintings! Oh! that is sheer delirium!
To no longer respect him quite completely. And his brother says he is doing nothing, that he is ill — and then most obligingly wants to read us his letter: "My dear old fellow, here I am laid up again, with an upset stomach..." Here my laughter and my sarcasm interrupt and offend the worthy architect... But really — an upset stomach! Even to a brother! There are things one does not say...
So he will no longer read us the letter because I take it badly — and since he writes that he is bored, that he is sad, or something of the sort. It appears there is nothing extraordinary in speaking of an upset stomach...
I find it disgusting and pointless — one can say one is unwell, that is quite enough...
Admissible ailments are a cold, a migraine, a sprain, rheumatism... even fever; but upset stomachs, toothaches, the... the... the... Fie.
So I saw the portrait of the grandfather (1874) and the portraits of his mother and father. They have frightful faces... The mother is washed-out fair, with a turned-up nose, thin, mismatched eyes, a crooked mouth...
I would far sooner have had a good old peasant woman... but that... it is not pretty...
You perhaps think that these ordinary, vulgar, ugly parents make an unpleasant impression on me... Not at all, I couldn't care less. And yet I don't know! And then, all things considered... In any case...
I feel that this poor boy is in a state of collapse... He is, the brother says so. And then one imagines one has only to reach out and take him — and then one hardly wants him any more. That is to say... No, the truth is that I have always felt, and feel more and more keenly, an imperious need to write; I invent stories, I jot down real and imaginary facts.
Dumas says that a woman's principal quality is intuition... Well, by intuition I understand, I see, I know extraordinary things — but when it comes to finding my way through my file... For there is a thick notebook full of notes...
An unpleasant thought... Almost all his canvases are there — he does not sell much — and what if I were to imagine he perhaps thinks to sell us something... I always make ignoble assumptions... It is truly ignoble and disgusting...
And yet it would be natural. Ah! how horrible.
The heart of things... Yes, the heart of things... is bitter.
These good, so-ugly people... the grandfather and father are dead, the mother remains — she is the plainest of all, but she is sixty... that is too young to die.
The poor woman has no need to die — but what a vile, ill-tempered face... and lopsided... She resembles — or rather Jules resembles her — while having a charming and very kind face.
And Maman, and Dina and my aunt... These ladies think I am now cured — assuming that I was a little unwell with sympathy for Jules, poor boy. In any case, worse than simple peasants... I knew it, but I had not seen them.
And does that affect you, young lady? Neither yes nor no — yet for the sake of others, it would not matter to me if he were a great man in the established sense, a Gambetta! One would cook alongside his mother — but a mere man of great talent... "Once a certain boundary is crossed, there are no more limits."
It is foolish but true — the boundary is not crossed... In any case all of this in my speculative world, in my imagination, naturally... In politics one is a tamer of nations, but an artist of genius does not impose himself sufficiently — not sufficiently for... In any case, one may adore him, but one cannot say so.
I am very flat... but I judge from the standpoint of others...
Why, if we were in a desert... But.
Ah! I am very kind — he cares not at all what I think of him.

Notes

Mrs. Mackay: an American heiress who was Bastien-Lepage's wealthy patroness. ↩