Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Saturday, 2 February 1884

Bojidar sits for his portrait.
Princess Jeanne comes; I receive her in the studio then go downstairs — it is Maman's Saturday. Only young Deschanel is agreeable — he is the son of the Deschanel of the Collège de France, writes for the Débats, has stood for election, and plays Delaunay-style parts in amateur theatricals, greatly sought-after and very pleasant, a good fellow somewhat too polished — I always picture him in greasepaint, playing the romantic lead.
The Engelhardts, the Karageorgevitches, MM. de Rochefort and Moraes to dinner. Bojidar is in ecstasy over having performed at Mme de Poilly's — he believes he has won a triumph, and his mother thinks Europe is watching them.
It seems he barely got through. Provided they are happy...
For me too — the Aztec-looking Engelhardt and Bojidar don't count; but there was Rochefort, Deschanel, Moraes — a relief from the old Slavic doorkeepers. No more of them.
However that may be, I am in good humor — a rare thing; I feel that Jules has been dropped by la Mackay and that my painting is good. Time passes so quickly...
O Albert Wolff — you know nothing about art, they say — but no matter, if you would but deign to stick an article onto me...
What things these are! That it should not be... impossible and horrible — and that it is impossible too, because too beautiful. He will say only a few pale words.
I shall not yet be in a position to give Jules the name Adolphe. Ah! No! Come now.
I am writing in bed — tomorrow is Sunday, I go to church, and so there is no need to fall asleep early... But I am perhaps mad, for I have just been thinking about the Shepherds of Bethlehem and I shall not sleep at all.
It is a flame of enthusiasm, of admiration, of envy, of anxiety... Ah! Wretchedness! He will never be called Adolphe. Do you see it — the evening, the evening air, the atmosphere that envelops objects, a calm painting, and these good people walking full of faith, guided by a star that shines in a sky of beautiful blue — not too blue, for it is not yet fully night.
Well — I adore it! Neither Joan of Arc nor... Ah! Nothing on earth is comparable to the divine Shepherds. I have been as mad only for my Holy Women. Oh! but I shall do them this summer in June, in Italy. Oh! certainly! God willing.
This little fair man — if he paints his Shepherds as I see them... I should never sleep...
The thing is, you cannot see it — the evening, a calm, warm, blue evening, and the Star... Then on earth simple men full of Faith. The vague forms... I do not know whether it is due to the extreme sensitivity of young women of my age, or... But no — why look for base causes... It is because I am an artist in the true sense of the word; because every artist is a poet and visionary and lover; and because this painting is or will be the masterpiece of masterpieces.
Cazin has produced very fine small night landscapes in this vein. Am I deranged, or am I right? Look and judge. But I prefer a small Cazin canvas with a black boat against a blue sky full of stars to all the dark, celebrated, smoky landscapes of the museums. Impossible trees — no air! Why is it famous! Whereas in Cazin one feels the coolness of the night and one is stirred as by a truly beautiful Nice night, with the moon about to reflect itself on the very calm sea whose gentle movement one can hear... Ah! how beautiful. How much more beautiful than the celebrated landscapes of museums...
Provided I sleep... I am going mad over these Shepherds and my own star...
Ah! if only I could have talent! Each... individual who has occupied my thoughts, rightly or wrongly... has his music.
— 1. First the Astonishing but Stupid Émile d'Audiffret... Fifteen years old... Not first love, but first... something. Music: Mignon, verses and laments of my own.
— 2. Antonelli... to prove the Astonishing One did not occupy me, seventeen years old. A rather ugly plaintive tune from an Italian ballet of which I know only four bars. No verses.
— 3. Larderei... violent infatuation. Music: Paul et Virginie by Massé, eighteen years old. No verses.
— 4. Cassagnac... respectful admiration for a would-be great man, nineteen and twenty years old, a political infatuation, an illustrious man... delicate feelings... the Empire, duels, etc.
A banal little song: "They say you are to be married" — and that only after the fact. No verses.
— 5. Ah! Ha! 5. Well — it would be, so to say, Bastien's Shepherds. All the poetry and all the heights of feeling of a formed person who believes herself infallible. Music: Hamlet.
[Blacked out: Nature? from Montmartre. That does not prevent...]
I once had a dream... years ago... it is written down. I saw very bright stars; I watched them; there were five.
I made four of them fall simply by looking at them; as for the fifth, I stretched out my hand to take it — it was made of silver paper, and the sky of blue cardboard, and to detach it I had to scratch it off with my nails...
It means nothing — but I write because it is handy; I shall fall asleep writing, for these accursed Shepherds disturb me; I want to spend this nervous energy by writing.

Notes

Journal des Débats: the prestigious political and literary daily newspaper, founded 1789. ↩
Louis-Arsène Delaunay (1826–1903): celebrated Comédie-Française actor renowned for elegant romantic roles. ↩
A private nickname, possibly referencing Benjamin Constant's 1816 novel Adolphe, about a man incapable of true love. ↩
Jean-Charles Cazin (1841–1901): French painter known for atmospheric nocturnal landscapes, a key figure in the naturalist movement. ↩
Mignon: opera by Ambroise Thomas (1866), based on Goethe's Wilhelm Meister, a sentimental favourite. ↩
Hamlet: opera by Ambroise Thomas (1868); here associated with Bastien-Lepage in Marie's private emotional catalogue. ↩