Tuesday, 1 April 1884

It continues — but since one must find some way round it, this is the one I have found.
Yes, I am nothing — but there is [illegible] and I am going to love him so as to be something through him. Wolff speaks of the Exhibition in the rue de Sèze which opens this evening. He is the triumphant one. Every time, everywhere. And there are people who deny it! They are wretches. What a sublime artist — sublime and unique.
And to think he did not have enough votes to be a member of the jury — while I, from so much weeping, have clouded eyes.
Nothing remains but to persuade myself that I adore him — or else to die. Or both. Ah! I am furious at having written to ask for a good placement. It is cowardly, it is vile, it is shameful.
After all, he is the one who realises the paintings I dream of... I see nature and he reproduces it; I have no talent but he has, and I shall believe that I love him so as to share in his genius.
I made a pastel of Armandine.
The Canroberts come around six; I was waiting for them to suggest the horse show, so as to refuse — but they do not suggest it. And that wretched little baggage Claire tells me I am wrong to take the number 3 badly.
“After all, it is obvious you will not be on the line — but in sum...”
What do you make of that?
And it is because of that wretched creature that I have lost so much time, for ten months now she has prevented me from working in peace.
So it is natural that I should not even aspire to being well placed. That vile creature’s words so stunned me that I said nothing. So then everyone who has said to me about my paintings what I ended up believing — are they all liars?
Serious men, honest, conscientious? Tony, whom I implored to be frank, who has known me and followed my work for six years. Bastien-Lepage himself. And his brother the architect — but then the entire jury who so admired the portrait of Dina last year?
And now it would be natural, simple, ordinary that I am not even on the line — when I was there last year with a study of Irma? An entire painting, six figures, each of which is worth three times the head of Irma? I truly believe I am going mad. I expected everyone to be indignant about the 3 — and they appear to find it natural that I should not even be on the line. And the dreams of a medal? And the eighteen newspapers that spoke of my landscape?
And the more than thirty people who spoke of it to Emile Bastien.
And even those who carried kindness so far as to suppose this landscape was made by someone more capable than myself? Julian said the painting had...
“After all,” he says, “you nearly had a 2, and it was found quite good.”
Now a wild desire to go and ask Tony what was said — and why not?
Yes — what do they find to criticise in my painting? This painting of which that withered Tony said: “It is very good, truly very good; it is observed — it is the opposite of the banal; the heads have perfectly observed characters. That little fellow in the foreground is extremely good, well drawn and well painted. It lacks here and there a little breadth of touch, but in sum it is set, composed, drawn, and there are qualities that compensate... It is seriously good.”
And then? Is he mad? Am I mad?
Honest Emile said even more. Boulanger and Franceschi too. And then? I never, of course, count those in whom there might be a shadow of flattery. So?? Well??
To believe oneself a beginning of strength and find oneself nothing!!!
The architect tells me: “Oh, you know, the number doesn’t mean much — it all happens any which way.”
Yes, but the placement??
I shall not speak of my family, who told me today that I am not happy because I am wicked and do not know what I want.
So I take more bromide after a two-hour hot bath. If these people continue to exasperate me I answer for nothing. I could brain one or two of them with anything — a candlestick, a hammer, whatever comes to hand.
in the marginécriture de Mme Bashkirtseff mère
written across the page It is because, my dear, my very dear child, you are ill. (Mme Bashkirtseff’s handwriting)

Notes

In French in the original: cimaise. The cimaise (picture rail) is the line at eye level where the most prestigious works were hung at the Salon — in English exhibition language, “the line” (as opposed to being “skied” above it or hung below it). ↩