Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Wednesday, 30 April 1884

And Le Gaulois, appearing with a floor plan of the Salon on the same day as Le Figaro, carries equal importance, it seems to me, or nearly so.
Le Voltaire, which publishes a similar issue, treats me as well as Le Gaulois. These are the important pieces. Le Journal des Arts, which also publishes a bird's-eye overview, says it thought it saw a Bastien-Lepage in my Meeting. That is probably spite. L'Intransigeant, in a similar issue, also treats me well.
The other newspapers will publish their notices one by one.
Only Le Figaro, Le Gaulois and Le Voltaire do these things on the very morning of the Vernissage.
Am I pleased? It is a simple question. Not too much, not too little... there is just enough to save me from being devastated — that is all.
I have just come from there. We only arrived at noon and left at five, an hour before closing. I have a headache.
I detest going out with only my family — it is crushingly dull.
[Written over: and without your family you refused to go out at all.] (In Mme Bashkirtseff's handwriting)
But we did encounter a few oases — Carolus, Julian, Emile, Bertier, and then some society people. Carolus tells me very graciously that I have no need to thank him, that I owe the cimaise to myself alone. Julian says I have a medal in the bag. [Crossed out: 2 lines cancelled] We exchange only a few words otherwise. And Emile, who stays longer, tells me it is one of the fine things in the Salon, that people think well of it, and that Fourcaud looked at it this morning and finds it slightly stiff in the paint — which Emile also finds, and which surprises him, because I paint broadly, he says.
— When I told Fourcaud what you were, he refused to believe it; he couldn't get over it at your age! He said he would sooner believe it was painted by a man — and a strong one.
We sit for a long time on the bench before the painting.
Many people looked at it and I laughed to myself thinking that not one of them would ever seek the painter in the elegant young lady seated there, displaying such small, so perfectly shod feet.
Ah, all this is far better than last year.
Is it a success? In the genuine, serious sense, naturally? Well, almost... As great as Breslau's first, at any rate — though she has had none since, it is true. She exhibits two portraits; I have only seen one, which astonished me greatly — it is an imitation of Manet, and it displeases me. It is no longer as strong as before. Well, what I am about to say may be dreadful, but it does not sadden me. Nor am I pleased about it either — no, there is room for everyone. Yet I confess I prefer it this way.
Bastien has only his small painting from last year. The Forge. It is an old blacksmith in the darkness of his smithy. It holds its own against the darkest small canvases in the museums. For there is no one but Bastien. He is not yet well enough to work.
Poor Emile looks sad and says he is going to throw himself in the river. He looks preoccupied and vexed and no longer comes often.
He has not been escorting old Mackay about. I am annoyed at seeing so little of this good fellow, and almost piqued that he manages so well without me.
I too am sad, and I think that despite my painting, my sculpture, my music, my literature — yes, despite all of that — I think I am bored.
[She is ill, my poor child.] (In Mme Bashkirtseff's handwriting)

Notes

The cimaise is the picture rail at eye level at the Paris Salon — the most desirable hanging position, where important works were displayed. ↩