Sunday, 18 May 1884

My family will be the death of me
Mme Gaillard and Bagnitsky are here to dinner. And Emile Bastien, deeply moved by my letter. He greeted me quite differently, and several times I could see him looking at me with tenderness — all perfectly proper. I had written so kindly: “say nothing to anyone to avoid gossip — let it remain between us.”
And so here we are, friends — by reason of our shared tenderness for the great Jules. You will see what comes of it.
Bagnitsky tells me (I had been coming back from the Bois, where I had gone with the Saritsky girls who are passing through — the father who once wanted to marry Maman has become a grand personage, and now Maman pays court to his daughters) — he tells me that at the painter Bogoluboff’s, people were discussing the Salon, and someone — an artist he would of course not name — said: “There is a very fine Bastien-Lepage, signed Bashkirtseff.”
As I began to tremble all over at this, for I had foreseen it, the architect tells me to calm myself.
— But you do not know what they are saying! (We were speaking Russian.)
— Yes I do. Come, let me tell you.
And in the anteroom he begins to console me — that it is absurd, that no one will believe it, and that if my painting resembles his brother’s it is only because, like him, I seek truth and am sincere before nature, and so on. Meanwhile I, who felt like the guilty one and had very nearly begun to think he must be furious with me on account of these slanders.
For it is infamous — for Jules Bastien-Lepage as much as for me! Well, this excellent man consoles me as best he can, reassures me; I am almost glad of it, so afraid was I that all this would make me look as though I had imitated Bastien-Lepage, compromised him, and so on... This man ought to be furious on his brother’s behalf. And I regard him as the faithful echo of his brother... Well then, I am very saddened and I lament human infamy a little — so as to be reassured, consoled, and coaxed by Mme Gaillard, Bagnitsky, and Emile; the last two speak to me as they would to a child and end by kissing my hands. At bottom I rather enjoyed inspiring compassion — and especially Emile, who shook me by the arm saying: come now, rise above it. You are a force, and so on. You cannot imagine how much importance I attach to what this young man says.
He is sincerity itself. It is even comical. Sometimes I remark laughingly that I am the greatest of artists, and this charming innocent stops me in all seriousness: “Come now, you cannot think that — why speak like this when one has a genuine great talent?”
He is a little silly sometimes, but he is an artist and his judgements are remarkable — I attribute them, what is more, to Jules, which is perfectly natural.
And so there I was, saying sadly that life is bitter, while Maman very stupidly kept interfering and ruining all my effects by taking it tragically and coming to reassure me. She imagines! No, it is senseless. One cannot conceive it! She wanted me to believe that Bagnitsky had invented the whole thing to tease me, or that the gentleman who said it had said it on purpose to infuriate me, “being presumably acquainted with my character.”
It is deranged, is it not. Monumental. Suppose, I said to her later, that I were truly, deeply upset by this gossip. Do you imagine your idiotic words will soothe me? No, with this woman there is simply no way.
And to engage in arguments with me for the gallery — which simply is not done!!! She thinks me an idiot — for at every moment, whenever I am displeased with something, she says I am mistaken, that it is not so, and invents childish fictions to calm me. Which makes me furious.
But all that is the small dishes. Here is the main course. In front of Mme Gaillard, in front of Bagnitsky whom the architect barely knows, she begins blurting out the whole story of the doctors, the woman from Souny, Jules’s illness — insisting on the details of his suffering and the dangers he faces. To understand what an outrage this is, one must know how much this man adores his brother and what a humiliating and horrible grief it is for him to hear his brother’s illness picked over by strangers. He keeps to himself so that no one will speak of it. There [Two illegible lines blacked out] Is it pleasant to hear... But do you remember how I, and how my household, received Mme Mouzay, who wrote to me that I was dying and recommended this or that doctor?
And after what I had written. Ah! it was so stupid, so foolish, so indelicate, so clumsy... And I was reduced to looking like an idiot, a chatterbox, an indifferent person!
That will teach me, that will teach me, that will teach me! Why did I tell them? Ah! What wretchedness!
No, but just imagine — their great clumsy paws thrust into my tender friendships. Ah!
It is four in the morning. Seeing that I was furious, Dina kept Emile and Bagnitsky as long as she could so that it would be too late for family scenes. It changed nothing... I said all this to them between two and three in the morning, in Maman’s room. Can one imagine such a thing! Ah! these people will be the death of me. If I were even asking them to assist me — no, I implore them on my knees to leave me in peace, nothing more! That is all. Peace, peace, peace! Stay neutral. Neutral — that is all.
That I should have the freedom to complain, to speak of human wretchedness, to philosophise with the people who come here — without being subjected to ridiculous scenes.
On the whole I am flattered by the stir my painting is causing. I am envied, I am slandered — I am somebody. So I am perfectly entitled to pose a little if that is my pleasure. But no — I say in a woeful tone:
— Do you not find it horrible — is there not reason enough to be cast down! I spend six years — the six finest years of my life — working like a convict, seeing no one and enjoying nothing of life! After six years I produce something good, and they say it is not by me! The reward of so much labour turns into a dreadful calumny!!!
This I say stretched out on a bearskin rug, arms limp, sincere and posing at the same time. Whereupon my dear Maman takes it literally — (and even that is not it; suppose I were truly desperate enough to die, it is not these foolish inventions and naive falsehoods that will console me,) and puts her foot in it!!!!!!!
I stayed there repeating all this, and that they will be the death of me, and so on — sitting on the staircase and shouting loud enough to be heard from the bedroom. My throat is swollen. I shall not go to bed. But left alone and yielding to my invincible instinct for gaiety, I amuse myself by making wild-beast sounds to terrorise Coco, who goes quite mad and leaps about as if an electric current were being applied to him. In the end he absolutely wanted to go off with Rosalie, looking at me with horror.
He is a peculiar creature — the more afraid of me he is, the closer he presses to me. That is to say: he bolts in a frenzy, and when I call him he throws himself into my arms with his head down, as though in despair, preferring to have it over with at once — hiding his nose in my neck and trembling. Poor old dear.
There — it is broad daylight and here we are, into the next day.