Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Sunday, 13 July 1884

I went to see a daytime performance of wrestlers.

# Dimanche 13 juillet 1884

The lighting is not at all attractive. It would be false. One is accustomed to this spectacle in the evening, and then...

Ce n'est pas bien beau comme éclairage...

Tomorrow is the Bastille Day celebration. Paris is magnificent — flags everywhere, everyone is happy; I have myself driven about from two until seven o'clock all over the city, from Montmartre to the Hôtel de Ville.

C'est demain la fête du 14 juillet...

Well, and Bastien-Lepage? Does our attention at least give him pleasure? He might at least have said: how kind you are, Madame, or something of the sort that one normally says. Can it be that it displeases him?

Eh bien et Bastien-Lepage ?...

Yet he avails himself of it very fraternally. All the same, I am going to stop the expenditure; I am not sure of being agreeable... For after all, if all these civilities on our part bore and embarrass him?

Pourtant il en use très fraternellement...

His mother and brother would act accordingly and would not ask us to come... Well, I know nothing; only it is very uncomfortable...

La mère et le frère agiraient en conséquence...

We shall eat the same things, he said, and I shall say to myself: poor girl, she is doing as I do at this hour, while you will say: poor fellow, and so on.

Nous mangerons des mêmes choses a-t-il dit...

Can one demand social courtesies from a sick man — and an illustrious sick man — especially when one presents oneself as friends... as artists?

Peut-on exiger d'un malade et d'un malade illustre...

Monday, 14 July 1884.

Lundi 1 4 juillet 1 884

I have begun the treatment that is to cure me. And I feel entirely calmed. Even my painting presents itself more favourably.

J'ai commencé le traitement qui doit me guérir...

I think I shall... No.

Je crois que je ferai... Non.

I gave all the servants a day off and five francs each.

J'ai donné pour cent sous à tous les domestiques et congé.

Well, that is something Maman would never do. Why does everyone think her good??? And she thinks herself very good.

Eh bien voilà ce que maman ne fera jamais...

She has a very dry heart, or at least one incapable of any spontaneous kindness. She goes out dressed like a drunken prowler — her skirt askew and torn, collarless and sleeveless, a hat stuck God knows how on an indescribable chignon — and this is why she thinks herself good.

C'est un cœur très sec...

When it is an outing with me things are approximately decent, but without me!...

Quand c'est une sortie avec moi les choses sont à peu près convenables...

These people think I want only exaggerated, extraordinary, poetic, mad things. So when I ask that Maman go buy herself a sixty-franc skirt at the Louvre, it seems as though I am competing with the late Louis XIV and Sardanapalus.

Ces gens croient que je ne veux que des choses exagérées...

Ah! Misery.

Ah ! misère.

I no longer see my wrestlers.

Je ne *vois* plus mes lutteurs.

The booth audience and lighting do not give me what I dreamed of. Jugglers? That would be as well as any of those habitual everyday scenes, where the merit will lie in the deep study of characters.

Le public et l'éclairage de la baraque ne donnent pas ce que je rêvais...

A public bench on the Boulevard des Batignolles, or even the Avenue Wagram — have you looked at that? With the street and the people passing.

Un banc public sur le Boulevard des Batignolles...

All that a bench contains — what novels, what dramas!

Tout ce que contient un banc, quels romans, quels drames !

The déclassédeclasse with one arm resting on the back of the bench and the other on his knee, his gaze shifty; the woman and child on the knees, the working-class woman who drudges. The cheerful grocer's boy who has sat down to read a small paper. The workman asleep, the philosopher or the desperate man who smokes. I see perhaps too many things... Yet just look, around five or six in the evening.

Le déclassé avec un bras appuyé au dossier...

That's it, that's it, that's it! It seems to me I have found it.

Ça y est, ça y est, ça y est ! Il me semble que j'ai trouvé.

Yes, yes, yes — I may not do it, but my mind is at rest. I am dancing on one foot with joy.

Oui, oui, oui, je ne le ferai peut-être pas...

There are moments so very different! Sometimes one truly sees nothing in life, and then... I take up loving everything again!

Il y a des moments si différents !...

Everything around me! I wrap myself in my nightgown, half undressed — the skin is still beautiful and the form too; there are tones of such brilliance and fineness! [Ten lines cancelled]

Tout ce qui m'entoure !...

It is like a flood of life rushing in!

C'est comme un flot de vie qui entre !

And yet there is nothing to rejoice over.

Il n'y a pourtant pas de quoi se réjouir.

Ah! Never mind — I shall find something cheerful and adorable even in my death; I was made to be very happy, but...

Ah ! tant pis, je trouverai un côté gai et adorable même dans mon trépas...

Why in thy celestial work, so many elements so ill-accorded!

Pourquoi dans ton œuvre céleste, Tant d'éléments si peu d'accord !

Tuesday, 15 July 1884.

Mardi 1 5 juillet 1 884

The new volume of Maupassant comes with his portrait. He looks like a bull. And since he is very proud of his... his... physical faculties, it is a corner of stupidity in his nature. A coarsened thirty-three-year-old brawler's head.

Le nouveau volume de Maupassant est accompagné de son portrait...

Naturally he must have thought it was a woman attracted by that... particular side, who wanted a few letters... Imbecile. Though since he has never written anything that provokes pure letters... quite the contrary... he could well imagine it — and remain logical. But he is quite good-looking. One cannot judge entirely from an etching; I only trust cheap unretouched photographs.

Naturellement il a dû croire que c'était une femme attirée par ce... côté particulier...

The nose is absolutely that of a bull.

Le nez est d'un taureau tout à fait.

There was a moment of fairly keen curiosity when I had the book in my hands — what will this gentleman be like, this man I have sometimes thought about for four or five months? Well, he is better than I imagined, only he is a fundamentally stupid man, despite everything he writes. I do not know if I make myself understood... There are people of talent, wit, even genius, who have a corner of stupidity, and others... I ask myself whether Bastien-Lepage is free of it. Until now I have not noticed any... and it seems to me he is a nature exquisite in every way, further refined by some indefinable quality, something bitter and sardonic. But he is not a handsome man. Oh no — and Maupassant would look at him with considerable contempt.

Il y a eu un moment de curiosité assez vive...

The wrestlers no longer hold. I had seen some jugglers outdoors on the boulevard and told myself that with that public and some wrestlers, it would be very fine.

Les lutteurs ne se tiennent plus...

Then I went to see wrestlers in the evening at Neuilly, where the only audience is kept women and dandies; the working people have no interest in these bouts — it is only fashionable Parisians who go there as a lark. There is no wrestling in the street. And in the daytime in the booth, the lighting does not please me and the seated audience... In short, it is no longer the thing.

Puis j'ai été voir des lutteurs le soir à Neuilly...

So I return to an old project that takes hold of me entirely each time I see the good people on the public benches.

Je reviens donc à un projet ancien...

It could be a grandiose study. It is always better to paint scenes where the figures are not moving. Let me be clear: I am not opposed to movement, but in violent scenes there can be no illusion or aesthetic pleasure for a refined audience. One is painfully and without even realising it disconcerted by that arm raised to strike and which does not strike, by those legs running and remaining in the same place. There are very animated situations where one can nevertheless imagine an immobility of a few instants — and that is enough.

Ce pourait être une étude grandiose...

It is always better to seize the instant following a great movement or some violence, rather than the moment preceding it. Bastien's Jeanne d'Arc has heard voices; she walked forward precipitately, overturning her spinning wheel, and suddenly stopped dead, her back against a tree. But see the scenes with raised arms where people are acting — they may be very powerful, but there is never a sense of complete aesthetic satisfaction.

[Rayé: Caïn ayant tué Abel]

The distribution of flags by the Emperor, which is at Versailles.

La distribution des drapeaux par l'Empereur, qui est [à] Versailles.

Everyone rushes forward, arms are raised and yet it is very fine, for these arms were waiting, and one is seized, moved, swept along by the emotion of these men — one shares their impatience. The surge and the movement are prodigious, precisely because one can imagine an instant of arrest during which one can peacefully regard the scene as a real thing and not a painting.

Chacun se précipite, les bras sont levés...

But nothing can equal the grandeur of subjects at rest. Whether in sculpture or in painting. A mediocre man can execute a turbulent canvas well enough, but he will never make anything of a subject at rest — whereas that is where the truly great artist triumphs.

Mais rien ne peut égaler la grandeur des sujets au repos...

Compare Michelangelo's Thinker to all the most agitated groups.

Comparez le penseur de Michel-Ange à tous les groupes les plus mouvementés.

See Millet's canvases and compare them to every imaginable violence.

Voyez les toiles de Millet et comparez-les à toutes les violences imaginables.

See Michelangelo's Moses. He is motionless, but he is alive. His Thinker does not stir, does not speak — but it is because he chooses not to; he is a living man absorbed in his thoughts.

Voyez le Moïse de Michel-Ange...

Bastien's Pas mèche looks at you and listens to you — but he is about to speak, for he is alive.

Le Pas-mèche de Bastien vous regarde et vous écoute...

In his Haymaking, the man lying on his back with his face covered by his hat is asleep. But he lives. The woman seated and dreaming does not stir, but one feels she could rise — for she is alive.

Dans ses Foins, l'homme couché sur le dos...

My subject at rest can alone give complete aesthetic pleasure; it leaves time to be absorbed in it, to penetrate it, to see it live.

Mon sujet au repos peut seul donner des jouissances complètes...

The imbeciles and the ignorant think that it is easier to do. Ah! Misery.

Les imbéciles et les ignorants pensent que *c'est plus facile à faire.*

If I ever die it will be of indignation at human stupidity, which is infinite, as Flaubert said — the late patron of that cow — no, that bull — Maupassant.

Si je meurs jamais ce sera d'indignation devant la bêtise humaine...

The thing is that truly in everything he has written, it is only about... that. It is like a monomania. One is embarrassed and disgusted.

C'est que vraiment dans tout ce qu'il a écrit...

Besides, oh French naturalists — you are merely adopting a current that has its source in Russia. They have been writing admirable things in Russia for thirty years!

Du reste ô naturalistes français vous ne faites qu'adopter un courant...

Reading War and Peace by Count Tolstoy some years ago, I was struck to the point of exclaiming: but this is like Zola! And it is true — a study in the Revue des Deux Mondes is devoted today to our Tolstoy, and my Russian heart leaps for joy.

En lisant il y a quelques années la Paix et la guerre du Comte Tolstoï...

This study is by Monsieur de Vogüé, who was secretary of the embassy in Russia, who has studied its literature and customs, and who has already published several articles that are remarkably accurate and profound concerning my great and admirable country.

Cette étude est de M. de Voguë...

And you, wretch! You live in France, you prefer to be a foreigner rather than stay at home! The great difference that exists between Zola and Tolstoy is that Tolstoy does not often speak of rut, desires, sex, and so on. He speaks of everything and avoids nothing, yet these things do not dominate... It is also that they are not so frequent in real life that one cannot write two pages without dwelling lovingly on... the conjunction of the sexes. And Zola is nothing compared to that pornographer Maupassant, who has only that in his repertoire.

Et toi misérable ! Tu vis en France...

Zola is great and Count Tolstoy is great.

Zola est grand et le comte Tolstoï est grand.

Ah! You shall see how we shall fall upon you, decomposed Latins! Let my Russia only be free. What forces! What sap! — as Maupassant would say.

Ah ! vous verrez comme nous vous tomberons Latins décomposés !

But you will say, in your capacity as a maiden, this must preoccupy you... But I do not say no — only in Maupassant's case it is spoken of so much that I am weary and disgusted by it, and if I had bad thoughts, that animal's books would make me virtuous.

Mais direz-vous en votre qualité de vierge...

Well then, since you love your great, your beautiful, your sublime Russia — go and work for her!

Eh bien puisque tu aimes ta grande, ta belle, ta sublime Russie...

If I went there I would involve myself in politics and be clapped in prison. An obscure martyr! And even admitting they talked about it for two months — then it is all over. I would have neither freedom for Russia's sake nor artistic glory. If everyone reasoned as I do, you will say, nothing would ever get done. You are right — and so not everyone reasons this way and I preach to no one; I am an isolated case.

Si j'y allais je m'occuperais de politique et serais coffrée...

When thousands have sacrificed themselves, I would go to enjoy the success won by these obscure and often futile heroes...

Lorsque des milliers se seront immolés...

I too am working for the glory of my country... if I ever have a great talent like Tolstoy — is that not more glorious than dynamite bombs? And besides, it is more agreeable for me.

Moi je travaille aussi à la gloire de mon pays...

Yet who knows what can happen... And... If I did not have my painting, I would go! Upon my honour I would go! But my work absorbs my faculties and everything else becomes an interlude, an amusement.

Pourtant qui sait ce qui peut arriver...

And then truly I would only swell the mass of unknowns imprisoned or killed. If I could tip the scales I would go at the risk of my life — you do not doubt it. But at this hour, there is nothing to be done for the... isolated cases like me.

Et puis vraiment je ne ferais que grossir la masse des inconnus incarcérés ou tués...

Thursday, 17 July 1884.

Jeudi 1 7 juillet 1 884

The priest's wife and daughter came.

La femme et la fille du pope sont venues.

This time they say it is serious — cholera is in Paris.

Cette fois on dit que c'est sérieux, le choléra est à Paris.

And how could it be otherwise?

Et comment n'y serait-il pas ?

Seventy people a day are dying in Marseille and thirty in Toulon, and travellers circulate continuously between these two plague-ridden cities and Paris. All the same, there are strange ways of going about things.

Il meurt soixante-dix personnes par jour à Marseille...

Toulon has cholera — isolate Toulon and you save Europe.

Toulon a le choléra, isolez Toulon et vous sauvez l'Europe.

No, one does not dare isolate Toulon — how is one to prevent people from leaving?! Absurd. What is the interest or the death of a few in comparison with the interest of all? It would cause an outcry but it would be very right. Now cholera is in Marseille, in Aix, then other cities — because they did not dare inconvenience a few people.

Non, on n'ose pas isoler Toulon...

I know perfectly well that if a city were isolated there would be howls. But I repeat — Toulon on one side and all of France on the other: can one hesitate? One ought to shoot those who tried to get out. I know there would be dreadful protests, ladies screaming that they are going to find sick children or daughters in childbirth. That is precisely what I would not care about if I were the government. Is it possible that an entire country should be infected so as not to inconvenience one small city — and in sum those who left did not save themselves, they merely carried cholera elsewhere, that is all.

Je sais bien que si on isolait une ville il y aurait des hurlements...

I am not afraid — I only fear diseases that disfigure.

Moi je n'ai pas peur, je ne crains que les maladies qui défigurent.

Bojidar arrived from Bucharest, from Gastein, from everywhere. This gives occasion for gossip, especially as it is raining and my canvas is not yet stretched.

Bojidar est arrivé de Bucarest, de Gastein, de partout...

There was an artist's funeral in our street, and Albert Wolff was among those present. That moved me.

Il y a eu un enterrement d'artiste dans notre rue...

And afterwards I thought for an instant I saw Madame Mackay pass. It is strange how that woman makes my heart beat — quite inexplicable. For after all, I do not love her Jules, do I?

Et après j'ai cru un instant voir passer Mme Mackay...

Bojidar gone, I explain to Dina that Bastien-Lepage is not kind. I reproach him for nothing; only I no longer wish to show such warm friendship, since if I felt some sympathy, I would be three times more amiable — but if I felt at ease... I would have gone every day! It is not his fault nor ours. He does not dislike us; he finds us quite amiable no doubt, but he has friends he prefers, with whom he opens himself, with whom he is more at ease. I myself — well, Julian might come in and I would always be very glad, but I would be more reserved with Gavini or Engelhardt.

Bojidar parti j'explique à Dina que le Bastien-Lepage n'est pas gentil...

One loves one's friends more or less. Only since we are not the chosen of his heart, he ought to be conventionally polite — and he is not. He dispenses with small courtesies and ceremony, and he does not love us. So!

On aime plus ou moins ses amis...

It is very humiliating to observe. One would far rather say he detests us — that would be more acceptable. But to be for him what the Engelhardts or the Tchoumakoffs are for us!... That is hard, when one goes with one's whole heart...

C'est très humiliant à constater...

Dina finds that very just... I hope therefore that these ladies will send him nothing in secret from me.

Dina touve que c'est très juste...

So there it is, it is said. We shall occupy ourselves no further. That is a resolution.

Alors, voilà, c'est dit. On ne s'en occupera plus. C'est une solution.

Good.

Bien.

Then Emile came in the evening. That pig Jules and his mother spent three days in the country with a certain Madame Bouchardon or Bouchardier who has a son who is Jules's friend. So he has the strength to go elsewhere, the rogue!

Alors Emile est venu le soir...

Emile also dispenses with thanks — he seems to find all of it quite natural and treats us as dear friends.

Emile aussi supprime les remerciements...

It seems the salmon of the other day gave Jules a ferocious appetite and he devoured it.

Il paraît que le saumon de l'autre jour a donné un appétit féroce à Jules...

He also loves chicken soup very much, and Emile asks how it is made, so Dina says it is simpler if we send him some — he agrees, and in fact he does.

Il aime aussi beaucoup le potage au poulet...

And since we received some smoked fish directly from Russia we give him some to take away in a packet. This good fellow slings it on the end of his walking stick and goes off like a pilgrim.

Et comme on a reçu du poisson fumé directement de Russie...

Well yes. All the same, I do not feel that he loves me.

Ben oui. C'est égal je ne sens pas qu'il m'aime.

We are like family — he accepts our friendship with gratitude, very simply, without affectation. He proves by this that we are good friends with whom he stands on no ceremony. And yet I do not feel at ease.

Nous sommes comme des parents...

I do not feel that he loves me — he has thirty people he prefers to me or loves as much as me.

Je ne sens pas qu'il m'aime...

That is unacceptable. And yet it is a thing of which one cannot reasonably complain.

C'est inacceptable. Et pourtant c'est une chose dont on ne peut se plaindre raisonnablement.

Why is it that I am very glad to spend hours with Julian or Emile and send for them, whereas I merely tolerate the Engelhardts?

Pourquoi est-ce que je suis très contente de passer des heures avec Julian ou Emile...

That is how it is.

C'est comme ça.

Notes

Déclassé: a person who has fallen from their social position — no direct English equivalent. ↩