IV
What remained of her? A book of a thousand pages, of which, in ten years, nearly ten thousand copies were sold, which André Theuriet provided with an introductory poem written in his best style, and to which Maurice Barrès dedicated an altar built by himself and sanctified a rather mistaken Marie Bashkirtseff cult. There was also “A Meeting” in the Luxembourg, which, according to Marie Bashkirtseff’s own report, Bastien Lepage criticised as follows: “He says that it is comparatively easy to do choses canailles, peasants, street urchins, and especially caricatures; but to paint beautiful things, and to paint them with character,—there is the difficulty.”
In order to complete the sketch of this girl, in which I have tried especially to accentuate the typical element, I should like to let her speak for herself, with her characteristic expressions, her impulsive views and peculiar temperament.
At the age of thirteen, she writes:—
“My blood boils, I am quite pale, then suddenly the blood rises to my head, my cheeks burn, my heart beats, and I cannot remain quiet anywhere; the tears burn within me, I force them back, and that only makes me more miserable; all this undermines my health, ruins my character, makes me irritable and impatient. One can always see it in a person’s face, whether they take life quietly. As for me, I am always excited. When they deprive me of my time for learning, they rob me for the whole of my life. When I am sixteen or seventeen, my mind will be occupied with other thoughts; now is the time to learn.”
And afterwards, with a depth of understanding worthy of Nietzsche:—
“All that I say is not original, for I have no originality. I live only outside myself. To walk or to stand still, to have or not to have, it is all the same to me. My sorrows, my joys, my troubles do not exist....”
And again:—
“I want to live faster, faster, fast.... I am afraid it is true that this longing to live with the speed of steam foretells a short life....”
“Would you believe it? To my mind everything is good and beautiful, even tears, even pain. I like to cry, I like to be in despair, I like to be sad. I like life, in spite of all. I want to live. I long for happiness, and yet I am happy when I am sad. My body cries and shrieks; but something in me, which is above me, enjoys it all.”
Then this simile, drawn with wonderful delicacy:—
“At every little sorrow my heart shrinks into itself, not for my own sake, but out of pity—I do not know whether anybody will understand what I mean—every sorrow is like a drop of ink that falls into a glass of water; it cannot be obliterated, it unites itself with its predecessors and makes the clear water gray and dirty. You may add as much water as you like, but nothing will make it clear again. My heart shrinks into itself, because every sorrow leaves a stain on my life, and on my soul, and I watch the stains increasing in number on the white dress which I ought to have kept clean.”
At the age of fourteen she wrote these prophetic words:—
“Oh! how impatient I am. My time will come; I believe it, yet something tells me that it will never come, that I shall spend the whole of my life waiting, always waiting. Waiting ... waiting!”
When she was sixteen, at the time of the incident with the cardinal’s nephew:—
“If I am as pretty as I think, why is it that no one loves me? People look at me! They fall in love! But they do not love me! And I do so want to be loved.”
At seventeen, the first entry in her journal for that year:—
“When shall I get to know what this love is of which we hear so much?”
Later on:—
“Very much disgusted with myself. I hate all that I do, say, and write. I despise myself, because not a single one of my expectations has been fulfilled. I have deceived myself.
“I am stupid, I have no tact, and I never had any. I thought I was intellectual, but I have no taste. I thought I was brave; I am a coward. I believed I had talent, but I do not know how I have proved it.”
At the age of eighteen:—
“My body like that of an antique goddess, my hips rather too Spanish, my breast small, perfectly formed, my feet, my hands, my child-like head. À quoi bon? When no one loves me.
“There is one thing that is really beautiful, antique: that is a woman’s self-effacement in the presence of the man she loves; it must be the greatest, most self-satisfying delight that a superior woman can feel.”
In 1882, at the beginning of her illness:—
“So I am consumptive, and have been so for the last two or three years. It is not yet bad enough to die of it.... Let them give me ten years longer, and in these ten years, fame or love, and I shall die contented, at the age of thirty.”
The following year:—
“No, I never was in love, and I never shall be any more; a man would have to be very great to please me now, I require so much....
“And simply to fall in love with a handsome boy,—no, it would not answer. Love could no longer wholly occupy me now; it would be a matter of secondary importance, a decoration to the building, an agreeable superfluity. The idea of a picture or a statue keeps me awake for nights together, which the thought of a handsome man has never done.”
In another place:—
“Whom shall I ask? Who will be truthful? Who will be just?”
“You, my only friend, you at least will be truthful, for you love me. Yes, I love myself, myself only.”
Two weeks before her death, after a visit from Bastien Lepage:—
“I was dressed entirely in lace and plush, all white, but different kinds of white; Bastien Lepage opened his eyes wide with joy.
“‘If only I could paint!’ he said.
“‘And I!’
“Obliged to give it up,—the picture for this year!”
Her portrait represents the face of a typical beauty of Little Russia; the firm, dark eyebrows, arched over eyes that are far apart, give the face an expression that is peculiarly honest and straightforward. The eyes gaze fixedly and dreamily into the distance; the nose is short, with nostrils slightly distended, the mouth soft and determined, with the upper lip passionately compressed. The face is round as a child’s, and the neck short and powerful, on a squarely built, fully developed body.