Letters of Marie Bashkirtseva

Front matter

Chap Z~

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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.

Introduction

Last winter I went to pay my respects to a Russian lady of my acquaintance who was passing through Paris, and who was stopping with Madame Bashkirtseff at her hotel in the Rue Ampere.

I found there a very sympathetic company of middle-aged ladies and young girls, all speaking French perfectly, with that slight accent which gives to our language, when spoken by Russians, an indescribable softness.

In this charming circle, with its pleasant surroundings, I received a cordial welcome. But scarcely was I seated

INTRODUCTION.

near the " samovar," a cup of tea in my hand, when my attention was arrested by a large portrait of one of the young ladies present — a perfect likeness, freely and boldly treated, with all the fougtie of a master's brush. " It is my daughter Marie," said Madame Bashkirtseff to me, " who painted this portrait of her cousin."

I began by saying something complimentary. I could not go on. Another canvas, and another, and still another attracted me, revealing to me an exceptional artist. I was charmed by one picture after the other. The drawing-room walls were covered with them, and at each one of my exclamations of delighted surprise, Madame Bashkirtseff repeated to me, with a tone in her voice of tenderness rather than of

INTRODUCTION.

pride, " It is my daughter Marie " — or, " It is my daughter's."

At this moment Mile. Bashkirtseff appeared. I saw her but once. I saw her only for an hour. I shall never forget her. Twenty-three years old, but she appeared much younger. Rather short, but with a perfect figure ; an oval face exquisitely modeled, golden hair, dark eyes kindling with intelligence — eyes consumed by the desire to see and to know everything — a firm mouth, tender and thoughtful ; nostrils quivering like those of a wild horse of the Ukraine.

At the first glance Mile. Bashkirtseff gave me the rare impression of being possessed of strength in gentleness, dignity in grace. Everything in this adorable young girl betrayed a superior

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mind. Beneath her womanly charms, she had a truly masculine will of iron, and one was reminded of the gift of Ulysses to the young Achilles — a sword hidden within the garments of a woman.

She replied to my congratulations in a frank and well-modulated voice — without false modesty acknowledging her high ambitions, and — poor child ! already with the finger of death upon her — her impatience for fame.

In order to see her other works, we all went upstairs to her studio. There was this extraordinary young girl entirely "in her element."

The large hall was divided into two rooms. The studio proper, where the light streamed through the large sash, and a darker corner heaped up with

INTRODUCTION. XUl

papers and books. In the one she worked, in the other she read.

By instinct I went straight to the chef-d'oeuvre — to that " Meeting" which at the last Salon had engrossed so much attention. A group of little Parisian street boys, talking seriously together, undoubtedly planning some mischief, before a wooden fence at the corner of a street. It is a chef-d'oeuvre, I maintain. The faces and the attitudes of the children are strikingly real. The glimpse of meager landscape expresses the sadness of the poorer neighborhoods.

At the Exhibition, before this charming picture, the public had with an unanimous voice bestowed the medal on Mile. Bashkirtseff, who had been already "mentioned" the year before. Why was this verdict not confirmed by

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INTRODUCTION.

the jury ? Because the artist was a foreigner ? Who knows ? Perhaps because of her wealth ? This injustice made her suffer, and she endeavored — the noble child ! — to avenge herself by redoubling her efforts.

In one hour I saw there twenty canvases commenced ; a hundred designs — drawings, painted studies, the cast of a statue, portraits which suggested to me the name of Frans Hals, scenes made from life in the open streets ^ notably one large sketch of a landscape — the October mist on the shore, the trees half stripped, big yellow leaves strewing the ground. In a word, works in which is incessantly sought, or more often asserts itself, the sentiment of the sincerest and most original art, and of the most personal talent.

IXTRODUCTION

Notwithstanding this, a lively curiosity impelled me to the dark corner of the studio, where I saw numerous volumes on shelves and scattered over a work-table. I went closer and looked at the titles. They were the great works of the greatest intellects. They were all there in their own languages — French, Italian, English, and German ; Latin also, and even Greek, and they were not " library books," either, as the Philistines call them, "show books," but well-thumbed volumes, read, re-read, and pored over. A copy of Plato, open at a sublime passage, was on the desk.

Before my visible astonishment Mile. Bashkirtseff lowered her eyes, as if confused at the fear that I might think her a " blue stocking," while her mother

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proudly kept on telling me of her daughter's encyclopaedic learning, and pointed out to me manuscripts black with notes, and the open piano at which her beautiful hands interpreted all kinds of music.

Evidently annoyed by the expression of maternal pride, tire young girl laughingly interrupted the conversation. It was time for me to leave, and moreover for a moment I experienced a vague apprehension, a sort of alarm — I can scarcely call it a presentiment.

Before that pale and ardent young girl I thought of some extraordinary hot-house plant, beautiful and fragrant beyond words, and in my heart of hearts a sweet voice murmured, " It is too much ! "

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Alas ! it was indeed too much. A few months after my one visit to the Rue Ampere I received the sinister notice, bordered with black, informing me that Mile. Bashkirtseff was no more. She had died at twenty-three years of age, having taken a cold while making a sketch in the open air. Once again I visited the now desolate house. The stricken mother, a prey to a devouring and arid grief, unable to shed tears, showed me, for the second time, in their old places, the pictures and the books. She spoke to me for a long time of her poor dead child, revealing the tenderness of her heart, which her intellect had not extinguished. She led me, convulsed by sobs, even to the bed-chamber, before the little iron bedstead, the bed of a soldier, upon which

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the heroic child had fallen asleep forever

But why try to influence the public ? In the presence of the works of Marie Bashkirtseff, before that harvest of hopes wilted by the breath of death, every one would surely experience, with an emotion deep as my own, the same profound melancholy as would be inspired by edifices crumbling before their completion, or new ruins scarcely risen from the ground, which flowers and ivy have not yet covered