BOOKS.

THE JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.* WHEN the history of a human soul is written without reserve by itself, it is the most interesting reading in the world. It is his- tory written with human blood. More certainly is this the case when the writer is young, sensitive, and so morbidly egotistical that her own follies, let alone worse things, appeal more to her admiration than all the noble deeds and generous thoughts of a whole world beside. Marie Bashkirtseff bad the making of a great and noble woman. She lived and died one of the vainest, and, we might almost say, one of the unhappiest of women, not from any undeserved trials or paralysing sin, but from a self-conscious vanity and envy which she dignifies with the name of insatiable ambition. Even at thirteen, she says, " I

was made for emotion, for success I dream of nothing but fame, of being known all over the world." This is the true key to all that follows. If fame cannot be won in one way, let it be in another. If a brilliant marriage won't bring it, then art shall. If art is cut short by death, at least her Journal remains, and the world shall know what it has lost. In that, at least, her personality shall strike the imagination, even if it fails to command admiration. "If I do not die young," she writes, " I hope to survive as a great artist ; but if I do, I will have my Journal published, which cannot fail to be interesting." And she had the courage of her in- tention. " If this book be not the exact, the absolute, the strict truth, it has no right to exist. I not only say all the time what I think, but I never contemplated hiding for an instant what might make me appear ridiculous, or prove to my die. advantage ; for the rest, I think myself too admirable for censure." It is difficult to decide whether her egotism or vanity should have the palm.

This diary is now before the public in a translated form, and Marie Bashkirtseff, dead at the age of twenty-four, has what she lived for,—fame. What that fame amounts to, the pages of her Journal show. She conceals nothing, and is ashamed of nothing, but taking the public behind the scenes,

• The Journal of Marie Bashicirtseff. Translated, with an Introduction 1 y Xathilde Blind. With 2 Portraits, London : Cassell and Co. asks them to handle and examine what the idol is made of. Fine gold, she says. And if a strong personality without a trace of cowardice makes of itself fine gold, she says right ; but if moral worth and Christian virtues count for anything,

then the glitter is by no means always gold, and the marble is often but clay.

At thirteen, when the Diary begins, Marie's future, so far as her own desire was concerned, centred itself upon a wild and passionate attraction for the unknown person of the Duke of H—, a fashionable English nobleman who " looked so distinguished among the vulgar crowd of Nice." He does

not know her, even by sight, but she prays with passionate fervour:— "Oh, God ! these thoughts are crushing me. I shall die of misery at the thought that he will never love me ! I have no hope. I was mad to wish something so impossible. I wanted what was too beautiful. Ah ! no, I must not give way thus. Why should I despair. . . . . . Is it because God does not grant me my wish at once that I dare deny it ? No, no. He is too merciful. He will not allow my beautiful soul to be torn by cruel doubts."

Such are the prayers and thoughts of the youthful Marie, and these are her reflections when, a few months later, she learns of the Duke's marriage :— " I have gone through jealousy, love, every disillusion, wounded

self-love—everything that is hideous in life There is one thing that troubles me; to think that in a few years I shall laugh at it all and have forgotten."

But it is comforting to know she was spared that crowning sorrow, for two years later she writes on the margin of her diary, "I don't laugh at it, and I have not forgotten."

Such a state of feeling could but develop into still further self-analysis, which could only have been checked and pruned by discipline of some sort. And discipline, except in the in- exorable form of circumstance, she never had. Not that cir- cumstances were of a specially adverse kind except in her own imagining. Most girls would gladly have changed places with this spoilt child of fortune. She was striking, if not beautiful, with a personal fascination which gained her many lovers.

The family was rich, and she had devoted and indulgent relations who lived only for her. Her translator speaks of " the ineradicable procrastination " of her family, " indolent as only Russians know how to be," and certainly in the case of her fast developing illness they showed a weak- ness of character and will which fell little short of man- slaughter. But Marie was " kittle cattle to drive," and her temper and disposition were none of the sweetest. Her insatiable egotism coloured every thought. Even her religion must be dissected, and if the idol she erects in the place of God does not grant her wishes, no heathen devotee could apply the scourge more unsparingly. At the same time, a sense of humour flashes through the self-analysis. She must be taken with a grain. Life without the gratification of every wish must indeed be a bitter thing ; still, it is life, and a large part of that life is to hold up the mirror to a sympathetic audience. She could have been saved from much in youth if she had come across a nature which commanded her own ; but no such nature enters her horizon. Her mother, whom she really loved, did not command her respect ; and her aunt, though possessed with the spirit of self-abnegation, had no strength of character to obtain influence over a powerful and wilful nature like Marie's. Of real education Marie had none. Her own natural bias led her into intellectual paths, and Baizac, Zola, and others like them were read and appre- ciated. Sterner writers were also studied. Homer, Plato, and Dante were among her authors, and her literary criticisms in later years were, as a rule, sound and penetrating ; but of discipline of will and thought there is not a trace. The whole- some lessons of pain and self-denial were kept from her as much as possible. At sixteen she writes :—

" I want to go out into the world ; I want to shine in it ; I want to occupy a supreme position. I want to be rich ; I want to have pictures, palaces, jewels. I want to be the centre of a circle that shall be political, brilliant, literary, philanthropic, and frivolous.

I want all that May God give it to me ! Oh, God ! do not punish me for these wildly ambitious thoughts Am I guilty in wishing to be great ? No ; for I will use my greatness in thanking God, and wishing to be happy ! People who are satis- fied with a modest and comfortable home, are they less ambitious than I ? No ; for they can't see beyond. He who is content to pass his life humbly in the bosom of his family, is he modest and moderate in his desires owing to his virtue, his resignation, and his wisdom ? No, no, no. It makes him happy to be so ; he finds his greatest happiness in this retired existence. If he does not wish it, it is because it would make him wretched. There are

others who dare not ; as for them, they are not wise—they are cowards, for they secretly covet things, but nevertheless remain where they are, not from Christian humility, but owing to their timid and incapable natures. Oh, God, if my conclusions are wrong, enlighten me, forgive me, and have mercy upon me !"

Whether her conclusions were right or wrong, at least they are held and expressed with a frankness and cynicism which is worthy of an old woman of the world.

It was not in the natural order of things that these early years should not produce a serious love-affair. During a visit to Rome in 1876, Marie comes across Pietro A—, a nephew of a great cardinal, whose admiration for the brilliant and fascinating girl soon developed into real passion on his side. But love was not to be the ruling note of Marie's life. At sixteen her pride was too strong, and her ambition still too unsatisfied, to permit of any weak yielding of herself to softer feelings. It was far too early yet for her aspirations to settle down into any career which shone with divided splendour.

She is amused and then touched by the devoted passion she

has aroused. Though she will not return the affection, and even distrusts its constancy, she will not let him go. At least it serves to pass the time, and it flatters her vanity to be spoken of as the possible bride of a great Italian nobleman. But it is here that she is abruptly taught her first real lesson of life. On the eve of her departure for Nice, Marie allows, and even plans, a secret midnight meeting with her lover, which she makes secure by locking her aunt into her room. Though the interview is productive of nothing worse than a lover's kiss, the humiliation and stain can never be effaced from Marie's recollection, and in this we have a fair specimen of Marie's conscience. Of any sense of sin or of remorse for the pain she gives to others, she is devoid—of a pride which goes far to make her life wretched she has more than her share.

It is not the deception nor vanity which she regrets in the affair—it is the comparatively harmless kiss for which she can never forgive herself. Years afterwards she refers to it as the most humiliating thing she had ever experienced.

She had permitted and returned an innocent embrace, and is soiled for life. Envy and pride are permissible ; but a kiss ! She can never be the same again. What added a sting to the humiliation was that the noble family of the A—s declined the alliance, and Pietro writes finally that his father would grant him no allowance. We can hardly blame him ; for fascinating as Marie Bashkirtseff was, she was eminently unsuited for youthful marriage.

The next three or four years were perhaps the happiest of poor Marie's life. Her health still fairly good, her beauty growing, her heart free, and her wild, insatiable ambition beginning to find its true and legitimate outlet. After leaving Rome and her Italian lover, she goes to Russia to try and effect a reconciliation between her father and mother, who had lived apart for many years ; but the visit leaves little or no mark upon her life. On her return Marie threw herself into Art, which shortly became the master-passion of her existence. It touched every side of her nature. Energy, enthusiasm, pride, ambition, were all capable of being grati- fied by its successes. In Art she could almost forget that the world had other interests. Lovers, society, friends, were outside her, and became almost unnecessary for her happiness. If she could surpass every pupil of the studio at the end of a few weeks' work, Marie could almost allow the great social world to

go on without her. Not that she had ceased to wish for its applause. As she tells us herself, all her success was to pro- cure her worship and renown in the future; but she was a

sufficiently real and even great artist to be content to work for her future crown, which she considered her due from both man and God. Perhaps the strangest side of Marie's character was her religion. As a psychological study she is of curious interest. She was not without religion, but, like all matters :apart from herself, she made it absolutely subservient to her -own immediate designs. If a realisation of her wild wishes came, she thanked God for it as one might thank a powerful -acquaintance who helped one to gain some worldly end. If she found circumstances against her, her health failing, her genins

not equal to her aspirations, she would assert that God could not exist, or else how could he deny her just rights ? When

fame does not come immediately, she writes :—" If I don't win fame quickly enough with my painting, I will kill myself, that is all." And the next day's entry in the Diary is

Until now I have always prayed to God, but as He never hears mie at all, I almost begin to lose my faith. Only those who have

experienced this feeling can fully understand the horror of it. I do not wish to preach religion out of goodness, but God is a very convenient institution. When there is no one to have recourse to, when all other means fail, there still remains God. It commits us to nothing, disturbs nobody, while affording a supreme con- solation. Whether He exists or no, we are absolutely bound to believe in Him, unless we are quite happy, and then we can do without Him."

Again, softer thoughts would come at times. Two or three years before her death, she writes :- " Ah ! Whatever sorrow is felt it contains a joy the

only horrible wounds are those of self-love, they contain nothing,

and are worse than death But as for all the rest—God, death, hopeless love, separation !—they are life for all that."

The real and supreme trial of Marie's life was the rapidly developing consumption, from which she died at twenty-four.

As the disease progressed, she suffered at times from deaf- ness. To her nature such a trial would be galling. Accus- tomed to constant admiration and attention, she could not bear the least feeling of dependence on others. Earlier in life her hopes of fame had centred themselves round her voice, which promised great things; but this organ was the first to give way before the insidious enemy, and at twenty-one, deafness coming on, she writes :—

" Really, it is enough to drive one mad. They say that in a thousand cases only one will be followed by deafness, and that case must be mine ! . . . . . What, was it not bad enough to lose my voice, to be ill, that this nameless torture should be added ? It must be to punish me for having grumbled at trifles ! Is it God who punishes ? The God of pardon, of goodness, of mercy ? Why, the most spiteful of men would not be more inexorable ! And I am tortured every instant. Blushing before my own people ; feeling their kindness in speaking louder !"

Another, and a more ignoble, trouble came in the form of over- whelming envy at the success of a fellow-student. No feeling

of camaraderie helped her in the least. Any honour paid to the hardworking and devoted young Swiss girl, Mdlle. Breslau, was gall and wormwood to poor Marie. Her success, legitimate though it might be, reflected somewhat on Marie's renown. The fame of men like Millet, Bastien Lepage, and others, she could for the time being bear ; but that she should be second to any student of her own studio was a trial which became intense enough at times seriously to affect her fast

developing illness, which she took no pains whatever to arrest. In her later days the character softened somewhat. The admiration, which almost amounted to genuine love, for Bastien Lepage illuminated and even calmed the last sad months. In his increasing fame she could find real pleasure. In his society, she could forget herself for the time. That friendship is a really bright and wholesome spot in Marie's career. Bastien Lepage commanded both her friendship and respect, and had they lived the influence might have brought out the better sides of both her heart and her intellect.

Whether Marie Bashkirtseff possessed real genius, it is hard to say. The posthumous success of her pictures, now bought by the French Government, goes far to decide it in her favour.

Anyhow, she had plenty of talent and will, and a power to produce an immense amount of really good work in the last two or three years of her life, which will take its place among the work of later artists ; and the pathos which lingered round the later months will make her long remembered among living French painters. A nature so fertile is of rare occur- rence, and when that nature throws away all reserve and allows the outside world to share in every thought and study every motive, the result cannot fail to be both interesting and startling in a supreme degree. That the character is want- ing in many ways in moral and religious force only adds to the uniqueness of the impression. If Marie Bashkirtseff had directed her powerful will to curb and discipline her luxuriant nature, there are few heights of legitimate fame to which she might not have attained.