Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Sunday, 10 March 1878

I went out on foot with Rosalie; I bought a rubber ball and violets, and heard Mass at the Madeleine.
And then I was bored, as every Sunday — rather more disagreeably perhaps, for I was afraid Cassagnac might not come. That would have been a vexation before my uncles. And yet... nevertheless I had no wish to see him — it is a kind of reluctance I cannot explain, as though I felt ashamed or afraid. And yet... truly I have no need of him.
When I see a beautiful dress that does not suit me, I try to have Maman buy it, or else I note it down to have it made when I can wear it... But here it is not the same thing — truly. Or rather, it is — the second case.
When he came I was already worn out by the uncertainty of waiting, and I felt clearly that I should not enjoy myself — and I kept thinking of my poor lost dog, of poor Pincio who has no doubt been stolen from me. Cassagnac makes fun because I ask him to find him through a somnambule; he mocks and says I cannot have real grief.
— On the contrary, I have so much grief that — there — I should rather see you wounded than to have lost my dog.
Then he becomes absurd! When I offer him liqueurs he tells me to offer them to my dog; I wish to give him violet essence I have received from Nice — he asks me to perfume my dog. Always my dog — and with a piqued expression that my mothers and Dina take seriously and endeavour to justify me;
— Are you angry? I said.
— No, but disillusioned.
Upon my word of honor one would think this were serious.
I spent the rest of the evening seated behind Cassagnac, gently pulling his hair — which he is obliged to endure
so that the others do not notice — Berthe was there.
— I am very comfortable behind you — truly very comfortable — and I do not wish to sit anywhere else.
I spoke truly — I was indeed very comfortable leaning against his armchair, concealed by my brother, occasionally blowing him kisses and breathing in his hair pomade, which perhaps amused the family but did not amuse him since he knew nothing of it.
At eleven he leaves for don Carlos's, who wished to make his acquaintance. In the end there is a rather amusing and rather silly scene — a physical tussle among myself, Cassagnac, and Dina. We wanted to measure the size of his foot. Through these antics I obtain a kind of pardon; the archbishop kisses my hand. I believe — God forgive me — that for a moment he tried to mesmerize me while standing before the fireplace, and I could not get behind him — the beast did it deliberately, because I begged him to allow it.
I was too calm this evening, and the general tranquility was disturbed only by the measuring of the foot — for which I remained kneeling a long time — and by the arrival of Dina, disguised as Mme de Fayet.
In two or three days he is going to fight again, and this time it will be serious, it seems.
— I risk being killed like any fool — it will be a matter of chance. But I must remain respected in Paris.
If he were really to be killed — what a pity — so handsome and so interesting.
He will come back Saturday, if he is not killed in the meantime.
I appear to believe it genuinely. I express myself even worse than usual because I am afraid people will think foolish things on account of my exactness in noting every detail.
If it is going to be like this... I want no more of it! I have no need of him gazing into my eyes until I must rub them with my fists like a child weeping. Nor do I want this awkwardness that has come upon us all at once — the devil knows from where — but which I had foreseen, and which I am almost sure exists only on my side. I am your friend, your brother — very well; all other idea is inadmissible, and so as not to forget it we repeat frequently — brother and sister, etc. etc. I do not suppose he has any desire to forget it — so do not draw ridiculous conclusions. I know perfectly well, my girl, which way it leans!
My God — it might be possible, had I not forbidden it to myself from the very first and in a manner that admitted no disobedience. For truly these occupations, these distractions, have never done anything but humiliate me — and thank God I do without them now and have no other thought than the atelier, which may lead me to something. You understand — the time is past when, for no more than what exists with Cassagnac, I had nothing more pressing to do than to declare myself in love with a man. Now I would die rather than think such a thing — because I better know the value of words, or because I understand them differently.
But do you hear me — I would die rather than think anything whatsoever of a man before being certain that he thinks well of me.
I was perhaps wrong to have written these reflections; it is better that there should not even be any question of anything of this kind — and in reality there is absolutely nothing, I assure you of it, and I am perfectly convinced of it myself. As for the future — well... that may be different.
All these reflections — simply because I was not lively this evening. And to speak frankly, I would be so terrified at the idea of anything resembling what is past, that the slightest approximation, the slightest semblance of similarity, frightens me so much that I talk nonsense and endeavor in advance to justify myself of a crime I have not committed.
Only — this Cassagnac is stupid to affect something like a quarrel, and to say that there is absolutely nothing but a disillusionment.