Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Friday, 4 June 1880

He presented himself at eleven o'clock and, seeing no lights, went away.
Soutzo came at three o'clock, four o'clock, and then for dinner.
Collignon spends the day with us. At dinner Soutzo whispers to me that he has something to tell me.
My aunt was chatting with Collignon in the blue drawing room, and I listened to Soutzo in my room. What did he have to say to me, after all?
"Should I marry?"
Do you see the trick?
"Yes, if it pleases you."
"It does not please me."
"Then do not do it. Is that all you had to say?"
"No, I told you I loved you..."
"Yes, the other day."
"Well, I love you..." "I know."
"You understand that it is torture for me to come here like this. I am ill from it."
"But why? I thought it pleased you..."
"Yes, but no — every time I tell you something, you insult me."
"But no, I am cheerful, and if I pepper our conversation with digressions, it is because you really take an infinite time between each phrase..."
"You will not mock me?"
"No, no, no... I am very serious, only do not take my hand. The other evening I was ill, I was afraid, but now it is finished."
"Let me hold your hand," he said in a pleading voice, "while I tell you..."
"If it inspires you... oh, then. I am listening..."
But instead of speaking he looked at me with his eyes so dark-circled for two days and his forehead even paler than usual.
"I must go away, must I not — never come back here..."
"Why?"
"I love you" — we had to speak low so as not to be heard by the others, and it gave the voices something soft and charming. "I told you I loved you..."
"You lied?" I asked quickly.
"No, but when one loves a young girl, there are not thirty-six outcomes — it is one or the other, is it not? I must therefore not come back..."
"And why?" I played the naive.
"Because I suffer too much — it is torture to see you like this..."
A long pause, then he rested his head on the cushion of the divan and began to weep. There was something childlike in this movement, something sweet, but the handkerchief that came to wipe his eyes spoiled everything.
"Come now, come now — oh, then!" I said without laughing, and then: "Tears now — very well, but one does not wipe them with pieces of cloth; one lets them be wiped by... the one who makes them flow."
He made a gesture of impatience.
"Not everything is rosy in this world," I resumed seriously, "not rosy at all... My system of doing what gives pleasure — it is good but not practicable. One can refrain from doing what displeases, but to do everything that pleases!... Listen to me, and do not insult me, and do not mock."
"No, I am listening."
"I am going to leave, or else you must... authorize me to return."
"What — I do not understand."
"It cannot go on like this. Besides, I am too unhappy — I suffer, I am ill... When one loves a young girl, one goes away or one stays... and then it is to marry."
"Does one say it just like that!"
"I do not know how it is said! So it is to marry..."
"Ah! Ha."
"Naturally!"
"Yes, it is true... but you do not love me."
"Oh yes, I love you — oh yes, I love you. Listen, be frank, let us speak seriously."
"Well, yes, in fact..."
There was a long silence during which I looked at the wall in front of me and Soutzo at me...
"Come now," I said, "let us settle the matter — what do you want from me?"
He could not help laughing.
"Listen," I resumed, "it is easy to say: marry. But to do it — that depends!"
"On whom?"
"On me."
"Well then?"
He is young, and he must have trembled a little, even if he thought of my dowry.
"And so... I do not want to commit myself, and then I don't know — one must wait. How do I know what you are? You look like an honest man — you may be a scoundrel... Marriage is long; it lasts a long time... I do not believe in your love, which may be true... I should like to make sure... you understand, one would have to wait..."
"How long?"
"Let us see" — I began counting on my fingers — "five, six — at New Year's? That is too long — then at Christmas. Let us say Christmas: seven months."
"And if you are sure of my love, you will consent..."
"Ah no, I do not say that — that would be committing myself. I do not want to commit myself; I do not love you. But this delay is necessary to enlighten us on the stability of our mutual feelings. And then you will need another three months to make up your mind!"
"But no, I will tell you that right away. Let go of my hand — what bad manners... Can I marry a man who does not know how to behave!"
And so I play the child, the simple one — after having let my hand tremble (artificially, I think) in his, after having been now dreamy, now grave, now mocking, I speak of my painting. "Can I marry! I must paint. And Julian! Will he allow it! And Tony. And then, was I not supposed to die?"
"I shall paint with you."
"That's it, and during the seven months you will learn to draw."
And I began to praise studio life. I am not dignified enough — I tell him he is not pretty, that one wants to put a ring through his nose... It is not in the best taste.
"Ah, my poor fellow, you are young..."
"And you are old."
"Alas no, I am young too... No, not everything is rosy, and one does not do what one wants... I shall die."
"No, it is I!"
"You do not cling to life?"
"No."
"I cling to it so much... Then why do you live?"
"Because it is cowardly to kill oneself."
"Pardon me — it is rather a cowardice not to kill oneself."
I speak to him of my dowry, saying it counts for much in his love; naturally he plays the indignant. "Do you think I could not find money if I wanted!"
"Yes, but I please you a little..."
"Do I even know what you have? I don't care about your fortune!"
I should have asked what he intended to support me with; I did not think of it.
"It is you I love..."
But those tears left me with a disagreeable feeling.
I called him Bezade (son of a reigning prince), saying it is almost a Christian name.
He is Bezade for real, you know — that is what they call him in his country. But those tears and that handkerchief... it was Neapolitan.
I do not love him; I do not even have for him that je ne sais quoi I had for Joseph or Gabriel... He kisses my hands — those kisses are insipid. He presses my hand — I feel a loyal hand, but that is all.
"In ordering this delay of seven months, do you leave me the possibility of hoping?"
"One must always hope, even if I told you categorically no."
"You are a child."
"We are children."
I like him well enough — he is not handsome, he is not refined, neither physically nor morally... rather morally, though... But he is not rich enough! There is the sole reason.
Besides, I have found it... "You will presently copy something I shall draft..."
Here is the document; he accepts. In short, I ask him for nothing — it is he who says he loves me. I offer him the means to make sure, that is all.
But how is it that I, who have such a high opinion of myself, put everything down to my dowry?
At the moment of leaving, I took the paper back from him — I do not know why. He only tried once to take it back, and I cried "Farewell!" as he crossed the threshold of the drawing room.