Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Sunday, 13 June 1880

Rosalie does not like Soutzo either, but like all the other regular visitors she is astonished at the speed with which he has planted himself in the house. He has simply imposed himself.
He has 24,000 francs a year — I know it. Last night, after my aunt and he returned from the circus, we talked of life in Paris, of expenses, and so on.
And first, troubled by that "stupid and mean," I said to him at once: "Do you know what she said?" She said you are stupid and mean — stupid, I don't care, I knew it, but mean... (I was serious.) I told him I would tell you, and she said not to, so I told her not to worry — you see, I said to him, I will repeat it to him but he won't believe it, he'll think I'm making it up. And yet — see — I say it in such a way that you believe it all the same. She also told me that if I married you she would weep all the tears of her body, and so I said to her: don't worry, that will never happen. Why did you not tell me that yourself?
What?
That it will never happen.
What did I write to you in the note?
Then why do you say never...
What does it matter to you?
What?!
But yes, it is none of your concern. I have promised you nothing. If you wish to leave, go at once — and there you are.
I will never marry him. He has not enough money, and he leaves me as indifferent as possible. And besides, among those around me he inspires no sympathy, and I am sensitive to that. I am annoyed at having let him gain a foothold here. People tell me, I said to him, that I am making a great and bitter enemy in you, in the probable event that nothing comes of this. But go ahead — say what you will, I fear no one; and besides, a man who is refused and is asked why he no longer visits the house — does he not reply that, finding himself treated as a suitor and having no intention of marrying, his duty as an honourable man was to withdraw?
And the young woman disappointed in her hopes — does she not say, or at least allow people to think, the same? It is the way of things.
He protested rather feebly, I must say. But here we are. Let us examine the situation seriously and make a decision, as far as that is possible. He has only 24,000 francs a year. And I would bring him myself and 60,000 francs of income, plus at least 40 to 50,000 more on the death of all my family. And what does he give me in exchange? His false love and his title of Romanian prince — but at that rate I prefer Alexis Karadjordjevic, who is the legitimate pretender to the throne of Serbia after his father. Prince Pierre is the active and acknowledged pretender, but the old beast of a prince, Bojidar's father, is the legitimate one. Alexis is more refined than Casimir and much more agreeable. And Alexis will probably be richer.
Alexis has never asked for me, but we always treated each other as children, and besides he would never have dared. Whereas this one — he has a colossal nerve that bewilders you at first and then vexes you. Just yesterday he needed to speak to me at length. About what? This morning I found a way to extricate myself, since it appears I have gone far enough in to be obliged to get out. This fellow does not love me... and besides he almost bores me, and the more I think about it closely the more I see I would not have an agreeable husband in him.
Now I must very gently stop spending my evenings with Casimir. And for this reason as much as any other, I am going to take up sculpture again starting Monday...
It is curious, though, how much more sensitive one is when one is ill. I am well now and I reason clearly, whereas the other evening...
You will find the Cassagnac session in the scrapbook of newspaper clippings. [Missing]
Cassagnac may be whatever you like; I may be whatever you like — but I find Casimir and Co. absolute fools!
"You will never be demanding enough!" all the fortune-tellers have told me.
We went with Pelikan to Belleville, Ménilmontant, Vincennes, and so on. It is another Paris — vast, with open spaces and heights. It is extraordinary.
Then to the Bois, where I am frightfully bored.
Saint-Amand, Soutzo, and Julian came in our absence. Julian returned in the evening.
"Have you read the article in Le Gaulois?"
But yes — which is why you find me plunged in the past.
My aunt is in the drawing room with the priest, and the rest of us are talking of all this. Julian has suspected heaven knows what and has guessed much. I tell him truths and read him passages from my memoirs — things that concern only Cassagnac and from which one can see clearly what my feelings were — and as he exclaimed:
"Can one even grasp it when one's nose is pressed to events! One only sees when one stands at a distance."
I perform a little with my Bonapartist memories... but who knows... besides, I often don't know myself whether it is true, or whether I am making fun of it, or whether it is mere exaltation.
Julian knows all about Soutzo and finds it amusing when I tell him that it was Soutzo who brought me news of yesterday's session... In any case he persists in saying that all is not finished, and that when the world hears of me, he might yet find himself at my feet...
"You have no idea of the effect it makes to read something by someone who is far away, or whom one never sees..."
"Oh, but I do — I know exactly what it is!" I said, pointing to Le Pays...
"And then," the Jesuit Julian continues, "it falls like a bomb among wife, children..."
He is astonished to learn what our relationship actually was... he had imagined we had seen each other more often, and alone, and that love had been spoken of...
"If that is all it was," he exclaimed, "he must still think of you, and there may yet come a moment when you will hold a great place..."
"Have you ever known," he continued, "understood why he married?"
Never... for love?
Julian believes nothing of the sort. Nor do I.
Soutzo arrived past ten o'clock, and after a few exchanges that had flavour only for Julian and me, the latter takes his leave.
Soutzo speaks of Cassagnac and imitates him and criticises his eloquence and his looks...
How very charming.
This morning I knew Julian would come and that I would speak to him of all this. He had sent to ask after me, and I replied by asking him to dine, and this morning I knew it, almost...
Julian is someone to me, since I speak with him of my most intimate feelings. Yesterday I had a mind to send for Blanc — that inseparable companion, at least for me...
I have never spoken and will never speak of my letters to Cassagnac, in extremis... That will always remain secret. And I think of it. It seems to me that I offered him a fortune too bluntly.
"If you were more glorious than he, you would think of it no longer," says Julian. "If you achieve celebrity, you will see that I am right."