Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Friday, 18 June 1880

I worked all day. My model is so graceful and pretty that I kept putting off day after day the moment of beginning to paint — the preparation was good, and I was afraid of spoiling it. A real pang of apprehension at the start, but it appears to be going very well.
And in the evening, Soutzo. I attribute his wretched appearance to love, but there is something else as well. He has stood surety for a minor; this minor is a dreadful character and his family accuses Soutzo of having corrupted him. He appeals to me — when would he have had the time to concern himself with any of that, given that he is always underfoot here? He tells me this in a private conversation, having first made me give my word of honour to keep the secret. He is depositing money with a banker to meet his obligations regarding the minor in question, who had sworn to him that he was of age.
In short, I believe he is afraid the matter will reach me through other channels and is warning me himself. And then there is the fire. In any case he is going to leave for Bucharest or for Lille as administrator of his brother-in-law's bank — though more probably Bucharest. I do not believe him capable of villainy, yet he has managed to embroil himself in some very nasty affairs. But there is also — and above all — the marriage. He is bent on it. I smile, call him presumptuous and reckless, and explain that I come with no dowry, since my dowry will go on the petty necessities of a woman, and that one will have to house me, feed me, and take me out.
In short, once married, I shall be a kept woman.
He did not laugh, being very far from the sense I was giving the word — he was entirely serious. He is only afraid of my father, of whom he has formed a certain idea... but you shall see the ingenious fashion in which he proposes to overcome that. To descend one fine morning from Paris to Poltava and tell him bluntly: Sir, I have come to ask for your daughter's hand in marriage — and then to produce a letter of credential from me.
"That you will never have."
He loves me, he adores me, he thinks of nothing else...
I find that quite an extraordinary idea.
Of marrying you?
But yes.
When one loves a woman, does one not think of marrying her, Mademoiselle?
Of course one does, you utter idiot — only I find one must have colossal nerve to dare ask me in marriage. I have the most wildly grandiose ideas about myself, and no one is great enough for me...
"Yes, but ought I to have kept silent? Did you not tell me yourself that one must say such things, if only for one's own personal satisfaction?"
"When one loves as I love you, one must say it to have peace of mind..."
And so you have peace of mind?
"You are making fun of me!"
You are tiresome...
He had not at first told me he was leaving, but looked so wretched that I questioned him — it was then he confessed that he must go, having first implored me to give him something of mine as a keepsake.
Come now, my poor devil, you are going away, you are slipping off from Paris — otherwise why a keepsake?
Yes, he is leaving. He looks so wretched, so sad, that I allow him to kiss my hands.
"You understand," I say, "you cause me pain. I am a sister to you — do you understand?"
He laid his head on my shoulder and I let him, even passing my hand across his cheek. The poor child really does look too miserable. Poor old thing.
"Oh! I am so content like this, so content. I love you, I adore you. Yes, you are kind, maternal — oh! I am so content."
I believe you.
That poor devil who is leaving — when one is leaving, it seems... that much is permitted. His head on my shoulder, his pressings of my hand. I remain cold, smiling, maternal. In a surge of lyricism, of tenderness, of grief, he went so far as to kiss the alpaca of my garment at the shoulder. Poor devil — he did touch me a little, all the same.
"You are grieving," I say. "Tell me everything."
He had flung himself to his knees, his face hidden against me, in a pose so desperate and so young that I put my left arm around his neck — remaining stiff, but not mocking.
Only I had asked him — but before that:
"Have you 300,000 francs a year? No? Then clear off."
"Then you say no?!"
You weary me. I will not hear a word of any of this. I do not love you and I do not wish to marry.
Well then...
But in six months I may change — I know nothing of the kind. Only if that does not suit you, go — I ask nothing of you and I do not detain you.
"To wait six months is nothing, but at the end of those six months I shall demand an answer."
I beg your pardon?
"You will admit that I shall have the right to a positive answer."
You shall have it — and if it is no?
"I shall go abroad, far from you."
You promise all of this and yet you do not go.
I believe he is not enchanted at the idea of leaving... Mont-Dore, Biarritz, everything takes flight... He kissed my hands a hundred times, imploring me to think of him. "You will think of me sometimes — say you will — oh! I beg you, you will think of me?"
When I have time.
But he begged it so much that I was obliged to say a small, very faint yes. Ah — farewells are tragic, at least on my side. The two of us stood near the drawing room door, and to leave him a noble memory of me, I solemnly held out my hand for him to kiss, and then we shook hands gravely.
I remained pensive for quite a while. I shall miss this child. He will write to me.
You know that for some days now Paris has been mad about little pigs. They are called porte-veines — lucky charms — and are made in gold, in enamel, in gemstones, in absolutely everything. I have been wearing a copper one for two days... At the studio they maintain it is thanks to the pig that I produced a good piece of painting.
Well — poor Casimir carries off as his keepsake from me a small pig; I keep the larger one for myself. I advised him to murder his uncle and forge a will in his favour. "Then I will marry you — or else rob your brother-in-law."
It is raining. I went to the window for a moment. The house will be very empty in the evenings without this child. I had grown accustomed to him.
Poor dear — now that he has gone, I feel sorry for him. I shall be even more bored in the evenings... I shall do sculpture... Poor dear, something stirs in me at his having left. A void that will fill itself quickly.
He brought me news of Cassagnac, who lunched today at his brother-in-law's — but this Cassagnac, do I truly love him? Time will tell.
He has not yet left Paris and already I almost doubt his love — or rather, I fear being erased from his heart or forgotten.
I return once more to speak to you of this child. One is a child in all the circumstances common to all men, because one is genuine.
I have a mind to give him the Gospel of Matthew with this dedication: The most beautiful book in the world, which answers to every disposition of the soul.
One need not be sentimental or a bigot to find calm and consolation in it.
Keep it as a talisman and read a page each evening in memory of me, who may perhaps have caused you pain, and you will understand why — it is the most beautiful book in the world. But does he merit it? And is it not better to stick with the little pig? To begin with, he will not understand Saint Matthew.