Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Monday, 26 February 1883

Princess Eristoff and Paul have arrived this morning from Russia, summoned by a telegram from me — my father is very ill, but he is a little better, I think; in any case there is no serious danger.
We have the Russian priest and the architect for dinner. I am in a mood for nonsense all evening — a torrent of pranks and childishness about the real Bastien: accusations, inventions, contempt and praise alike; that excellent Émile swallows it all. He rises to the bait with astonishing ease. He left dazed and bewildered — I spent a good two hours in a large armchair baiting him outrageously. It is very amusing, someone who takes everything seriously. This boy has no wit. But honest and loyal!
Ah, it is chock full. As it was getting on for eleven o'clock we withdrew to one side — Dina, he, and I — and I made him talk about Cartwright and company. In short, he says that if he had known us then as he knows us now, he would have taken me by the shoulders and removed me from that drawing room... which has nothing of a drawing room about it, where one rubs elbows with... where there is not one art trinket that is not a shameful keepsake. During a moment of seriousness I complained bitterly of the trouble we have had on account of Bastien. Well then — why, on what occasion, why, why, why?
As it is impossible to say certain things, he says it comes solely from the place where we met.
That those women... ought never to have known me, etc.
In short, we cannot explain ourselves better than that. Only he let slip a smile. But what I complain of above all is that he — the real one — should have imagined that we are enough of flashy foreigners to wish to adorn our evenings with him, etc.
In the end everything finishes with jokes of which I alone am the author, along with a running gag I had quite enough of myself. But I enjoy playing the child, the girl, and besides I want purity everywhere and refuse to know that there is evil in the world.