Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Saturday, 7 April 1883

Of all the people who came today I shall speak of only one: Madame Presseq. She must be fully fifty, with hair still almost black and fine blue eyes. A little plump, with a small, plump, soft hand — rounded, the hand of a woman who must be one of that kind… You will ask me then: how do you know what hands women of that sort have? And I shall answer that it is by hearsay and intuition, but I am certain the observation is correct. I have been told of this lady as of a Pompadour who tolerates Popaul's passions and mends his socks.
Balzac must have spoken of something similar.
In any case. She speaks calmly, slowly, and I seemed to find in her voice inflections… familiar ones.
There were more than twelve people around the samovar and the conversation was general at first, then we were able to exchange a few rather strange words, as you will judge. It began apropos of the Salon, work, society, fashionable beauty — Madame Gautreau, who is much mocked because she dresses as a caricatured Récamier… And then all the usual things said of uncontestable beauties: she is cold, she is stupid, she lacks the sacred fire, etc. etc.
I have the presence of mind to defend her — [words blacked out: to mock myself gently when others] begin to prefer my sacred fire to Madame Gautreau's figure. Besides, I try to be witty, charming, adorable, with as much coquetry as if this lady were to report it back to … But they probably no longer see each other.
It has been terribly long since I felt this need — and consequently this power — to charm someone. And as amid the general conversation she exclaimed: "besides, when one has heart and wit as you do"…
Heart, wit, talent — I say to her — [words blacked out: one illegible line] what do you know of it, Madame? That I have them I am not the one who doubts it; I am even convinced of it — but you have seen me only twice…
All this laughing.
— True, I have seen you only twice, but I have known you for a very long time.
— Really, Madame?
— For a long time, yes, she says again, looking at me — and I know that you are… everything that you are…
— You know me so well as that, and for a very long time… three weeks?
— For a very long time — five years… Yes, I have known you for five years, and intimately — to the very depths of your heart. And I have been very eager to see you for years…
— But that is… very curious, I say, a little unsettled… [words crossed out: a little unsettled],
— Very curious…
She looked at me throughout this conversation with a kind, indulgent gaze in response to my manner — at once crafty and naïve… I took care not to look her too directly in the eyes; we should have become conspirators on the spot.
— But it is full of mystery, I resume.
— Full of mystery as you say.
— But then this is going to amuse me greatly?…
— It will amuse you greatly…
— Five years?
— Five years that I have known you to be good, witty, and charming…
— Oh! Five years ago I was not so accomplished; I have improved greatly.
— That is quite natural, but in any case I had already wished to know you — that is, to see you — for I did know you, she added with a little mischievous air.
— It is very mysterious, Madame.
— Oh! Very mysterious…
Decidedly her way of speaking recalls the other one — a sort of good-natured and indulgent mockery, like when I used to play the child in years gone by.
— Madame, you are going to interest me to the point of madness.
— You will love me very much.
— I already have a great deal of sympathy for you, but I should not wish to show it. People would think it was to get articles written about my painting.
— I would have written them without having seen you… But you will love me because… for — ah! I was about to say…
— But do say.
— No.
— Come now — you will tell me one day.
— That, yes.
— But I count on it absolutely, you know.
There our aparté ended.
Now I will tell you that I am a little unsettled. I play music, for lack of being able to speak to anyone about it. It puts songs in my soul… perhaps not solely because of the gentleman in question, but because it is, as we kept saying, very mysterious. It has the quality of a novel about it, which attracts me. It relates to a time when such things used to overwhelm me, when I was not yet in the habit of looking at all men as strangers passing by — I can barely distinguish one from another now, and only wit or talent can draw me rather towards one than another. And little Géry? Well, little Géry — he seems charming for two hours and then he ceases to exist. One takes a slight interest in this or that person because one believes one pleases them, and love draws at least sympathy when it does not draw deep hatred. One has such a good opinion of oneself that people who are smitten with you become immediately enlightened, of good taste, intelligent.
I am also a little unsettled because this answers so many dreams of the past five years.
You know, I have dreamed things about him — but after a few months I could no longer understand how I had thought of him so much… Whereas here… it still holds.
One imagines, one waits, one desires — and when it arrives one is quite dazed, as though one had never believed it. One grows used to contenting oneself with the dream, and although one calls and waits for the event, one does not believe it has happened when it does happen. What? What am I talking about? What event? What this woman said. But he has nothing to do with it. And what if he does?
Good. It is like a medal at the Salon — I hasten to add that I prefer the medal to everything; I have been waiting for it five years, and the grand medal and the Legion of Honour — follies… But for a simple mention, I used to imagine I would weep on Julian's shoulder, embrace Tony, faint in the middle of the Palace of Industry… And so vividly that I lived all this, and often in the evenings in my bed I wept real tears and could not fall asleep.
Had anyone told me: these are follies — I should not have believed them.
And now that people tell me: it is probable, it is certain — I am surprised by it as though I had never believed it. And at the same time it seems to me that I should not faint at all. Life is logical and prepares us for events — and that is what I regret. I should like a thunderbolt. The medal falling from the sky without warning and plunging me into an ocean of bliss. Yes, that would leave me calm now, and [words blacked out: I should be dazed by it] like… So you did not believe it then, when you were counting on it?

Notes

"Popaul": Marie's familiar nickname for Paul de Cassagnac (1842–1904), Bonapartist journalist. The allusion to "mending his socks" suggests the devoted mistress who endures infidelity with graceful practicality. ↩
The name is deliberately omitted — almost certainly Paul de Cassagnac, Marie's former romantic obsession. ↩
Aparté (French/theatrical): a private exchange within a larger gathering, as if aside from the rest of the company. ↩