Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Sunday, 12 August 1883

The thought that Bastien is coming agitates me to such a degree that I have been unable to do anything. It is truly absurd to be so susceptible, and if I had not already awaited others with the same anxiety, I might think I was developing a feeling… All the same, the preoccupation is considerable.
To follow Stendhal's precepts — to be charming, to make him feel he is not God without wounding him — and then the vexation of knowing it is his brother who brings him. Total agitation so great that I am incapable of anything. Not even the prospect of a pleasant evening as with Julian and Tony — just awkwardness, constraint, anxiety, and all for nothing.
Nothing, in any case.
And now that they have gone — it is half past eleven — I fear this matters for something. You are my intimate confidants, are you not, and I tell you even the things that seem shameful to me.
The Russian priest dined as well… We conversed at table. Bastien is extraordinarily intelligent — less sparkling than Saint-Marceaux, but… I showed no paintings, nothing, nothing, nothing. I said nothing delightful; that is, I did not shine, and when Bastien began an interesting conversation I could neither respond nor even follow his dense, quintessential phrases — like his painting; had it been with Julian I would have held my own, for that is precisely the kind of conversation that suits me best… He is extraordinarily intelligent, he understands everything, one can speak to him about anything; he is even learned — I had feared a certain ignorance.
In short, when he said things to which I should have responded in ways that would reveal my finer qualities of mind or heart, I let him talk and remained a simpleton. Not to mention… But this evening I am quite displeased — yes, quite displeased. When I cannot hear, that is one thing; but to hear and not profit from it — that is beyond the pale, for me. And when in the course of the evening I happen not to hear what this… this artist… says — with him, it causes even greater distress than with others. I cannot even write.
It is one of those days — I am in complete disarray… I want to be alone at once, to take stock of an impression that is interesting and considerable. Ten minutes after he had arrived, I had mentally surrendered and accepted his influence.
And I am not even pretty! And I was not even witty. And I cannot aspire to an artistic halo in his eyes.
And I am… less than anyone.
I reflect, I collect myself… In sum, yes, you are my confidants — but what would be shameful in it?
It is always shameful to be preoccupied with someone who is not preoccupied with you. In any case, I know I will think of nothing else for I don't know how long… One must confess the most humiliating things. I took a certain pleasure — [Crossed out: extreme], tender, maternal, pure — in sitting beside this gentleman; it seems to me I would love him as one loves a child.
And I said nothing of what I ought to have said. He is God as always, or believes himself to be. I only fortified him in that belief. He did not think to invite us to come and see his paintings… I did not ask; he said he was leaving, but… In the end it is probably for his brother that he came — for that abominable brother who… Oh! It is maddening!!
And on top of everything, to have this cruel inferiority… Can one please anyone under such conditions! No doubt he will stay in Paris a while longer — I shall make enquiries on Wednesday. The brother is stupid and ugly. Yes… I am not happy. I want to weep. Is it fair?
I do not interest him in the slightest, and he will never think of me — I who am now going to have him in my head constantly. He is small and ugly by common standards, but for me and for people of my sort, that face is charming. What does he think of me? I was awkward, laughing too often…
[Crossed out: He said in jest.] He declares himself jealous of Saint-Marceaux…
I could not even extol the Harlequin in philosophical terms… I should have been coquettish!! And the opportunity was perfect… I was stupid. Oh! Yes, stupid!
One does not win people over like that. No, not like that.
And I showed him a clay sketch — the worst one — because during the last session I had, without noticing, enlarged the head and shoulders so much that the whole thing became misshapen. A fine triumph.
What a feeling of unease, of regret, of vexation…
Once all of this is written down I shall be less displeased, but all the same… It is hard. And I have no ammunition for war!
At least there is the consolation of seeing the brother — that is something, at least…
[Crossed out: The brother] As for the real one — it is like Saint-Marceaux: the smallest thing from him is like an exceptional kindness; when he deigns to joke, it is a favour; and if he looks at you with slightly more regard than the back of an old canvas, it is a kind of happiness.
But Saint-Marceaux is for speaking of aloud, while Bastien is for thinking about. Long enough have I been drifting without anchor — this is an occupation, a point of reference, a… In sum, what is the use? I am quite capable of tormenting myself over it… Well, the first thought after reviewing everything is the thought of a desperate situation. They had perhaps not yet reached the end of the street when I was already there — and then, oh weakness, one goes to ask the Good Lord to pull one out of it. At the end of one's resources. But the Good Lord cares not at all; He has laughed at far graver complaints — is He going to trouble Himself now to make… And all this because he is a skilled painter? And I, wretched and unworthy dauber… In short, I do not say everything — [Crossed out: speaking in veiled terms, one] — holding back gives too much importance to things… As if one dared not speak plainly… Well then? Yes, there is no hope of being loved by this man. Well… I immediately realized this, and so I resign myself — to what? To not being loved by him. That is… He had not even left before I was already resigning myself to expecting that miracle from heaven alone. It would be a happiness so great, so great, that… I was stupid. The poor devil has no idea what I think of him. I think the very highest things of him, and that saddens me. I would want to think only of someone who loves me — to finally experience that feeling of which books and men speak. A love returned. Happiness, then? Nothing less than that, my dear. And then all the disappointments the thing entails — of course one knows it in advance, but what does it matter.
I dare not think of seeing this great man again soon — yet I cling to the idea of seeing the brother, so as to speak to him about it; but I shall learn nothing… And besides, is it not plain? If he had the slightest desire to see us again, he would invite us to see the paintings he brought back from Brittany. That was elementary. I do not say he detests us — he finds us all agreeable, but that is all. He came for his brother, and to prove that he does not hate me. He came for his brother.
[Crossed out: It is an impression…] My mind was very much prepared; he arrived at just that moment and found himself in harmony with my prior crystallizations. Nothing jarred between my reveries and his words — he was as witty and as poetic as the imaginary hero. In this way, things may become dangerous.
No — I am sleepy and beginning to feel only a little vexation… All the same, no one shall know anything of it. But I had surrendered, as thoroughly as possible.
I am at an age when one is serious; infatuations with the Gabriels no longer amuse me. I am in search of a great, magnificent, tender feeling — with which I shall make a grand journey through Italy, Spain, Holland, to enjoy nature, the arts, life. A travelling companion, then? But of course. Well then — I shall marry Saint-Amand, I shall make the first move with Bastien-Lepage, and he will love me. When it is only a matter of having an agreeable mistress, men are easily persuaded, and I shall know how to manage him so as to make him love me in earnest. A married woman can do anything when the man is not in love elsewhere.
The Mackay woman. I care nothing for it and do not believe it.
In any case, if now… now everything is impossible, for I shall appear to be offering myself in marriage, which is disgraceful. But still.
So it is no longer for Cassagnac's sake that I want to marry Saint-Amand.
No — Cassagnac is ordinary; he has a wife and two children and no delicacy.
So then? In sum — the Summary?
Here it is: I am very much taken… this evening, and it is as with Cassagnac — nothing material about it… I love a soul, a mind, a character, which I adorn with every perfection; I believe he possesses all the perfections I have ever dreamed of… And he does not think of me in the slightest.
[Written across the page: And eight days later I feel nothing at all.
O crystallizations! Stendhal, you are right.]
He did not even think to invite us to come and see his pictures. He fears I might steal his subjects.
There is yet another comforting, sweet thought.
Well then, alas…
Why did he not say, not offer for us to come and see his canvases! Why?
When I asked him what he had done there, he could have said: come and see.
I knew by intuition that they were seascapes.
Ah! Misery.
Ah! Misery, ah! Misery… I am good only for sleeping now, and I shall fall asleep thinking of this Jules whom I definitively accept as the subject of all my reveries — what is the use?
No one shall ever know anything of it. Yes — let us marry Saint-Amand, or…?

Notes

Crystallization: Stendhal's term in De l'Amour (1822) for the process by which the imagination adorns the beloved with every perfection. ↩