Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Wednesday, 26 September 1883

The painting knocked over by a gust of wind has a large tear — but not in the figures, and it can be repaired.
But all of this wearies me, and the idea of painting near Paris disgusts me — there are no horizons vast enough. I shall go to Brittany, I think.
That fake-Bastien's "cook" has not come round in ages. He is cured, decidedly.
Last evening Paul caused me an indignation so great that I shall think of it a long time. He assured us that my father was very fond of his daughter-in-law and often talked with her. Paul said it probably in order to… to uphold his wife's dignity, or I do not know why — but it is the most impudent of lies. My poor father never reconciled himself to that marriage and could not bear his daughter-in-law; it is common knowledge there and here alike.
To lie like that, to one's face, and knowing that we know perfectly well how things stand! Ah, have mercy.
As for me, I called him impudent, impostor, scoundrel, capable of anything, etc.
And indeed! I had him return the power of attorney signed at the consulate. My trust is gone.
At any rate this evening we are the best of friends; I am in a conciliatory mood, and we have spoken a great deal of my father. His amusing sallies, his harmless little quirks, his original ideas have been recalled… In short, I do him the honour of seeing myself as like him, and am moved to the point of being obliged to cough lest it show. For I will not for anything in the world be moved… Besides, it would not be understood — they would think I was acting a comedy before Paul, or that I was ill.
Now, barely holding back tears, I regret not having left with Maman — I was not obliged to, but it would have been the right thing; he would have been happy. My cold calculations at the time of Maman's departure have turned against me: I have done only one painting and it may be bad; and the wounds that mourning was to have sheltered are not helping my health. And as with everything [Blacked out: the rest I understand] — I understand too late.
I feel a kind of tenderness coming over me for this dead father. Just as I became in love with Cassagnac after I had stopped seeing him. Oh, no — my impressions are not immediate; it is through thinking, turning and re-turning an impression, a feeling, that I come to understand it.
Now that the frictions are forgotten, I remember only what my father had that was good, original, witty. He was impulsive and seemed flippant and eccentric, or vulgar. A little coldness and cunning perhaps… But who is without faults — and I myself… In short, I reproach myself and I grieve for him.
If I had left then… it would have been from propriety, for the feeling was not there… Would it have been meritorious all the same? I do not think so.
I did not have that feeling, and God will punish me for it — but is it my fault if I felt nothing at that moment? And then, will this evening's tenderness be counted in my favour?
Yes, if the hardness of the first moment deserves punishment.
Are we responsible for our true good or bad impulses? You must do your duty, you say.
It is not a question of duty; we are speaking of feeling. And since at the time I did not feel the need to leave, how will I be judged by God?
Is one judged by one's involuntary feelings or by one's acts? For my part, I would take feelings into account — suppose them good, but then one is an angel… So: I lacked tenderness — am I guilty? No, but I was not good; it was involuntary, you say, no doubt like all our feelings… But the involuntary feeling that leads one to cruelties or infamies is none the less bad for that. Is that all?
I have just said to do; I have done nothing. I felt or did not feel love for my dying father — and now I regret it. Yes, I regret not having felt this evening's impulse then.
And he is dead, and it is irreparable. And what would it have cost me to do my duty — for it was my duty to go to my dying father.
I did not understand — and I do not feel myself entirely blameless; I did not do my duty. I should have. It is an eternal regret. Yes, I did not act well, and I repent of it and am ashamed before myself — which is very painful. I would not excuse myself — but do you not think Maman ought to have said so to me then? Ah! Come now! One thought only: not to disturb the daily round. "Marie with her mother! That would keep them there for six months! And if Marie stays, her mother will come back sooner." Such is the family's reasoning. But since I know better than anyone that this family is stupid, why do I invoke them? Alas, one is always subject to some influence, without knowing it…