Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Wednesday, 12 March 1884

Thursday, 13 March 1884

You cannot imagine this madness — I am imagining that the portrait of Claire will be ready by Saturday at four o'clock. I am painting it in the garden, life-size to the knees. It is charming, but...

# Mercredi 12 mars 1884

Bastien-Lepage is better — he has even been out; my aunt swears she saw him getting into a carriage, supported by a lady and Emile. She says "supported" so that I will not be put out by his not coming here.

Bastien-Lepage va mieux, il est même sorti, ma tante assure l'avoir vu monter en voiture soutenu par une dame et Emile. Elle dit soutenu pour que je ne sois pas vexée de ce qu'il ne vienne pas ici.

But I am put out...

Mais je suis vexée...

Well, what would you have — it is how things are; he has other preoccupations, worries, etc. It is entirely natural. Do I myself concern myself with X, Y, Z — whom I may even find agreeable on occasion — but whom I would not go to see when I am unwell or out of sorts?

Enfin que voulez-vous c'est comme ça, il a d'autres préoccupations, soucis, etc. C'est tout naturel. Est-ce que je m'occupe moi de X, Y, Z., que je puis trouver même aimables à l'occasion mais que je n'irais pas voir étant souffrante ou ennuyée.

Never mind. But why? Why, why? It makes me miserable for three hours. Le Gaulois speaks of him and of the studies he brought back from Damvillers,1 and announces his imminent departure for Algeria where he will complete his convalescence... That old invalid — that quiet little peasant in love with a loose woman, and what a loose woman at that — the former one, the intimate friend of Mme Cartwright!

C'est égal. Pourquoi ? Pourquoi, pourquoi ?

Faugh! And there he is, ill and ugly and shrunken. Why occupy myself with him? Bah. I shall find another subject. Good night.

Fi ! Et le voilà malade et laid et ratatiné. Et pourquoi m'en occuper. Bah. Je trouverai un autre sujet. Bonsoir.

So then — have I no interest in life whatsoever?! Must I say, like Flaubert,2 that I see nothing before me but an endless succession of pages to fill — that is to say, canvases to daub?

Enfin je n'ai donc aucun intérêt dans la vie ?! Et faut-il dire comme Flaubert que je n'entrevois qu'une suite de feuilles de papier à nourrir, c'est-à-dire de toiles à barbouiller ?

So life is filled with nothing but work? But if it is sometimes a pleasure, it is more often a suffering. But then?

Alors la vie n'est remplie que de travail ? Mais si c'est quelquefois un plaisir c'est plus souvent une souffrance. Mais alors ?

Nothing? We shall see — if I do not die.

Rien ?

Notes

Damvillers: Bastien-Lepage's native village in the Meuse, to which he regularly returned to paint. Several of his most celebrated works, including Joan of Arc (1879) and Les Foins (1877), were painted there. ↩
Gustave Flaubert (1821–1880) was famous for his total dedication to writing as a vocation, treating literary work as the only worthwhile end in itself. Marie wryly translates his writer's vocation into the painter's equivalent. ↩