Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Monday, 5 May 1884

To die. It is a word one says and writes easily.
But to think — to believe — that one is going to die soon? Do I believe it? No. But I fear it.
There is no concealing it from oneself. I am consumptive. The right lung is quite damaged, and the left has been beginning to deteriorate for a year now. Both sides. With a different constitution I should be almost thin. I am obviously more rounded than most of those wretched creatures they call young ladies — but I am no longer as I was.
Even a year ago I was magnificent — no fat, no heaviness. Now the arms are no longer firm, and higher up toward the shoulders one feels the bone instead of seeing a perfectly round, well-shaped shoulder. I look at myself every morning while bathing. The hips are still beautiful, but one is beginning to see the muscles at the knee. The legs are good, and what is curious is that the calf is as large as Dina's — she who has legs and arms of the same thickness throughout. In any case, I am stricken — beyond recovery.
But wretched creature — take care of yourself!! But I do take care of myself, and thoroughly. I have had both sides of my chest cauterised; I shall not be able to wear a low neckline for four months. And I shall have to repeat these cauterisations from time to time, simply to prolong myself. There is no question of a cure.
I seem to be painting the blackest picture — but no, it is only true.
But beyond the cauterisations there are so many things! I do them all. Cod-liver oil, arsenic, goat's milk. They have bought me a goat. But... Well — I shall prolong myself, but I am lost.
And I have been too tormented. I am dying of it — it is logical, but it is horrible.
And there are so many interesting things in life! Books alone!
They have just brought me the complete Zola, the complete Renan, and volumes of Taine. I prefer Taine's account of the Revolution to Michelet's. Michelet is cloudy and cottony, and despite his systematic pursuit of the sublime I know the Revolution better after Taine than after Michelet — even though Taine, as they say, set out to show it in its ugliest light.
And painting!
Here is where one longs to believe in a good God who comes and sets everything right!