Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Sunday, 25 May 1884

What have I been doing since the 1st of May? Nothing.
And why? Ah! wretchedness. I have come back from Sèvres. Ah! it is dreadful. The landscape has changed so much one can no longer touch it — it is no longer spring. And besides, my apple blossoms have turned yellow on the canvas, because I put too much oil in. But then I am an idiot. I have patched it up — we shall see. But this painting must be finished.
Between the Salon, the newspapers, the rain, Hayem, and all this nonsense I have lost twenty-five days. It is insane, but it is over.
Mme Zarondny, back from Rome, is to spend a few days with us before going to Russia. Her daughter is already there.
My medal is being voted on today.
It is four o'clock. It has just rained in torrents.
Last year I was certain of getting it and was anxious about the delay in positive news.
This year it is not certain, and I am much calmer. A year ago I was bound to get it but I dreaded the unforeseen and it tormented me greatly. Getting it while not really getting it — getting it for the pastel — used to fill me with despair. Now that I understand how beautiful that pastel is, it gives me pleasure.
This year it is yes or no. Very clear-cut. If yes, I shall know this evening around eight o'clock. So I am going to sit cross-legged in the large armchair under the window and look out through that window, leaning on its back. And this for four hours?
None of this would weigh a milligram if only I could hear properly.
There is the cruel misfortune. So cruel that I no longer speak of it, as you must have noticed. There are things too horrible to speak of even in solitude.
It is twenty past five. I am not much more anxious than when I simply sit doing nothing with nothing to wait for. And then this oil that has turned my blossoms rancid. When I saw that I broke into a cold sweat. Let us hope it will not show too badly...
In two hours I shall know.
You may think I am very tormented. No — I tell you — not much more than when I happen to spend an afternoon doing nothing, alone, on edge.
In any case, tomorrow's newspapers will tell me the result.
Six forty. I have rid myself of old Mme Zarondny, who absolutely wanted to read me some of Coppée's verse after showing me the paintings her daughter made in Rome. Children's daubs.
The ladies are downstairs with the priest.
And I am crushed by waiting — feverish and clammy, with a slight headache.
Oh! I shall not get it, and it is because of Maman's stupid emotion that this vexes me. I do not want anyone forcing the door of my affairs and sharing my feelings. I suffer from it as from an act of indecency.
Whether I am burning or clammy or anything else, others must leave me alone. And Maman will imagine that I am suffering, and that exasperates me.
The air is oppressive and there is fog! My throat is tight all the way into my jaw and ears.
Seven thirty-five — I am called to dinner. It is over.