Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Sunday, 22 June 1884

I have lost half my weight. For two months one can trace the progress of this thinning day by day.
It is no longer Venus Callipygian — it is Diana. I could be content with Diana, but Diana can turn into a skeleton...
In appearance I am well and live as usual. But I have a fever every day — sometimes during the day, sometimes at night. Hours of turning without finding rest, and then nightmares or hallucinations.
Disciples of Maupassant, do not attribute this state to... well, to the insomnia of an adult unmarried woman.
No, my poor friends. It is not that. Though such things have never robbed me of sleep, I know the difference. Dreams of love — why, I have them every evening to fall asleep, unless I am thinking of some painting. No — this is real fever, tiring and wretched.
Therefore, I am resolved to go and see Potain!!
You understand — this is not the moment to die. There are triumphant articles in the society papers in Paris and in England. My gown and coiffure at the Russian embassy are making the rounds of the press in the manner of Etincelle. A Psyche hairstyle, they say.
I have also fifty newspapers that speak of my Salon showing. And serious art critics.
I am beginning to have talent. And I see myself wasting away.
I dreamt of Jules all night. I was talking to him about Daudet's new book which all Paris is mad about. It is called Sapho — but it deals with nothing of what the title suggests. It is the story of a liaison.
I have read it twice, wishing to make my peace with Daudet's style, which irritates me.
Am I alone in finding it irritating? I don't know — but I execrate it. It runs, and runs, and runs, it hurtles along, always, always, quickly, quickly. It is a flight, a scattering. The reader struggles to keep up with the tongue hanging out, breathless. Always scraps of sentences. Little snippets released reluctantly, as by a man full of compassion who is too hurried to say as much as he knows. And always something sinister in it, and innuendos about fried potatoes. It is like a painting done in patches, in hints — the eye is irritated at finding nothing solid to rest on. A pizzicato without end.
How Zola must execrate it! But he will not say so. If he disparaged Daudet, whom would he praise? And one must appear to love others besides oneself.
He lavishes praise on Goncourt and Daudet so as not to worship himself alone. It is like when I send notes to Le Sport — in mentioning myself I mention two or three others, so as not to speak of myself alone. Supporting players.
I returned from the Neuilly fair, but did not find what I need.
And then? Well, I pace from one end of the floor to the other, smoking and talking English to myself.