Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Sunday, 27 July 1884

I fell asleep weeping and asking myself why I weep. It is not because Bastien is very ill — it is not... It is perhaps because I am humiliated at being nothing to him. Whereas I should like... And on reflection... [Words blacked out: I don't think he is very ill]. I would not have you think foolish things... [Crossed out: it seems to me now] — not because it is him; if it were another I should be the same, for the pleasure of having someone to care for and of growing tender.
Alas, that is all it is. Yes — it is to amuse my spectator-self that my actor-self grows tender.
Yet another would be less interesting [Words blacked out: would doubtless not be] than an ordinary man — understand me well: talent, at that level, is the material expression of the exquisite qualities of one's nature. The one is the consequence of the other, and a man who does what he has done can only be a superior creature, supremely fine, admirable, of a divine delicacy.
And then in the physical there is the reflection of the moral. That is why — bedridden, suffering, wretched — he is not repellent but, on the contrary, appealing, decent, interesting. It seems to me, in short, that one loves him as one loves one's children. All the sick people I have seen were disgusting. He alone is the exception, although his illness is... Yes, it would be disgusting in another.
Yesterday I brought him a small pillow, the size of a child's. In Russia one sometimes has two or three in bed apart from the large ones — they go under the side and under the head. I myself embroidered a J. in the corner, very quickly. The pillowcase was made from two handkerchiefs Dina went to buy, and the underside in pale blue silk. [Words cancelled]
His mother is a good woman — she calls me a dear, good little girl and seems glad to see me there.
All the same, Maman exasperates me — she will attribute sentimental ideas to me of which I haven't a penny's worth.
It is not in my nature to grieve over the illness or even the death of beloved persons. It is their want of delicacy or their hardness alone that affects me. I would rather see Bastien very ill but affectionate than see him in perfect health and caring nothing for me.