Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Friday, 15 August 1884

The sketch again, in the cab — it is uncomfortable, and Coco has sat down in my palette.
It requires a real effort for me to go to Bastien's.
Each time I go I dress as if for a hundred people, and I even manage to look well by sheer force of will.
And what for? This morning I imagined that the architect is decidedly and seriously smitten with me. Yes, at times I am deeply convinced of it. I may be wrong. But what if it were true? What a mad... and unfortunate... thing. No, one cannot be mistaken like that — I am not mistaken, only it is something that pains me even while it pleases me. You understand?
I am with him on the footing of a very friendly comradeship — I joke with him, I tease him, I play the child. But I am sure that if for ten minutes I adopted the manner one has with a man one likes and wishes to make speak...
But these are probably foolish fancies. Ah! it would be absurd!
I have come to dressing in the most refined toilettes to go to the rue Legendre. But each visit is accompanied by hesitations and doubts and... like a first encounter. And what for? And why? It is useless. He has known me for two years. And besides he is too superior, too... like me for me to please him. He has known me for two years. [But] my painting!
This being of a superior essence, this refined spirit, this artist of genius, this poet... And besides, he has known me for two years.
So it would have to be all of a sudden... no, never.
His mother throws herself into my arms calling me her dear little Marie. There is company this evening. I at last have occasion to shake the hand of Baude, my engraver. Here again is an excellent nature like Emile — he comes home at half past six and finds there my aunt, Dina, and me.
Jules is very fond of my aunt. He says she is self-sacrifice and goodness in person. But actually, it is true. My aunt is far better than Maman and always sacrificed — always.
He is better, and à propos of goodness knows what he says to me one of those pleasantries one says to everyone.
— So you are going better, since you are so amiable?
That makes everyone laugh.
— [Crossed out: Well then.]
Emile has told him some jokes I made at home, thinking to embarrass me — so I put on airs and graces and then suddenly:
— Ah! you think I am afraid of you — just wait a little, and you shall see!..
— No! you would be insufferable if there were no one to keep you in check a little...
— Ah! how mistaken you are — I should be far better: gayer, kinder, more witty.
— But that is quite impossible.
It is Jules who said it — it is a commonplace, but...
— Well, if you are very good, I shall tell you about my painting!
— Ah!!!
And he settles himself in bed to listen properly — and I sit close beside him, my elbows on the cover, almost touching him.
After all it is only a matter of the practical way to make a street sketch — he reassures me about the difficulties. I look as if I am making confession, eye to eye.
What for? He has known me for two years. And besides [word crossed out:] Never.
As I crossed the room, his mother caught me and kissed me almost by force — I looked at him laughing, and he laughed too, looking very kind.
But he has known me for two years.
Never. Never. Never. It cannot happen.
How can one expect a thing one has been thinking about for a long time and desires to happen all of a sudden like that... Above all when one has been working at it!... I believe so little in logical results... They always misfire. If at least I had neither thought nor written about it — but after so much... Oh! no, never. After all, he has been seeing me for two years. With the other... I saw at once what the matter was. And so did others. But this one. Come now, it is quite impossible. If only because I cannot hear well. Can you think of anything more cruel?
Oh! absolutely impossible. And it will never be. And on what grounds? We are warm-hearted people, I have a little talent, he is very fond of us. And that is quite enough.
Oh! no. One must tell oneself clearly... because it is the truth, that it cannot happen. No. No. No.
My spectator-self has just re-read the gibberish of my author-self. My spectator-self is perfectly indifferent — but it is quite willing for me to amuse myself in this way...