Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Wednesday, 17 September 1884

Scarcely a day passes without my being haunted by the memory of my father.
At that time I had grievances against him that had blinded me. I ought to have gone to him and nursed him to the end. He said nothing, because he was like me; but he must have felt my absence cruelly.
How did I not…
It is since Bastien has been here, and we go to him so often with a thousand attentions, indulgences, tenderness…
Is it not truly very wrong!! Maman, for her part, does not care — separated for twenty years, resigned for three… But I, the daughter? And besides, Maman has not even the tact to speak decently of her husband; certain appearances ought to be kept up, even in the absence of feeling.
Then God will punish me. Not Bastien-Lepage, at whose bedside I make my pious vigils… because it amuses me.
Good God, if one gets to the bottom of things… one owes nothing to one's parents if they did not lavish care upon one from the moment of one's entry into the world. The gentleman has nothing venerable in mind when he… marries a pretty woman. M. Richepin said as much in verse, in terms of an edifying bluntness.
But that does not change things… And besides, I have no time to develop this question.
Bastien-Lepage gives me remorse. God's punishment. But what if I do not believe in God? I truly do not know, and yet… I have my conscience, and my conscience reproaches me for what I have done. Besides, one cannot simply say: I do not believe in God. It depends what one means by God.
If the God we love and desire existed, the world would be otherwise. There is no God who listens to my evening prayer — and I pray every evening, in spite of reason.
— If the sky is empty, we offend no one.
— If someone hears us, let him take pity on us.
And yet how can one believe???!!!
Yesterday we inaugurated our newly painted eight-spring carriage and new liveries. For the wedding of General Fleury's son. All of Paris, naturally. I am very elegant.
Bastien is very ill; we find him at the Bois, grimacing with pain… The entire Charcot family is there — the aim being to bring the doctor himself along one of these days as if by chance. They leave, and Jules tells us it is abominable to have abandoned him so for two days.
— Last night I thought at length about the letter I was going to write you, and here is what I came up with — oh! I had it all worked out: One must be a coward, wicked, or ill not to come and see a poor friend in great suffering…
— And why did you not write it! What a pity!
He had apparently asked for paper and a pen, but his mother and Emile talked him out of it. Imbeciles!
One must be a coward, etc. But it is perfectly charming!
We bring him home and put him to bed at once. Poor child — he really is a child. Did he not say it would be very pleasant if I were ill too: I would place myself on half his bed and we could at least talk at any hour; it would be so nice.
— And if you quarrel and want to fight? interjects the architect.
— Then there would be a grate that would descend from the ceiling by means of a spring and fit into brackets prepared in advance.
— But of course, said I, it would be charming.
He will not live. The improvement is over. This evening in his bed the pain was tearing cries from him.
He always has my pillow at the Bois, and he uses it everywhere.
But where on earth is Mme Mac-Kay??
It is simply not possible!…
Saint-Amand to dinner.