Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Wednesday, 1 October 1884

So much disgust, and so much sadness. What is the use of writing?
My aunt left on Monday; she will arrive at one in the morning, and the following morning the matter comes before them. And yet! If you knew — believing everything had been settled, I was at ease, when on hearing that they were leaving on Tuesday it occurred to me to check the dates: leaving on Tuesday, one would arrive a day late. I began weeping so violently that I was crying aloud. And she left. But what can I tell you?
It is the utterly final blow. After all my tears and all my arguments for years… For if I have not yet convinced them, I never shall…
Then it is bottomless despair… For if they are not convinced they will not [three pages torn out]
………… could take him to the south, etc.
That was two years ago.
No decency whatsoever — neither for my heart nor for my body.
And lies! Lies everywhere, about everything, always.
And she says it is because she is afraid of vexing me; and if I ask: have you been where I said? Instead of simply answering: no, not yet — she invents a whole array of contrivances, and as she is foolish I can see through them, and I rage.
Good God, with such people… What torment. And to be able to do nothing, nothing, nothing.
Jules goes from bad to worse.
Dina continues to lull him to sleep.
What should I go there for.
And I cannot work. My picture will not be finished. There it is. There it is. There!
We brought him back from the Bois; I put his scarf on him and buttoned his overcoat and arranged the blanket over his feet. But it was Dina who ran her fingers through his hair; fortunately the doctor arrived and sent him to sleep by mesmerizing him in earnest.
But he is going, and he suffers greatly. When one reaches that point one detaches from the earth — he already hovers above us. There are days when I feel this way myself. One sees people, they speak to you, one replies, but one is no longer of the earth; a tranquil indifference, not painful, something like an opium dream.
Mme Mac-Kay is in Paris. I say Lady Mac-Kay, and Bojidar says: Lady Man-quée.
In short, he is dying. I go only from habit; it is his shadow — and I too am half a shadow. What is the use?
He does not particularly feel my presence; I am useless. I have not the gift of lighting up his eyes, not even for a moment.
He is pleased to see me. That is all.
He is indifferent to me as well. Yes, he is dying and it is all the same to me; I cannot take it in — it is something that is departing. If he… If I could see… I would have worked myself into a state… There would be a reason, a pretext, something!
But really! He has grown attached to us. He adores us. There it is. So. It happens that… But he is too ill; he is no longer of this world.
And I… Mme Mac-Kay and death. What part do I play in all this? For him I am an enthusiast with enough talent to understand him thoroughly.
Well. Well — I would have wished to be the love of his suffering, so as to love him… or to mourn him…
But like this…
Everything is over, besides. Everything is over.
They will bury me in 1885.

Notes

Bojidar's pun: manquée = failed, lacking — she is a "missed" or "failed" lady. ↩
Marie died on 31 October 1884 — before the year she predicted. ↩