Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Tuesday, 7 October 1884

He knows I am in Paris but I shall not go, so as to vex that cook of an architect — or rather, to obey my wounded pride.
Friday, 8 August 1884
I have come from there after all. Ah! but that is because the architect came this morning at nine o'clock; I called him a pig, whereupon things sorted themselves out and we went there to lunch.
I am so afraid of not being welcome that someone must come to fetch me… Yes, and Emile was afraid that Jules would ask why I did not come, and if he guessed that I consider myself offended — as an invalid, he would fall on Emile…
Ah! Right, let us not forget poor Bojidar — he is at Gastein with his entire family; his father died the day before yesterday.
And Jules is very weak, especially in this heat — poor dear.
Now they are entirely as I would wish; we are on easy, trusting terms. We are to spend a fortnight at Damvillers as soon as he is better. At luncheon I sit next to him.
— Serve me.
— With pleasure.
— But no splashing.
— Oh! certainly not!
And I nearly overturned the dish.
Yes, and beforehand Emile said that his brother was very exacting, very particular in his relationships, but that truly we… In short, the most delicately flattering things, coming from the heart and not from mere politeness. Yes.
After luncheon he went to sleep in the studio, then came back and asked Maman to cut his hair again. Which was done, while I sewed the cuff of a foulard shirt his mother is making him. Can you picture me seated by the window doing needlework? He looks at me and smiles several times.
Emile has commissions; he left after luncheon to work on his decorative panel [words blacked out] for a M. Klotz — a panel above a chimney-piece, M.K. A handsome mansion, M.K. Klotz. So it is not Mackay after all??
My aunt came to collect us, and we leave him with his head in his hands. What ought immediately to give one an idea of his character is the way he shakes hands. It is frank, warm, wholehearted, good — and he grips rather firmly but without brusqueness or roughness.
So all is well?
Except… as we were leaving, a woman arrived with a bouquet; she removed her hat like someone at home there. And I imagine it is Mme Mackay's lady's maid, come to talk about her, coming perhaps every day to entertain him with sentimental stories such as the maids of such hussies are apt to know. It may be nothing of the sort. But I should so dearly like to know where things stand.
As for me, exhausted by this sultry, stormy weather, I abandon my picture and fall asleep on a divan. Tomorrow I shall resume.
What happiness to be friends with Jules! It truly is real, at least?
— It has been at least a fortnight since I have seen you! he said to me.
He makes use of the pillow.
Yes, we are people he is fond of. Emile, who is his faithful echo, says to me in speaking of us: do you think there are many like you — but do you know that I don't know many myself, no indeed. Ah! no indeed.
Yes, it is good. But in all of this there is nothing for me alone.
Provided I do not let it show to my family, who will look foolish and make a thousand clumsy attempts to persuade me that he cares for me alone.
And why?
These ladies are… They speak of Mackay as something eternal, so as not to give me false hopes. All this without admitting it to themselves, naturally.
Nor must I appear pleased. An initial… a word sets my thoughts reeling, and it would be too foolish to let it show. One must be prepared to say: but I always knew it. Did you think they were parted?
Once he is recovered, we become nothing again — people one sees twice a month. One must prepare oneself for that.
Saturday, 9 August 1884
These ladies brought a small ice-box to the rue Legendre. He had expressed a wish to have one that could be placed beside the bed.
Provided he does not think we are lavishing gifts so as to wangle a picture out of him.
My own picture is blocked in with colour. But I am not well. I must rest frequently by lying down, and when I [words blacked out: get up each time] my head swims and for several seconds I cannot see.
In the end it reaches a point where I leave a canvas at five o'clock to go to the Bois through the deserted streets. Everyone talks to me of nothing but Bastien. It is a considerable distraction for the summer season.
How hot it is! One is stupefied, and all the most foolish refrains fill one's head.
Claire passed on to me like an obsession her two lines to Gounod's Air du soir…
"Jonah seated in his whale
Said: "Oh! how I wish I could get out."
It is charming, but no one can tell me what comes next; as this is maddening, I compose the rest — and you shall judge whether it is good.
Jonah seated in his whale
Said: Oh! how I wish I could get out — One may have all the leisure one wants, Staying here makes me miserable. Here I've been these three days past And begin to find it severe — Separated from all I hold dear, I want to be gone, oh! mother mine — Not to mention that my anguish is great, For should I ever get out at last, It's because this hideous carcass Will have driven me mad, or… worse.
Sunday, 10 August 1884
I do nothing. One is stifled.
Monday, 11 August 1884
I went out at five in the morning to make a sketch, but by six o'clock there were already people about and I was obliged to leave in a fury. There were twenty of them around the closed cab, even so.
In the afternoon I go through the streets again — nothing holds together any more!
Maman went to Bastien's alone; he apparently told her that he will devote a quarter of his existence to being agreeable to me, if he recovers. First of all, I am convinced that Maman is inventing or embellishing; and secondly, if he did say it — so much the worse.
There is Mme Mackay — and as for me, he will prove his gratitude by helping me obtain a medal.
It is bitter.
And now the very words I had wished for give me a sharp discomfort, a great jealousy… Almost grief.
He perhaps thinks we want a picture for nothing. Ugh! the horror. He will give us one. But…
Mme Mackay or another.
Today he was reading an English novel — she is English or American, at any rate she speaks English, and he reads an English novel. It means he is thinking of her… And then all the friendly things his good mother and he and Emile say — all that is nothing, beside the point. I have spoken elsewhere of my greed in matters of feeling. I even once compared Bastien to great capitals whose approach filled me with unease, [Crossed out: with anxiety,] with grief. Well, what can one say… when one is jealous of mere friends — and I am — what can one say… In fact these too are friends, but with something more.
Now that he is grateful it is very disagreeable.
I am going to the Bois.
Tuesday, 12 August 1884
In short, my friends, all of this means that I am ill. I drag myself along and struggle, but this morning I truly thought I was on the verge of surrendering — that is, of taking to my bed and doing nothing more. Thereupon a little strength returned at once, and I went out again to gather things for the picture.
My weakness and my preoccupation remove me from the real world; I have never understood it with such lucidity — a lucidity beyond what I ordinarily possess. All of it appears in detail, with a saddening clarity.
I — a foreigner, ignorant, and on the whole too young — am picking apart the clumsily turned phrases of the greatest writers and the stupid conceits of the most celebrated poets. As for newspapers, I cannot read three lines without revolting. Not only because it is cook's French, but because of the ideas… There is nothing true! Everything is contrived or paid for!
No good faith, no sincerity!!! Nowhere. And when one sees honourable men who, in obedience to party spirit, say lies or nonsense they cannot possibly believe!! It is… nauseating.
He was at that point in his monologue
When a great noise was suddenly heard — It was a crew of very skilled sailors Coming along in a pirogue
The whale, seized with fright, Flung the prophet adrift, And sped away, full of emotion, Swam swiftly toward another shore. Thus the adventure ended. Then Jonah, who was very strong, Had the affair put in the Scriptures And sent a note to Le Sport.
I composed this remarkable stanza during dinner, before Saint-Amand, who is delighted.
We came home for dinner after leaving Bastien's — he is still in bed, but his face is peaceful and his eyes are clear. He has grey eyes whose ravishing beauty naturally escapes the common run.
Do you understand me? Eyes that have seen Joan of Arc. We speak of it. He complains of not having been sufficiently understood… and I tell him he has been understood by all who are not brutes, and that Joan of Arc is a work of which one thinks things it is impossible to say to his face. Ah! if only I could hear properly!!
He speaks to me differently than to Maman, Dina, or my aunt, and speaks to me of [word cancelled] elevated things — and I… For it sometimes happens that I cannot hear!!
That is so atrocious that I can say nothing.
He speaks to me of my picture and I catch sight of it anew, except that as he thinks as I do, he advises me to do what I had already intended — which is awkward, for he may think I follow him absolutely.
— Do not lecture me too much; I might listen to you, and I do not want to.
I was in white with a little gathered bonnet of fine cotton. But he does not see me.
I try to paint but I am not well.
Emile dines here; he is so good — he will arrange the easel and the canvas and the whole system so as to avoid the sun, etc.
He said that Jules spoke of us with tears in his eyes.
This morning he came to arrange all that, but there were no ropes. I have begun the sketch for the background.
Friday, 15 August 1884
Sketching again — from a cab; it is uncomfortable, and Coco has sat in my palette.
I must make a real effort to go to Bastien's.
Every time I go I dress as though for a hundred people, and I even manage to look well by sheer force of will.
And what is the use? I imagined this morning that the architect is decidedly and seriously carrying a torch for me. Yes, at moments I have a deep conviction of it. I may be wrong. But what if it were true? What an absurd thing… and what an unhappy one… No, one cannot be so mistaken — I am not mistaken; only it is a thing that pains me even while it pleases me, do you understand?
I am with him on the footing of a very friendly camaraderie — I chaff him, tease him, play the child. But I am certain that if for ten minutes I were to adopt the manner one has with a man one pleases and wants to draw out…
But these are probably nonsense. Ah! it would be absurd!
And so I am making ensembles of the highest refinement to go to the rue Legendre. But each visit is accompanied by hesitations and doubts and… like a first time. And what is the use? And to what purpose? 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 picture!
This being of 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 at once… no, never.
His mother throws herself into my arms calling me her dear little Marie. There is company this evening. I have at last the opportunity to shake Baude my engraver's hand. Here is yet another excellent nature like Emile's — he comes in around half past six and finds there my aunt, Dina, and me.
Jules is very fond of my aunt. He says she is self-denial and goodness personified. But in fact, it is true. My aunt is far better than Maman — always sacrificed, always.
He is better, and says to me, apropos of something or other, one of those pleasantries one says to everyone.
— You are better, then, since you are so agreeable?
This makes everyone laugh.
— [Crossed out: Well then.]
Emile has told him some jokes I made at home, meaning to embarrass me; so I put on airs and grimaces, then suddenly:
— Ah! you think I am afraid of you — just wait, and you shall see!…
— No! you would be unbearable if there were no one to keep you in check a little…
— Ah! how very wrong you are — I would be much better: gayer, sweeter, wittier.
— 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 picture!
— Ah!!!
And he settles himself in his bed to listen properly, while I sit very close, my elbows on the counterpane, almost touching him.
It is only a matter, after all, of the practical method of sketching in the street; he reassures me about the difficulties. I look as though I am making confession, eyes into eyes.
What is the use? He has known me for two years. And besides [word crossed out:] Never.
As I crossed the room, his mother caught hold of me and kissed me almost by force; I looked at him while laughing, and he was laughing too, with a very kindly air.
But he has known me for two years.
Never. Never. Never. It cannot happen.
How can one expect a thing one has long thought about and desired to happen all at once like that… Especially when one has worked toward it!… I have so little faith in logical results… They always misfire. If at least I had neither thought nor written of it — but after so much… Oh! no, never. In the end he has seen me for two years. With the other… I saw at once what the situation was. And others too. But this one. Come now, it is quite impossible. If only because I do not hear well. Can you know anything more cruel?
Oh! absolutely impossible. And it will never be. And for what reason? 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 be clear about it… because it is the truth: it cannot happen. No. No. No.
I-as-spectator has just reread the gibberish of I-as-author. I-as-spectator is perfectly indifferent, but is content for me to amuse myself in this vein…
Saturday, 16 August 1884
Here is the first day I have worked in earnest. From a cab, and I am so stiff and aching from it that on returning home I have my back showered, etc. But how well one feels!
Emile has set up my canvas this morning. As for that wretch Jules, he is better — he has been to the Bois. He was carried up and down in an armchair. It was Félix who reported it, coming for milk at four o'clock. For a week now he has been taking goat's milk from our goat — judge the joy of these ladies. But that is not all: he condescends to be… so familiar that he sends for it whenever he wants. Now that is something.
So we are going to lose him, since he is better.
Yes, the good times appear to be nearing their end. One cannot go to see a man who goes out. One could go and establish oneself there, and he had no way of escaping his bed — now that is over.
But let us not exaggerate the misfortune — he went to the Bois, but carried in an armchair, and then went back to bed. That does not mean he goes out. There is hope, then. He may yet be very ill.
This man may prevent me from having talent. He wants to give me advice; his advice will influence me and I shall no longer be myself.
It is fine to ask Tony for advice — it is like his singing. [Crossed out: But less so] When I was afraid of Tony, it was because he could tell me things about craft, about the studio.
But Bastien! I cannot even imagine my independence before so terrible a judge. Once the picture is finished, let him tell me what he thinks — yes, I shall listen with dread and cold sweat; but while I am working on it, it would be my death.
I shall heed only myself, but he will disturb me profoundly. He has already nearly made me distort my picture, which has not yet reconstituted itself despite my efforts. But to refuse to speak to him of it! He thinks he is doing me a service and would be hurt.
To find myself under the sway of an artist in whom I believe absolutely… or nearly absolutely…
He was pleased yesterday that I spoke to him of it… But I do not want to.
And after all these broths and all this jellied salmon, he will think it his duty to guide me. Ah! the wretch.
Let him tell me: this passage is not sufficiently this or that — that is the kind of advice I accept even from Tony. I have only to repaint it. But as for the picture itself — the pose, or the expression, or the composition — no, no. No one.
In short, I would have him be in love with me, and instead he will give me advice — advice which shakes me, annoys and humiliates me in advance!
I am a very small sovereign, but an independent one. I am quite willing to admire him on my knees, but each in their own domain.
Sunday, 17 August 1884
Monday, 18 August 1884
Tuesday, 19 August 1884
I am so run down that I barely have the strength to put on a linen dress without a corset, to go to Bastien's.
His mother greets us with reproaches. Three days! Three days without coming! But it is horrible. And the moment we are in his room Emile cries: so it is all over then! What, no more friendship?
— So you are abandoning me, he himself then says. Ah! that is not right!
My vanity would have me repeat here all the affectionate reproaches and assurances that never, never could we come too often.
But I ought to dance for joy! Emile said he had only come to life at our arrival.
In short, it reaches a touching degree… There is no more room for hesitation, for my friends — he wanted to beat me!
You understand that after actual violence I can no longer doubt his love.
My aunt having told him that I was preventing them from going to see him every day, I drew near, kneeling before the bed:
— Yes, because the people one loves most end up being tiresome… every day.
Then he seized my chin — hear this, people of France — and raised his hand [Crossed out: made the gesture of striking me] while I presented him with my back. He did not deign to strike. But here is an art-student who has taken me by the chin. Good heavens.
After that, no more hope, my friends — I am only a [girl].
And as he was insisting that we come:
— To be adored one must make oneself desired, said I.
— Oh! but the day has twenty-four hours; giving me one leaves twenty-three in which one desires you…
— If it is to that degree, said I [with] a comic emotion, I am conquered… Yes, from the moment things stand thus… No more resistance possible!
Emile dines with us — the pope and his daughter.
But what do you say of Jules? For a start, he is perfect — beyond my most… I could not have wished him more affectionate towards us. I am included with the others, as a whole.
And Mme Mackay?
Today I let Maman and my aunt go there alone; they thought I stayed at home by affectation… Dina comes and finds me stretched out.
— So you're not going to see Jules? We could tell him that the ladies had locked us up out of jealousy and that we escaped through the kitchen…
This piece of nonsense revives me; I dress in an instant and we go with our story, which makes Jules laugh. He is not well, but we talk together apart from the others. [Words blacked out: He insists] greatly that I should be comfortably settled and at ease for working. Then… there is talk of transformations, of the life to come, of nothingness…
While Mme Bastien-Lepage, Maman, my aunt, Dina, and Emile talk of the Damvillers apples, the ice-box…
One must mention this ice-box: as his servant had found one more convenient than ours, he sent ours back to us. So I teased the ladies for forty-eight hours about it, and before the architect, who told Jules — and now the word "ice-box" provokes jokes every time.
I am quite willing to philosophize with this invalid… I am even thoroughly delighted to do so — but Mme Mackay?
Not only did I find the strength to go, but it seems I was even pretty! A loose jacket in ribbed grey velvet, white lace, and a round hat with grey birds and a veil.
He said: this child is very coquettish.
I had just risen after a day of fever, and everything was thrown on haphazardly — but it only succeeds that way.
A very delicate complexion, pale and slightly pink — it is very pretty with grey. Well, he probably saw nothing.
What an excellent nature Emile has. I called him limited… I expressed myself badly.
He is very intelligent, but so frank and so loyal and so loving, so good, that he sometimes appears foolish.
And how he adores his brother.
Now that he sees his brother takes pleasure in seeing us, and knowing me to be very sensitive, he is at all times trying to be agreeable and to avoid the shadow of a word I might misinterpret… in order to tease him with it.
And Jules?… Jules is not well. But what in the end is the matter with him?
If he is simply… worn out, he will recover. Mme Mackay performs a pious work in not coming to see him, and once he is better he will go to her. In the meantime what he needs is broths and friendly warmth.
There. It is hard, but that is how it is.
Well, and my dresses and my efforts at looking pretty and?? But still…
So many things…
I idle all day and work only from five to seven, in the carriage. [Three lines blacked out, illegible]
I had a photograph taken of the corner I am painting, so as to have the lines of the pavements perfectly exact. The operation took place this morning at seven o'clock. From six o'clock the architect was there, and so we set out. Myself, Emile, Rosalie, Coco, and the photographer.
It is not that the brother's presence is useful, but it is gayer — I like to have a little entourage around me.
Friday, 22 August 1884
It is cancer.
Baude, who is spending the evening here with Emile, tells Maman.
Baude is his great friend; he wrote him a long letter from Algiers — the one I read…
Then it is over.
Is it possible?
But I cannot yet take in the effect this abominable news has on me. It is a new sensation — to see a man condemned to death.
Saturday, 23 August 1884
I am saddened by it this morning, ready to weep — but all of it in a vague sort of way…!
But yesterday evening I received a letter from the Figaro. Yes, from the Figaro, from M. Périvier, who asks to visit my studio with a view to the composition of the Figaro Illustré, which is published at the end of the year, at Christmas.
If one of my pictures could suit their purposes, it would be very good.
At any rate, the visit alone is already something.
At Bastien's around six o'clock.
This creature eats — and eats abominable, horrible things. Sausage!!
He is very sweet to me, and [words blacked out: he pressed] my hand with an intention of friendship that ought to enchant me and only astonished me.
But none of this interests me any more. I do not believe he is gravely ill — people are mistaken. He will live. But it is I who no longer know where I am, in any respect.
And painting!!
Once up and dressed, but he will be a very plain little fellow. If only I could hear everything he says… Oh! no, you see — that, that!!
That is what makes it that
He may have shaken my aunt's hand, Dina's, in the same way — it is possible; but it is the first time he has pressed mine thus. Poor child, then he wanted to show his strength and match grips; I hurt his fingers, which became the occasion for tender apologies while I patted his hands.
I hear Julian asking what my tender apologies are like.---
— Did I hurt you? No, poor dear, really?
That is all, but it could be accompanied by coquetry and glances… without insipidity.
And if he is truly condemned. I do not believe it, and continue laying siege to him — I, the lame soldier.
Jean-Jacques was.
And he too was always unhappy.
And Gambetta was one-eyed — but they were men!
Sunday, 24 August 1884
We went this morning at half past six to take another photograph, and poor Emile finally tells me in detail what this illness is. Inflammation of the intestines and kidneys. On one side. And as it is in an inaccessible region… It has no bearing on the other… meaning he can eat what he wants. The doctor says he fears a tumour. We know what that means. It cannot be cured. Besides, he is too weak to undergo the necessary treatment. And without applying that treatment there is no hope.
— It is a vicious circle, says Emile.
— But… good heavens!
Oh! there is no doubt.
At noon today we went to Nittis's funeral — a painter I did not know, but who had talent.
Then to the Bois, and on the way back these ladies wanted to go up to Bastien's — I stayed in the carriage, and what do I see! Jules's head at the window, both arms waving for me to come up; Emile comes to fetch me and I go.
But all that… Why?
The architect comes this evening to collect the photograph for Jules, and Dina, playing the ingénue as ever, asks him whether the lady who came to Jules's the other day was Mme Mackay.
General consternation.
— You could not have seen Mme Mackay at my brother's! cries the architect. Is it not so, Madame, that you have never seen Mme Mackay at my brother's?
Whereupon Dina persisted in playing the innocent; I tried to change the subject by exchanging knowing glances with Emile… In the end… It was…
And we know nothing, in the end…
All of it, all of it, all of it… To what end, what is the use? Disgust with everything and everywhere. If he dies, a few tears from the head; if he lives, an indifferent friend. But I want nothing more.
Everything is repugnant and horrible. And above all what I write — full of: all of it, of because, of and then, of in short — it irritates me to tears, all these that, that, that.
Saturday, 25 August 1884
They came from the Figaro. What excitement. They want amusing compositions, subjects with children — in the style of English illustration. But French children.
Périvier noted down Jean-Jacques, of which I will make a drawing, and in addition they will send me the dimensions and I shall do something else. Phew! Afterwards we shall see if it suits.
Maman dines at the Bastiens'. Such intimacy! I no longer want to go there at all — it is too domestic. And besides, he is better. As long as he was in bed it was interesting; but seated, dressed, beginning to live… what would I go there for? Besides, he is condemned.
There will be days when he is better, but it is over.
Tuesday, 26 August 1884
Claire and the marshal's wife come to spend an hour here. They are in Paris to buy a wedding gift for young Fleury.
I keep thinking about this mysterious abomination he has in the groin. It is like a terrible answer to anything I might think, plan, desire, or fear. It is over — [one line cancelled]
All the confused things that were flickering about and filling my mind are now gathered and fixed upon this black point.
It is a case presenting itself for the first time — it is something new: a man… A man, a great artist, and… in short, all that you know…
Condemned to death…
But this is serious!
And I am going to think, every day, in advance, that he is going to die? But that is terrible!
I am already hunched in upon myself, head drawn into my shoulders, waiting for the blow. And besides, why go to see him? If he lives he will not love me, and I cannot go to him with that idea. And if he dies… Well — if at least he were to die having felt something for me! But no! To go there, to attend as a friend the sufferings of this poor man, and to be for him the equal of Dina or my aunt!
Ah! no! Ah! no! Why — I ask you? If my presence brought particular satisfaction — but it does not. What can one do — I cannot go with these thoughts. I do not entirely understand why myself, but it is so.
To think that I am indifferent to him grieves me more than seeing him suffer. In short, I want no more of going to his house.
He would understand nothing of it. That is to say, I shall go — but by compulsion.
Yes, it is over — he no longer interests me and I am nothing to him. I withdraw quietly, therefore, with the indifference of those who out of fear prepare themselves in advance for the greatest horrors.
Has it not been so all my life?
When the blow comes, I stand firm to meet it. Then I reason it out, I revolt, and I grow tender. When all is over. Then I amuse myself with it.
I cannot string two words together, and…
But do not think I am desolate. I am only deeply absorbed — I wonder what it will be?
I work a little on the picture, but it is not going well.
I am not even a woman to this monster Bastien. This evening he takes my hands, he slaps me on the shoulder as to a good old comrade.
And then he says: this child is elegant, she has style.
Brute! But he is fonder of me than of Maman, my aunt, or Dina… And even that is not certain.
They have sent the instructions, dimensions, etc. from the Figaro. And I have promised a sketch for the 15th.
Bastien goes to the Bois every day, but…
The doctor prescribes nothing. Let him eat and do as he pleases. It seems to me they ought to prescribe broths, meat juices…
But if it is useless…
The architect looks very downcast.
It is he who every day carries his brother up and down the stairs on his shoulders.
As going to the Bois with him was being discussed, I say:
— Not for all the world!
— Mademoiselle Marie Bashkirtseff fears to compromise herself. At the Bois, with an artist, an artist.
The word underlined as I do it — with sarcasm.
He believes he is getting better.
Friday, 29 August 1884
Saturday, 30 August 1884
Serious matters.
I do nothing. Since the Sèvres picture was finished, I have done nothing. Nothing — save two wretched panels.
I sleep for hours at a stretch in broad daylight. I did manage a small study from a cab. But it is laughable.
The picture is set up, everything is there — only I am missing.
How little Bastien counts, and all the imaginings with which I clothe him!
No, this is no life! Two years without leaving Paris. No travel, no spa, and this winter in mourning — so sad.
And it is by my own will that I am burying myself!
Unable to go, save on rare occasions, into the highest society, I ought to content myself with second-tier salons where one is amused, where one dances, where one talks. Every time I have gone out I have had success — except at the horrible Fitz-Jameses', where I was dragged without notice, without a proper dress…
Well yes — even Cartwright's salon, anything whatsoever — but to be amused, to be courted, to laugh. Instead of remaining shut up for whole months in this Number 30 rue Ampère as in a prison. To live, at last!
But here! The pope! The Engelhardts, the architect!
Is it not like being in a village. I can bear no more — all arguments fly out the window! And all that is young in me revolts!
If I were to say everything! The terrible fears. Here is September — bad weather is not far off. The slightest chill can put me to bed for two months, then convalescence… And the picture!! So I should have sacrificed everything, and…
Ah! this is the moment to believe in God and to pray to Him.
Yes, it is the fear of falling ill; at the point I have reached, some bout of pleurisy could finish me off in six weeks. That is how I shall go, for that matter. Since I shall go on working at the picture all the same… and since it will be cold… And if it is not while working it will be while walking about — those who do no painting die too, after all… Well.
It is in vain that I shall create Bastiens or other diversions for myself. Ah! poor Bastien — how little he counts before the despair of being unable to work. The rage of watching oneself die!
So there it is — the end of all my miseries! So many aspirations, so many desires, so many plans, so much… to die at twenty-five, on the threshold of everything.
Whose fault is it? My family's? Fate's? What have I done?
I had foreseen it. "God, unable without showing partiality to give me what is necessary to my life, will make me die." Years ago. So many years — so few. And nothing.
Sunday, 31 August 1884
[End of entry]

Notes

Marie's comic verse, composed on the spot, parodying a popular song to Gounod's Air du soir. ↩
Marie's mock-heroic continuation of her Jonah poem, parodying both Scripture and the popular press. ↩
Joan of Arc (1879): Bastien-Lepage's celebrated painting, now at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. ↩