Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Thursday, 10 April 1873

It rains.
At two o'clock, I and Mademoiselle Collignon to the Howards', where we stayed the whole afternoon until five. They are very kind — they adore me, as I have said; they are astonished at how much I study, how I play, etc. etc. When I told them I was going to change the style of my dresses to simplicity, they were astonished and would not believe it.
I showed off a little. On the whole, I spent my time well.
I prefer Hélène to Lise — she is less childish, less enthusiastic, less of a kisser!
Then at home (vicuna wrap), Madame Markevitch styled my hair very well in the Galve manner; I put on my aunt's grey hat, which is of the same kind, and I saw with pleasure that I could easily be like them — and better still — and that it is their hairstyles and dresses that make them, not they who make the dresses.
Home around five o'clock. I do not cease thinking of him; there is not a minute when I do not think of him. It is useless to repeat thirty-six times that I love him — I know it, and God above all knows it.
My journal confines itself to the description of my feelings, my impressions.
If I described what goes on around me? It would be too long; besides, every day is the same thing. We go often to Monaco, to the theater; at dinner Grand-papa picks a quarrel; I, unfortunately, have not the patience to keep silent, and harsh words follow. We part sulking. But in the evening I say goodnight to him and all is forgotten.
Poor man — he is old! Though he says disagreeable things to me, especially when he attacks my family, my name — that cannot be endured.
With Maman and my aunt we speak of the Prodgers, the Souvoroffs, and other things sometimes. But as for my confidences, I make them to no one. And so much the better — one does not repent of it later. I am therefore, for all my decisions, for all my future plans, closed up within myself. Mademoiselle Collignon is spiteful, capricious, tiresome — what more shall I say?... That most of the quarrels between me and Maman arise because she, instead of listening to the end of what I say, anticipates all my words, telling me: Don't shout, don't scold, don't say rude things — when I not only have no desire to do so, but when I am coming to embrace her. Then I stop in reality and say disagreeable things to her. It is her fault.
There is what surrounds me. Ah! — and Dina; but that one sleeps, and nothing more. I cannot imagine what thoughts she has. I cannot divine her — apathetic about everything. She must have some secret.