Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Monday, 21 July 1873

In the evening, on horseback; but I cannot prevent Khalkionoff from coming. Without being invited he came on horseback, and there was nothing left to do but go. Besides, I was with Paul, and two carriages followed us; nobody went to Monaco, and I had to brave everyone's fears. My aunt above all was quite tiresome with her:
— You will fall, do not gallop, but one never rides so fast! But it is dreadful! Paul, you will kill her with your nonsense, etc. etc.
I do not get angry; it shows that they love me.
I am decidedly beginning to ride well.
This morning I committed a base act. It has been a long time — more than a year — since Maman bought this book by Arsene Houssaye, Les courtisanes du monde. It was forbidden to me, and I had not read it, but yesterday afternoon, having found it on the table where the painter disfigures me, I took it for fear he should see this improper book in a drawing room, and I know not how, I opened it. I read a few pages standing up; it interested me, and I resolved to read it the next day. Two hours this morning reading it — it is very well written, and I entirely share the author's opinion: far from being immoral, on the contrary, "any woman who reads it is a sensible woman." I was reading (not peacefully, for I was always afraid of being caught), and my thoughts were so far from everything — I was entirely in the book — when: "The entire stable of the Duc de Parisis has been sold to the Duke of Hamilton!....." So unexpected! that I was literally thunderstruck. I love these shocks — the breath stops, the heart beats, the eyes are covered with a veil; I reread it again to be sure it was true, but the words danced. I reread that name, always dear, another ten times. He too, I believe — in how many adventures he must have been! It is his world that is described. Men do enjoy themselves all the same; the woman is always the victim. I should like to be a man — I would surpass all these gentlemen.
There are many little stories in Les courtisanes about the Duke and Lord Hamilton, about Mme Paskevitch in Venice, and about many others from the worlds of Nice and Baden especially.
What a terrible character Victoria has. Oh! my God, if a man loved me as much!
I value only the love of men like Rio, Hamilton, and so forth — because they know, and they have seen a great deal. A boy of twenty-two loves every woman. I would be proud only to be loved by one of these men; they are connoisseurs. And when they love, it is forever. They have experienced everything, they have been everywhere, and at last they find harbour. How can there be women who deceive their husbands?
For my part, I would have asked only one thing: that my husband love me. That does not prevent one from being a society woman, even a flirt, while still belonging to one's husband.
I love Hamilton, and I desire him all the more because he will know how to appreciate me. Because he has lived.

Notes

"Quite tiresome" in English in the original. ↩