Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Sunday, 19 October 1873

I go, still in my nightgown, to my aunt's where they recount yesterday at Monaco. They saw M. and Mme Wittgenstein -- or rather, Prince Wittgenstein and his cocotte. We all said she is old and ugly. My aunt says he gave her his arm, so Papa says perhaps it is his wife. Bah! They used to say Gioia was Hamilton's wife. Then Papa says he does not believe Hamilton left Gioia, but we told him he is marrying Lady Montagu:
"What an imbecile! Life would have passed like a pleasant dream."
"No, Papa -- how is that possible? And to whom would the dukedom have gone? The line would have died out."
They said Gioia must be stupid, because she did not know how to keep the Duke, and that the Wittgenstein woman knows how to keep hers.
"No, my aunt -- she keeps him because he never loved anyone seriously. But on a given day, if he meets a woman who pleases him, this same Rosalie will be thrown to the devil like Gioia, etc. etc. etc."
We go to church (green dress, good). I return on foot with the Anitchkoffs and a friend of theirs, M. Lubimoff, an old man very highly placed in Petersburg. After lunch they pester me about Miloradovitch. I go to accompany everyone to the station, and once near the carriage M. Anitchkoff begs me, takes me by the hand, and makes me get in. I did not say a word all the way to Monaco; I am so sad. But what is most curious is that I am becoming nervous. There is no one of quality -- nothing but Sunday rabble. Audiffret too, in his top hat for Sunday. I sit near Maman and stake a hundred sous on black; there was a run -- I won five louis, staking one louis each time. I had enough, and we went onto the terrace with the Anitchkoffs. M. Anitchkoff introduced me to his friend as a serious, hardworking, practical person with a character of iron. This was partly to boast that I had stopped playing. I stayed only an hour at Monaco; at five o'clock we return, but I am utterly sad and dejected. The Anitchkoffs take us to their home. I did not want to dine with them; I made every excuse, but Monsieur insisted so strongly that I had to go up. This hospitality that imposes itself is unbearable! I go up with annoyance but also with the plan to escape. Once in the dining room, I stay a minute, then slip out through another door -- my heart pounds with fear of being caught -- I open the main door and the handle breaks; I replace it and hurry down the stairs. I pass through the garden like a thief, cross the street, and find myself at home -- at last!
I am hungry, but alas! They have dined and say there was nothing good; they set the table. I go up to Dina's; they are going to the theatre. There I find Bete doing her hair. Dina tells me that Pitou destroyed my second jockey cap. I am extremely angry, and everything together makes me weep. Every trouble falls on me! I am truly vexed that this souvenir of the Exhibition has been lost because of that accursed animal! I dine in tears. There is nothing to eat. But I am no longer hungry. I am too unhappy to be hungry. The slightest noise drives me out of my mind. For example, when Papa chews I become enraged, and to keep from exploding I cover my ears. I find pleasure in nothing. Before, when tired of working, I went back to my room and thought with pleasure of my prayer and my bed. Now I pray calmly, and the bed is indifferent to me, because I can think of nothing but my pain. Generally before falling asleep I used to build a few castles in Spain and imagine a dozen scenes. Now -- what shall I think of?! I fall asleep suffering; my sleep, once preceded by sweet dreams, is now preceded by powerless jealousy and still more powerless rage. I go to bed late this evening; tomorrow I must be up at five o'clock. We were talking of beauty -- Dina, Bete, and I. I said my taste, and the men I find handsome. Namely, the heir of Russia, his brothers Alexis and Vladimir -- but of those I have only a vague memory. The Duke of Hamilton, Lord Hamilton, Baron Merck, and M. Boreel.
I also said that red is the color I love best.
Lord Hamilton is not at all my type -- the complete opposite -- but he is an exception. He is dark, thin, just enough for me to find him ugly. And yet I find him handsome, on the contrary. And he is the only dark, thin man who pleases me.
[Annotation: 1875. Johnstone is dark and pleases me.]
I am no better today. It has been a week since I learned this detestable news, and the whole week is a succession of inward tears and stifled regrets.
I am mad! Content at having read nothing new, I have the madness to maintain some well-hidden and very feeble hope. The misfortune is too great for it to be true. I cannot accustom myself to no longer praying for him, to no longer hoping in him. I am so accustomed to this thought that it seems impossible to abandon it.
This idea is something dear that seems impossible to destroy, to cease, to forget.
And yet it is true; it is finished.
But no -- it is impossible! That my prayer every evening for a year should go unheard! That I must part from this dear hope I have maintained for a whole year! That God should be so cruel! No, no, it is not so -- or if it is, then not forever! I shall pray God to enlighten me.
[Annotation: 1875. Note this not forever -- the best part is that I still think the same thing today.]

Notes

In English in the original. ↩
In English in the original. ↩