Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Thursday, 30 July 1874

I have grown so weak that the slightest movement fatigues me; climbing the stairs is too much. I have a buzzing in my ears, and in a word, I am in a very wretched state.
I shall try to mend myself; such a state is unbearable.
The weather is fine, neither sun nor rain, the sort one can only dream of for riding. I look for Paul; he cannot be found and I do not ride. We do not go out; we dine at home. Around eight o'clock comes the little count. I enter the drawing room in my hat, saying I am going to choose a carriage; he suggests to Walitsky that he accompany me.
We three return by carriage to fetch Maman. A pretty carriage, from a new stable, two horses and little bells. Maman beside me, Walitsky behind, Dina and the count in front. That ugly little man was delighted to have on his wretched shoulders the two reins.
I do not like the Morteau road; something always happens there. Once the horse got loose from the bridle, another time the saddle turned, a third time Bagatelle was run over.
"And a fourth time," says the little one, "a fourth time?"
"I do not remember," I said, blushing.
"You do not remember?"
"No."
Maman understood and changed the subject.
I said that one always understands when one wants to, that there are people who tell you all sorts of things and you only understand long afterward when you have nothing to do, whereas with others, when they speak, one understands and hears everything because one desires it and expects it.
It is true: I understood the slightest insinuations from Remy, while poor Stephan said so much and I only understood months later in Nice.
Maman and everyone are for this ugly count; they find him handsome -- it is not true. He is not bad-looking, and nothing more.
We go into the casino and stay three-quarters of an hour.
I was introduced to the elder Merjeewsky, who has just arrived, and Therese's sister, who is, I believe, his mistress, or near enough.
I was reading Le Derby; I came across the name Hamilton three times. I was flushed and biting my lips; the count was speaking to me, and I barely answered, looking at the newspaper.
"And what if we spoke of things past?"
"Ah!... Yes, if the things were agreeable, one speaks of them again with pleasure."
"But how is one to know if it will be agreeable for you?"
"I do not know."
"As it happens, I wished to speak to you of a thing I have already spoken of, I think. When should I speak of it?"
"Whenever you wish."
"Ah!"
"One should always speak; the sooner the better."
"Well then, I shall speak of it the next time we go riding."
"Very well."
"It will be amusing, but because of that I hesitate to go riding."
His courtship gives me no pleasure. He loves me -- very well; I accept him as an admirer; he may be among the number. He is the first. He gave me a bouquet and I gave him my rose in exchange.
"It has no stem."
"That is precisely why I give it; I could no longer hold it."
I decided afterward that it was too much to have given him a half-eaten rose, and to partially erase this kindness I gave the bouquet to Maman.
I am in a gray dress, yellow boots. I polkaed with Winslow and waltzed with de Jahal, and we go home. I need not say that my feet were noticed.
The Baron de La Rousseliere is magnificent; I would admire him if he were not married.
On arriving home I learn that [Crossed out: the count, having discovered my preference for red hair] I was the cause of the count's illness. This little man, having learned that I love red hair, took it into his head to have his hair dyed, washed his head with hot water, and caught cold. He thinks that with red hair he will please me; the hairdresser here promised to dye it. It made me laugh. At last! They are beginning to commit follies for me. It is not before time -- I am fifteen!
For another it would be too soon, but for me, who am in my own eyes quite extraordinary, who wants to do nothing as others do, who dreams of a life composed of triumphs, of renown, of exploits, who despite not being beautiful wants to have everyone, who places herself above everyone, who pushes her ambition to the heavens, who wants riches, titles, celebrity, who wants to be everything there is of beauty, of grandeur, of the illustrious, the famous, the extraordinary, who wants more than I can say -- it is too late.
At this moment I want to acquire one thing: the expression of omnipotence. This can only be acquired through a more or less great certainty of the power one has and through self-contentment. If one is not satisfied inwardly, one cannot have this expression -- unless one has a supernatural power over oneself.
I must therefore wait until my self-regard is satisfied.

Notes

In English in the original. ↩