Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Monday, 18 January 1875

What business do I have dreaming of that wretched Italian? For six days I have dreamed of him three times. And again last night I dreamed of the Polish count — all night long I saw him weeping. To the devil with him — that toad.

Lundi, 18 janvier 1875

It rains. I was bored for an hour at the deacon's.

Il pleut, je me suis ennuyee une heure chez le diacre.

Paul writes that Maman is still ill — my God!

Paul ecrit que maman est toujours malade, mon Dieu !

Coming into the hotel courtyard while my aunt paid the cab, I was thinking of all sorts of things when suddenly I was distracted from these thoughts, good and bad alike, by the approach of a man. I looked up quickly and recognized Clark — that Clark from Spa who claims that people often mistake him for Carlo, so strong is the resemblance.

En rentrant dans la cour de l'hotel pendant que ma tante payait le fiacre, je pensais a toutes sortes de choses quand tout a coup je fus distraite de ces pensees bonnes et mauvaises par l'approche d'un homme, je levai vivement les yeux et reconnus Clark, ce Clark de Spa qui pretend que, souvent, on le prend pour Carlo tant il lui ressemble.

How good it is to see a living soul — how good to speak to someone! And how rarely I enjoy this pleasure, alas!

Que c'est bon de voir une ame vivante, que c'est bon de parler a quelqu'un ! Et que je jouis rarement de ce plaisir, helas !

I felt a supreme satisfaction in encountering this man and speaking with him for a few minutes — he made me remember our life at Spa: that cheerful, calm life we ought always to lead. At Spa I was happy — almost happy.

J'eus un contentement supreme de rencontrer cet homme et de lui parler pendant quelques minutes, il me fit souvenir de notre vie a Spa, vie gaie et calme, comme nous devrions toujours vivre, a Spa, j'etais heureuse, presque heureuse.

Truly — to meet a living soul who seems glad to see me, who does not turn away but comes toward me as he would toward anyone else, to feel for an instant like anyone else — this is a triumph for poor me. Inwardly I told myself: Well, you see, you are like the others — he is not turning you away. And I triumphed over myself, over my dark thoughts, my eternal sighing, and tried to make myself believe that I am not as wretched as I think, tried to conceal my wretchedness from myself and make myself believe I am not repelled and disowned by the entire world.

Vraiment rencontrer une ame vivante qui parait contente de me voir, qui ne detourne pas la tete mais qui vient a moi comme a tous les autres, me sentir un instant comme les autres, c'est un triomphe pour pauvre moi...

So greatly did this trifle — seeing this man who is nothing to me (what am I saying — a great deal, for that very reason: he does not turn away) — delight me that I walked along radiant, my eyes alive and bright, my cheeks flushed, humming an Offenbach air. For since the day when Barrême, Olivier, Foster and Woerman were with us [Crossed out: it was sad] I had sunk back into my dark thoughts, and since being in Paris — on account of my aunt's scolding, her wounding and offensive words, her sullen expressions and fierce looks — I had grown pale, plain and bored. I had tried, when we were alone, to respond to her with a kind of barking in return, and in company with words and smiles — but one grows weary, and I grew weary, and gave myself over to a sort of inertia.

Tant cette bagatelle de voir cet homme qui n'est rien pour moi...

The more patient I am, the more she tests my patience, and the more she shouts and scolds. I know perfectly well that to have peace with her one must take a tone a pitch higher than hers, and instead of waiting for her to shout, forestall her with louder shouts than those she was preparing to deliver. I know this — but I often do not do it, out of laziness. The only way to keep her in hand is to be fierce and imperious; gentleness is not even to be thought of.

Plus je suis patiente plus elle eprouve ma patience et plus crie et gronde. Je sais bien que pour etre tranquille avec elle il faut la prendre par un ton plus haut qu'elle...

And yet I ask nothing better.

Pourtant je ne demande pas mieux.

We go nowhere, and I spend my time reading, smoking, and drinking ten cups of tea. Oh, fine occupation — Beati, chi amano il te!1

Nous n'allons nulle part, et je passe mon temps a lire, fumer et prendre dix tasses de the. O belle occupation *Beati, chi amano il te !*

Bouver et foumer2 as that horrible Mexican at Spa used to say.

*Bouver et foumer* comme disait le vilain Mexicain a Spa.

As soon as [Crossed out: I return to] my voice is fully recovered I shall stop foumer, but stop bouver — never.

Aussitot [Raye: rentree a] que ma voix se remettra tout a fait je cesse de foumer, mais de bouver jamais.

And as for people saying I will never give up smoking — I smoke because I want to smoke. From the day I no longer want to, I shall do so no longer.

Avec ca qu'on dira que je ne me deshabituerai plus de fumer, je fume parce que je veux fumer, du jour ou je ne le voudrais pas je [ne] le ferai plus.

[Annotation: 1880. And indeed I no longer smoke.]

[Annotation:1880. Et en effet je ne fume plus.]

Notes

In Italian in the original. "Beati, chi amano il tè!" — "Blessed are those who love tea!" — Marie's mock-Beatitude, playing on Matthew 5. ↩
In French in the original, but deliberately mispronounced. A Mexican acquaintance at Spa mispronounced boire et fumer (to drink and to smoke) as bouver et foumer. ↩