Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Sunday, 4 April

What a strange thing! Ever since I saw the Prince of Wales — or the ecnirp ed sellag — I have had the craze of reversing names. Ever since I saw the Prince of Wales I have dreamt of him every night. Last night I saw him again, then horses, a strange carriage, long and low, its wheels covered with flowers, drawn by two small horses — but all of it very tiny — then gardens, flowers, windows, ham, rooms, and servants. An incredible jumble.
Collignon was supposed to take me to the Anglican church; as she was late, I went to fetch her with Walitsky and Dina, and we bring her back to our place — but before going home, we go to visit the magnificent villa of the Duke of Vallombrosa. I come back curious and vexed. Why do these upstarts have it and I do not? What a wretched character I have — I want everything beautiful I lay eyes on.
I haven't the patience to write — I'm burning to get quickly to the evening, for in the evening I did... well, we shall see.
After lunch I go off with my aunt. I love Cannes — it feels like England there, and the very best of England.
At the station Marie, Olga, and Pâris are waiting for me to go for a drive in the basket carriage; Pâris gets in with my aunt and I go with the young ladies. We drive for a long time; I am bored and think about what I will do this evening. After coffee I go home.
I shut myself in as is my habit every evening to write and smoke — they know and do not disturb me. I shut myself in and write — but not my journal. Here is what I write, disguising my handwriting completely:
Your Royal Highness,
What I am doing is more original than Archduke Ernest in Offenbach. Forgive my boldness, my audacity. I come to beg you to give me your portrait signed by yourself. One can buy the portraits of great princes, but I do not want what every upstart can have. What I aspire to, what would make me proud and happy, is to have your portrait given by you.
Should His Royal Highness grant me the grace I ask of him on bended knee, he will address it to Nice, Poste Restante, 11 B.E. And why not grant it? It would cost you so little, Your Royal Highness, and would do me so much good!
Eides et spes
I write all this in one go on a sheet of paper like this one, which I put in an ordinary envelope with this address:
To His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales, Hôtel de Luxembourg, Nice.
I tremble as I seal the envelope, my heart pounding like a hammer. Then I open the door, having hidden the famous letter inside my bodice.
— My aunt, I must go to the Sapogenikoffs'.
— Why?
— I just must, that's all.
— Call Léonie, she will go with me.
— I will go myself — let's be off.
— No, I don't want to, it would inconvenience you greatly — call Léonie.
— But why, I'm ready this instant — it's no trouble.
— No, I shall only stay a minute.
— Well then, let's go for a minute.
— I don't want to.
— Let's go.
— I don't want to! — I say sternly.
— Very well, I'll call Léonie.
— I put on the first hat that comes to hand, a pèlerine, and go out with Léonie.
— Léonie, tell me where the letter-box is — I'm going to take the opportunity to send a letter to Ferry; she has made another mistake and not sent me what I need.
— Really, Mademoiselle? Yes, imagine — slippers instead of boots.
— The letter-box is here, Mademoiselle.
— Ah! Good. — And trembling all over, I slipped the letter into the box.
I had every inclination to turn back since my object was achieved, but my lady's maid would grow suspicious — and besides, what excuse to give? So I went bravely on to Nina's. I find the girls working and chatting by her bedside and take my place among them.
— I have come firstly to ask you to come tomorrow to my drawing lesson, and then to see you and spend some time with you, at the risk of boring you — I say, still quite out of breath.
— Bore us, pshaw! Moussinka! cries Marie — you know how much I love when you come! — And this with a great air of sincerity. How things are: in Geneva I detested them; here I love them.
Nina tells stories that are absolutely killing; one of them, though a little risqué, deserves to be set down.
In Astrakhan there were a young girl and a young man in love with each other. Their parents opposing their union, they resolved to die. The young man goes to his friend the pharmacist to ask for poison, then has himself bound to the young girl with ropes in order to die close, very close to her — they might simply have embraced, but he feared no doubt that the convulsions would tear him from her whom he loved so dearly. Having thus bound themselves they lock themselves in, throw the key out the window so as not to be stopped, and drink their poison. But it happened that the pharmacist, guessing the affair and having understood from certain words let slip by his lovesick friend what he intended to do with the poison, gave him instead a very violent purge mixed with an even more violent emetic. One may easily imagine what followed, the door being locked and the two lovers bound so tightly one to the other that they could not move a step apart. It appears that not only did they love each other no longer, but they could never again bear the sight of each other.
I listened, blushing at every moment, and at every moment thinking of my letter — and then my heart would beat and I would become all of a tremble. After tea I take my leave.
— These young ladies are very charming, I say to Léonie — I allow my lady's maid to converse with me.
— Yes, Mademoiselle, they are very charming indeed — their nurse told me they are so charming, so charming.
— Well, am I not charming, then?
— Oh! Yes, Mademoiselle.
— No, tell me truly — do I ever shout, do I ever scold?
— Never, Mademoiselle, never — that's true. (It is true, in fact.)
I demand to be waited on, but I am always good-natured — isn't that so?
— Yes, indeed, Mademoiselle. Pierre, the first time he came to the house, when I would tell him that Mademoiselle asks for this or that, he would always say: Which young lady? The one who gives her orders so nicely? You know, Mademoiselle, he's deaf, Pierre — when one speaks softly he can't hear.
— Ha! He said that, Pierre? — I say, walking very quickly with my head down. In a minute the door is opened and I am inside.
— Well, what were you doing there? my aunt asks me.
— I went to invite the girls for tomorrow's lesson, and then I wanted to finish Olga's portrait.
— What are they doing?
— They are having tea.
I leave her and set to writing the things that follow.
The letter, the letter — what will come of it? Oh! If the charming Sellag would grant my request. I am so tempted — but so tempted to divine the answer — will he send? If yes, yes for the duke. But I promised myself not to do this anymore, for these fortune-tellings lead me into follies and vexations I bring upon myself. If he sent me his portrait I would gladly forget my promise — the occasion is a good one. But if he doesn't send, I shall receive a no for the duke and at the same time a no for Wittgenstein.
At the time when I was seeing Wittgenstein, I thought of marrying him — one knows I think of marrying all those who meet the required conditions — and I told myself then that if ever again I divined the future in this way, I would lose hope of marrying, of marrying Wittgenstein. I didn't say that — I said it, I believe, on pain of a forfeit, but the forfeit was that. You understand that I couldn't care less about all the Wittgensteins in the world if I receive a yes for the duke. I have never lost hope of the duke, in spite of everything — and I have already said that I was born extraordinary, and for extraordinary things. In spite of everything, in spite of the evidence, in spite of reason, I believe in the duke... Oh! I will risk it, I will risk it! Yes, but as the answer for the duke will be no, I certainly won't get the portrait either. A double no — I am lost. No, I will not risk it — no, no.
[Written across the page: I had seen the duke only a dozen times, and that in the street, as he passed in his carriage! As if one needed any pretext at all to work oneself into a passion!]
I need to keep repeating no — I waver, I drift, I don't know — I am tempted. And if?
And if no? And if yes? If yes, I shall be the happiest of mortals; if no — if no — well, my situation will not change.
Yes, but if I divine the future and it brings ill luck on someone — and the prince sends me nothing.
If in a week I receive nothing, I shall write again. [Crossed out: Monday, 5 April 1875]
My aunt locks all the doors. The madhouse has burned down and these charming characters are wandering about the town. I laugh at this and she shrieks!

Notes

Latin: "Faith and hope" (Fides et spes) — Marie's spelling error for Fides. ↩