Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Monday, 17 April

Here is the great day. At half past two, a matinée at Mme Conti Damoreau's and Monsieur Laussel's. The performers are the pupils and the audience their parents and friends.
I worked an hour and a half by heart while reading La Dame de Monsoreau at the same time. I never do one thing at a time, and so I feel well prepared and hope not to be frightened (Archiduc dress, Watteau hat — good); my aunt in full dress, Dina, and Collignon; with that outfit and that hat, so fresh, so simple, so cheerful, with a young and satisfied face — I felt altogether light and bright.
Passing along the Promenade I am scandalised by the manners of Audiffret and the Italian with grey eyes — they were on a bench; as we passed, the latter stood up and the Peasant remained seated, but both were staring at me fit to put their eyes out, and the little man from Nice looked me straight in the eyes and, while staring, was laughing at the Italian.
I quickly take my aunt by the hand, urging her most earnestly not to move, so that these two scoundrels might have her head between themselves and me and not be able to see me — for even while indignant I was smiling. Dina simply began to laugh — and was seen, that girl made of lard.
How ugly and ill-dressed all these people at Laussel's are, for all their pretensions to elegance! Yet there is a drawback to being the best-turned-out — these hussies envy me.
I understand that — I am envious myself.
The ceremony opens with our overture to Oberon. Laussel is pale. For my part, I do not make a single mistake and am not at all frightened — on the contrary. I only regret playing such an ugly... piece. There was applause and I believe we deserved it, for, except for Hélène Howard, we were all playing a piece for eight hands before an audience for the very first time.
Dina and Collignon were trembling for me. Having finished and regained my seat amid the applause, I felt so bold that I would have played before a thousand people, and so satisfied and light that I wanted to conquer the world.
My aunt said nothing but I knew she was pleased — especially when Hélène and Lise, playing together, got into a tangle, made a muddle of it, and then stopped in confusion.
However it only lasted a moment; they resumed and got through to the end — indifferently. The piece was difficult. Then Mme Damoreau's pupils sang dreadfully — no voices, but a sound method nonetheless. [Crossed out: At the end] two more pairs of young ladies played The Fingal's Cave, another chorus, and that was all. Then everyone rose and demanded a piece from the professors. After much fussing, Laussel and Damoreau played on two pianos the overture to Tannhäuser, I believe, and then the lady sang.
I love only perfect music and am certain that if I were treated to such a din four times a year, I should give it up altogether.
On the whole I am satisfied, and from this music box we go to the café I love. It is full of Russians; we place ourselves under the colonnade; the Comtesse Somaglia looks at me a great deal — no doubt because of my long dress; at Spa she used to see me dance as a little girl.
Before going in we see the Peasant pass by.
— Wait, I say — in ten minutes he will be here.
— What?
— Oh yes — he'll see our landau and come in. What a stupid creature. Vain creature!
— Marie, don't talk nonsense — says Collignon.
— Nonsense — you'll see. — Then we talk again in this vein and laugh. Having placed myself with my back to the light to watch Somaglia, I could not see those who came in.
— Well, Dina — has he come?
— Not yet.
— Ah! There he is! she cries.
Indeed — a moment before, having turned round, I saw the creature who, as he passed, was peering right to the heart of the café.
— Has he come in, Dina?
— Yes — no — no. He has got out of the carriage but is not coming in.
— He does it on purpose, the idiot. In a few minutes we leave, and it didn't come off.
I go out again for a little while.
At dinner, I talk to Collignon about Johnstone. Oh! That accursed diabolus — how could he possibly have pleased me so!
After all, it does me no harm — on the contrary.
But truly — I feel in the mood to conquer the world!
Why do I believe that Hamilton is dead? At that thought I no longer want to conquer the world — instead my whole skin seems to contract, my hair stands on end, it seems to me that I grow very small and [illegible], then enormous, enormous, then so light that I can no longer feel myself at all, and frozen to the spot.
What madness — that enormous wild boar is eating, drinking, and enjoying life. Let us occupy ourselves with Johnstone. But no, no — let us occupy ourselves with the portrait. I already have paper with the initials A.B. and a prince's crown — I was obliged to buy an entire box of it, but no matter. We shall see why.
[Written across the page: I did not follow through with this foolishness about the portrait.]