Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Saturday, 24 April

To mass. Julie has taken communion; in her best dress she is not at all plain.
Our garden is nearly finished; they are painting the iron railings. I myself took up the hose and set about watering the trees, and then the Promenade as well, so that the dust should not spoil the paint. I was on the pavement, in a grey dress, hat on, dressed as if to go out — and with this hose — when a charabanc loaded with that Prodgers woman, Audiffret, and so on rattled past at full speed. I was a little embarrassed, I confess, but to show it would have been ridiculous, so I went on without losing composure in the slightest. That Prodgers woman, I believe, let out a piercing shriek — out of fear, no doubt, of being drenched.
"You see, dear Fortuné," I said to the little boy beside me, "how ill-bred they are."
"That is M. Audiffret."
"Well then, it is he who is ill-bred to cry out like that."
"It was not he who cried out, it was his mother."
Prodgers, his mother!
Dina comes and takes me off in the carriage, and in a moment we had overtaken the charabanc. I sat perfectly still and grave. No, it really is too comical.
I shall tell the Sapogenikoffs all about it.
At seven o'clock Allard comes to do our hair; he gives me an adorable coiffure. Then the rooms blaze with light, Léonie flies about, and I run about more than all the others put together.
I have had a dream more than magnificent — and this time not in the manner of Joseph's dreams, but precisely like them.
I saw an enormous sheaf of golden ears of grain, a sheaf as large as my whole room, hanging from the ceiling — suspended above a table covered entirely in flowers. And then I saw magnificent fruit.
This dream puts me in the best of spirits; all day I am merry, and in the evening I am half beside myself — I am so fresh, so pretty, it is a pity to be so and all for nothing.
I put on the white silk underskirt, and over it the Oriental-style dress in matte white barège, embroidered in white. Just one plain gold bangle on each arm, and no gloves. On my head, nothing but my hair — two long curling locks falling and tied. I forget my diamond earrings. Without flattering myself, and not because it is I, I declare I was very pretty, to say the least.
Indeed it was so obvious that I said so aloud, and no one laughed — they could not; it was true.
Maman was radiant and talked of Miloradovitch; I was radiant and thought of Wittgenstein; my aunt, serious, smiled from time to time; and Dina was dressing and half-weeping — as much from tiredness as from displeasure at her hair.
My aunt has a violet velvet dress with pale yellow, Valenciennes lace, and diamonds; Dina, a blue and black striped silk dress — very pretty.
At last we depart, but it is too early, so we wait for the hour at Nina's. At eleven o'clock we enter the theatre — I mean to say, the church.
We are given chairs and take our usual places to the right, in front. My aunt goes to confess, then Dina, then I.
I go in. "Make the sign of the cross and kiss the cross," the priest tells me.
"Against which commandment have you sinned?"
"I really don't know," I replied from behind my fan, for I had a very great desire to laugh.
"Well, then — what sins do you acknowledge in yourself? Various sins. For example, insolence towards persons."
"Have you taken from others? Do you hate anyone? Do you say unkind things?"
"No."
"And what else? Are you not greedy?"
"Yes." This time I hid myself completely behind the fan, so absurd was the question.
"That is not good."
"Yes, it is so — but what is one to do?"
"And you are fond of fine dress?"
"I am very fond of them."
"It is a great sin. Love of fine dress can lead not only to ridicule but to regrettable things. And you think a person is more beautiful for it?"
"Certainly, one is." — Still behind the fan, half-laughing. That very evening I had dazzling proof of what I had said with such assurance.
"No, a person is far better when simply dressed. With all that finery, people will look and say: what vanity!" I held my tongue, not wishing to argue.
"Perhaps," continued this ass, "do you like to play the coquette?" He spoke with his elbow propped on the table, gazing at the ceiling or at something — anything but me.
"That is to say — how — I don't know," — explain that, Father, I thought, and extricate yourself from that if you can.
"That is, to draw attention to oneself."
Oh, the fool.
"But that happens naturally, I don't know—"
"Well, is there nothing else?"
"Nothing more."
"You must pray to God; He will forgive you."
Then he recited the usual prayer; I placed a louis in his hand and went out. As I descended the two steps I was biting my lips — I was laughing so inwardly that I feared the mirth might break through to the outside.
Mme Voyeïkoff enters with her daughter and takes a place with us.
Nothing in this whole day has gone against me; from morning to night I was merry, happy, pleased with myself and with everyone else.
These two ladies in magnificent dresses were with us — we too being admirably dressed — so that these five very beautiful gowns and five more or less pretty women formed a most pleasing sight.
I love being with well-dressed people — at least then I am not envied, whereas with such frumps [sic] as the Howards one was always in dread of being too elegantly turned out.
Hélène and Lise sing in the choir. For this festival, the regular choristers are replaced by a number of Russian ladies and gentlemen directed by Mme Vériguine. It is very graceful and pleasant.
The two Howards have any number of dresses, spend a great deal, and are never properly turned out. This evening, for instance — abominably made white dresses, and on the shoulders, arms, neck, back, and waist — bows and rosettes of shredded cotton-satin ribbon. Truly shameful. One could have dressed a hundred times more simply and more suitably.
The church fills up little by little; a few minutes before midnight there is not a single place left.
By the way, the pretty Russian — or rather, the Russian I called pretty — is nothing but a wretched boor. I noticed him only because he alone had a white shirt and rosy cheeks. He is ugly and looks like a common soldier.
At precisely midnight, the priest — my charming confessor — intones Thy Resurrection, O Lord in the midst of the deepest silence, broken only by a cough here and there and a blowing of noses. Count Tchernichoff-Krouglikoff carried the cross; several generals followed carrying I no longer remember what; and behind came the minister, or priest, or curé — call him what you will.
My God, I believe in You — but Your priests are imbeciles.
During Matins I remained standing almost the whole time, exchanging only a few words with Mme Voyeïkoff, and jesting a little with Julie, who was telling me about her own confession.
Towards the middle of the service they leave — Madame is utterly worn out. Her purpose has been defeated in any case; she had hoped to encounter Princess Belosselsky and all those grand future relations of Julie's.
It was beautiful — so many women in white, most of them holding lighted candles.
I have not kept the fast, and yet I was hungry.
The mass ended towards four in the morning; the priest comes out with the Holy Sacrament. But when he said, "I believe that this is Thy body, and that this is Thy most pure blood," I raised my eyes to heaven to beg God's forgiveness for receiving communion without believing that — and to pray to Him, if I am in error, to inspire me with what I ought to think.
The bread is not flesh, the wine is not the blood of Christ. I do not think so only now — I have never thought otherwise; and it is only in the last two years that I have grasped the absurdity of what the priest says and would have us accept. Stop there! I am not so foolish as that!
I believe the wine and bread are given in memory of the Cena — I say it in Italian, I don't know it otherwise — where Jesus gave his apostles bread and wine, saying it was his flesh and blood. But that was an allegory. The devil take it! — one reflects, and the Good God does not want us to believe blindly in priests. Christianity is good because one can reason about it, and the more one reasons, the more one believes, and the more one finds it just and true.
In any case, it is not for me to reform my religion — or rather, I do not wish to take the trouble; the shortest way is to become a Protestant. I believe I said something similar, minus the Protestantism, last year at this same season.
This is the fifth Easter I have spent in Nice. When I first arrived I was eleven years old; now I am sixteen!
Oh, how old I am!
Back to the church: I walked with downcast eyes and composure, as befits a woman in long skirts.
Everyone was looking at us. When we had regained our places, a few people came to congratulate us. Mlle Kolokolzoff — that ridiculous old maid, yet very comme il faut — came and placed herself beside us.
I felt not at all tired — quite the contrary — and the sense of well-being that had taken hold of me since the morning did not leave me.
At quarter past four we go home; I slip on a dressing-gown, and we go in to supper — a lavish spread of good things ordered from the London House, set out on a well-furnished table as is the custom.
At five o'clock I go to bed. This is only the second time in my life that I have gone to bed so late; the first was the day of the great dinner at the Acqua Viva.

Notes

The opening words of the central Easter troparion in the Russian Orthodox liturgy: Воскресение Твоё, Христе Спасе — sung at the midnight procession. ↩
Cena: Italian for "the (Last) Supper." Marie notes she uses the Italian term as she does not know the French la Cène. ↩