Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Friday, 16 July 1875

I fell asleep broken and I wake up quite strange. I cannot account for what I feel. I am furious, sad, vexed.
Is it possible that this is on account of the departure of that creature?
No — here is what it is. I had arranged everything in my own mind: he would fall in love with me; I would receive him with gentleness and commiseration, yet without driving him to despair.
I would depart for Paris on my way to Russia; he would follow me as far as Paris and speak to me of his love; I would let him speak. I went so far as to have him follow me to Russia. He — a submissive dog; I — a benevolent queen.
See where it leads. "One should never make plans," said this very Audiffret — "it is useless."
He is devilishly right; he is a man of wit.
How he must have rejoiced yesterday at the concert, watching me change colour!
What joy it would be for him to read these thirty-six pages! I would never forgive him for it.
If he were going away on business — but no, to visit a friend!
Truly, there is nothing like dogs.
By virtue of the transmigration of love, all that I contain of that noxious fluid is concentrated for the moment on Victor. I eat lunch with him opposite me, his good round head resting on the table. Let us love dogs — let us love only dogs. Men and cats are unworthy creatures. And yet a dog is dirty; it watches you eat with greedy eyes; it wants to be fed; it attaches itself to you in order to feed itself.
And yet I never feed my dogs, and they love me. And Prater, who abandoned me out of jealousy of Victor and transferred his affection to Maman.
And men — do they not demand to be fed? Are they not material, voracious and mercenary in every sense one might give to those words?
Merjeewsky was a dog. Ugh! The horror — I cannot think of it without horror.
My aunt has gone to send the following telegram:
— Russia, Chernigov government, Kanatap. Étienne Babanine. You are disrupting all my plans with this abominable delay! It is dreadful! Had I known, I should never have counted on you. I am furious! Marie.
In September they will celebrate Michelangelo's centenary in Florence. I want to be there.
I must go to Russia. I shall never have time! This thought, combined with all my joys, makes me quite mad with rage.
O you who are furious and aggrieved — write, write always, pour out your complaints to your paper. Quem spem delusit, huic querela convenit.
Had I not written, I should have withered away.
Writing has calmed me — calmed me, that is to say, a little.
I could barely eat — tanto ero in fretta di scrivere, di lagnarmi. Anima, coraggio!.
How foolish of me to take everything to heart! I bore the Hamilton affair well enough — I shall bear this setback too.
[Written across the page: But there is no setback, you young idiot!]
I bore the Hamilton affair — but I have not forgotten it, and each time I think of it, it is as dreadful as on the first day.
There, at least, it was worth the pain — but here! And for whom! My aunt watched Girofla depart from the château; I was writing, and she was keeping watch with her lorgnette.
[Three-quarters of the page removed]
The shutters are closed, the great château is empty, I am sad.
I go out with my aunt, who tells me I was abrupt and unkind to Girofla — that had I wished, he would not have left. For a moment I regret not having asked him to stay, but I check myself immediately: had I begged him to stay, he would have reared up and I should be even more miserable. Yesterday I conducted myself like a statue; I was as if in a dream. I regret it. Yet the thought that I was cold, that I vexed or repulsed him, gladdens my heart — and if I were sure of it, I should regret nothing and be very happy.
[Annotation, 1877: Yes — if I am sure of it!]
He was worth one's attention. He is a man of dubiae nobilitatis, or at least that is the rumour — but rich, independent, young, incontestably handsome, very handsome. He has wit; he has good manners; association with a woman who had moved among men of the highest quality has given him the bearing of a grand seigneur. Moreover, his father looks like a duke — anyone seeing him would ask who he is. He (Girofla) is amusing, gay, agreeable.
Certainly such a conquest would be flattering. But he is bold, cunning, a womaniser, a spendthrift.
He is in love with no one and treats women as I wish to treat men. That is what makes him attractive, and that is why I would have given a great deal to bring this ambitious creature to heel. He is capricious and extravagant — further qualities that make me rage at not having known how to catch him.
But the thought of having been unpleasant and cold to him makes me glad. At least he will not think himself quite so much the conqueror. Veni, vidi, vici.
[Written across the page: Yes, this thought consoles me. He thought himself not at all the conqueror, I suppose.]
But have I truly been unkind to him? Is it true? Ah! If only it were so — and above all, if it had some effect on him! How glad I should be.

Notes

"He whom hope has deceived has reason to complain" (Phaedrus, Fabulae V). ↩
tanto ero in fretta di scrivere, di lagnarmi — "so eager was I to write, to complain." In Italian in the original. ↩
Anima, coraggio! — "Courage, soul!" In Italian in the original. A self-exhortation. ↩
Dubiae nobilitatis — "of doubtful nobility." Latin phrase indicating uncertainty about his aristocratic lineage. ↩
Veni, vidi, vici — "I came, I saw, I conquered" (attributed to Julius Caesar). Marie applies it ironically: he came, he saw — but he did not conquer. ↩