Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Wednesday, 4 August 1875

It is raining; I am sad and anxious. Adam is in Russia and he is going to give us no end of trouble!
My God, be good to me. Until now You have protected and kept me. Protect and keep me still, in the name of the faith I have in You!
I am wretched today. Again at Worth's, Laferrière's, and Reboux's, who treat me like an angel. At the corner of the rue de la Paix — Audiffret, with that air of a gentleman and grand seigneur that his father stole somewhere.
I am in the carriage, so we do nothing but exchange greetings — he bows to me with a tolerably insolent air, or so at least it seemed to me.
I return for Auguste. He dresses my hair à la Gioia, which ages me, but the day after tomorrow he will come with several new styles.
I have been shamefully deceived, you see. How ugly it is to be mistaken in such matters!
One is confused and sullen. Everything seems to me impertinence and bravado! This man amused himself at Nice, having nothing to do in summer — he amused himself with a little girl. I did not take the matter seriously; on the contrary, I took it for what it was; but I was expecting something serious — I desired it so much that I was almost certain of it.
And now that I am disabused, I gnaw my nails with rage.
I watch the rich carriages and elegant society pass by, and my vexation is immense. This man makes himself so fine here that he no longer looks at me.
Wretched Niçois dressed in his Sunday best!
No — I am lying. He is not at all a wretched Niçois in his Sunday best; that is precisely what overwhelms me!
From the height of his elegance he seems to disdain me. Indeed, he in Paris is as well placed as in Nice — I am ill placed everywhere. People say dreadful things about us; every dog barks and slanders. It is not surprising that people turn away.
Ah! My God, let me die or make my torment cease. The most unhappy people have a consolation — mine is to write and to complain.
I am pale with a pretty coiffure; I talk about gowns until I am hoarse — then, at dinner, seizing the first pretext, I burst into tears.
I weep over our situation — I have dreadful anxieties about the lawsuit in Russia — and then there is the Niçois too. All this gnaws at me. I went to the window and thought. I wanted to untangle what was happening inside me; for a moment I believed I was simply in love.
But no — the man pleases me, doubtless, but I cannot say to myself: I love him. Here is society, elegance, wealth, the world, and here I am on burning coals. At Nice I had for a moment forgotten everything. I believed I would have happiness; I have had none at all, which grieves me to the highest degree.
Remembering a verse epistle by Marot to the King, to obtain money, I send this to my aunt:
Verse Epistle to My Aunt, to Obtain Money.
La plus grande des trois Graces Se trouve dans cent disgraces. Si comme c'est probable, Votre ame charitable, De grandes choses capable, Entend ma voix lamentable, Elle soulagera ma peine. Et soyez bien certaine Que lorsque reine je serai Jusqu'au dernier sou vous rendrai. Mon ame poetique Et mon coeur magnifique Se dessechent comme pastel Dans ce petit hotel. Tous les soirs, vers six heures, Pour me bien rejouir Dans ce bois plein de fleurs Il me faut sortir. Il me faut pour cela Voiture et toilette, Comment le puis-je, helas ! Quand est vide ma cassette. Lorsque reine je serai Tout doublement rendrai Mais en attendant Envoyez-moi quelque argent !
It is poor stuff, but it cost me no effort whatsoever.
Poor aunt — if she had it, she would give it to me.
I am still waiting for him to come. It is absurd — if he were to come he would have come already. What a coward I am: I position myself at the window to see him pass.
Ah! I am so mortified. I have the feeling he is laughing at me. But I behave well and coldly toward him — that is already a consolation.
To reach the respectable age of sixteen and have nothing but failures — fie! What horror.
Well, I must pull myself together, wait, and live quietly. I make misfortunes out of nothing. I believe I am going to be reasonable. I am going to send all this nonsense to the devil.
But life itself is composed of it.
I have engaged an English lady's maid.
I feel a little ill at ease performing my first independent acts. I manage money, I make purchases, I engage a maid. I am still timid, having always been under the wings of my mother and my aunt, my guardian angels. One must get used to it.
I do not know in truth what ails me — I am sad, wretched.
My God, if some misfortune threatens me, avert it. Holy Virgin Mary, extend over me Your protecting hand!

Notes

"Gentleman" in English in the original. ↩
Verse epistle in the style of Clément Marot (1496–1544), who famously wrote comic epistles to Francis I requesting money. Marie's self-flattering conceit — identifying herself with the Three Graces — is characteristic. Translation: "The greatest of the Three Graces / Finds herself in a hundred disgraces. / If, as is probable, / Your charitable soul, / Capable of great things, / Hears my lamentable voice, / It will relieve my pain. / And be well assured / That when I am queen / I shall repay you to the last sou. / My poetic soul / And my magnificent heart / Wither like a pastel portrait / In this little hotel. / Every evening, toward six o'clock, / To cheer myself well / In this wood full of flowers / I must go out. / For that I need / Carriage and dress — / How can I, alas, / When my purse is empty. / When I am queen / I shall repay double, / But in the meantime / Send me some money!" ↩