Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Wednesday, 8 September 1875

H[is] G[race] t[he] D[uke] o[f] Hamilton]
The Forty-Second Book
from Wednesday, 8 September 1875 to Thursday, 9 September 1875
Marseille, Hôtel Noailles, 58
Written on headed paper: Grand Hôtel Noailles, Marseille
My aunt breaks my mirror — a sign of death or great misfortune. A few months before Romanoff's death, the mirror in his travelling case shattered in the railway carriage.
At the Villa Baquis there were two broken mirrors in my room, and two deaths in the family — Dina's brother Étienne, and Émile, my uncle.
A fourth omen this morning — a double omen, for I remember my dream at Schlangenbad.
Who is going to die?
Me, perhaps. Oh! how I wish it were not so.
I take my tea weeping over my future demise, while my aunt sits there with the face of a condemned man.
Things have never gone so badly for me. I am forced to leave without my dresses and hats. They will be sent on, I know that — but perhaps everything will arrive hideous. And then there is the mad dash to Florence: two women alone, and I shall suffer a thousand torments if I miss any of the parties.
Saetone writes back, and among other things:
— You have probably seen Girofla in Paris, for he is there still.
Ah, Mercury, you are late and utterly useless. This charming uncle wants me to talk to him about the man.
I am furious and wretched at leaving without my dresses, without anything at all.
I spent my time there miserably — I was plain almost the whole time. I wore dark blue wool and a black hat, which does not suit me at all. My face demands pale, clear tones. I showed myself to my worst possible advantage. It is abominable. It is above all my dresses that torment me.
At last we leave Paris of my heart, my beloved city — at eleven o'clock I am weeping and my aunt is suffering. Ah! how I do not want to die!
But no, I shall not die. It is to me that the omens come.
I dreamed that I was losing a tooth, which means the death of a relative. Oh! how that consoles me. For I would far rather see anyone else die than die myself. In such matters, one is selfish.
Good God, how I detest railways!
Towards evening I cheer up: I find in my illustrated paper some caricatures that will serve me admirably as models for the ones I intend to make of that surprising but stupid Émile d'Audiffret.
My aunt, seeing me smile, seizes the moment to make a few jokes about the aforesaid personage, and I laugh. It is not I who laugh — it is my face.
I am wretched. These dresses are driving me mad.

Notes

In English in the original. ↩