Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Thursday, 23 September 1875

What is atrocious is that every single time I let myself
be caught!
I could thrash myself for yesterday's journal… Ah! Either I am a great fool, or he is a great man! What is most curious in all this is yours truly — she who considers herself so wise, who each time makes admirable plans, and who lets herself be caught like the most ordinary woman!
But what is this about, you will ask me. About him — the eternal d'Audiffret, that accursed man who for almost a year now has devoted his life to tormenting me. Without last evening's party all was going well, I had nothing to reproach myself with — but now I have let myself be swept along, I find him adorable, I am making ready to sing duets! It is disgraceful!
You knew perfectly well, you absurd, idiotic girl, that one can no more trust this monster than the ocean — and you forgot everything, you let yourself be caught, you put on butterfly airs that deserve the stick!
Admire the politeness of my object.
He comes up beside the carriage, a little Niceois hat, dressed in blue — I expect to hear talk of music, of opera. Not at all!
Absurd creature, brainless woman! He comes to tell me that Nice is no place at all, that one dies of boredom there, that he has nothing to do, that truly it is no place, no — I ask you, can one call it a place! And that he is leaving Saturday. He was expecting a change of expression like the other day — but, by some nameless stroke of luck, I did not so much as flinch.
— And will you be staying long in Paris? asked my aunt.
— Oh! not very long — fifteen to twenty days.
Another arrow, but no more effect than the first time — I did not stir. Only all my mood changed, and inwardly I became very confused and ashamed.
We walk with Saetone and Chevalier. My uncle speaks of Girofla, and says that I am cruel to everyone except him. He plays the fool and sighs; I am furious, and sigh and laugh with him and as he does.
For still greater exasperation, Girofla, who has seen us on foot, does not come down and goes instead to the Sapogenikoffs. I would rather be anywhere else than with my aunt, who shows on the outside what I am feeling within — confused and with my tail between my legs! We drive to the quai Saint-Jean-Baptiste, and passing back along the Promenade we see the wretched creature cutting capers with Enoteas, Chevalier, etc.
I noticed that he has a handsome neck, strong and well-formed, when he was beside the carriage at the concert.
I am so exasperated and furious with myself that, from number 7 — in front of which were the whole crowd and the man himself — all the way to the house, I love him. And I say to myself under my breath: I love him, well then, I certainly love him! — but arriving at number 55 bis, I felt ashamed, and I loved him no more.
I sit down to table in the state you can imagine, opening my mouth only to launch little innocent cruelties against the Sapogenikoffs. Suddenly they walk in — Marie and Olga — and, oh horror: that takes the cake!
They showed him the photograph and told him about the English ladies! He!! He!!!!! But I am ruined! What will he think! Oh!
He refused to believe it; he says he saw us at the baths at the same time — that on the right were the English ladies, and on the left were we, simultaneously. The fact is, the trick was admirably executed. Now that it is over I am astonished myself. We were as Englishwomen seated on the right, and then all at once, by a prodigious change, we are on the left beside the man and ourselves again.
[In the margin: While the English ladies were there, I was there too — or rather, Dina dressed as me. That was the main spring of the trick.]
— What! he exclaimed — that tall hunchback was Mademoiselle Bashkirseff?
— Yes.
— And the one who walked like so — that was!
— Me, said Marie.
— And the dark one whom I took for a Prussian spy…
— That was me, said Nina.
— Oh! but it is incredible! And I did not recognise you! Oh!
And a scene of helpless laughter, of cries beyond all description, and endless astonishment. At least if they have told him everything — at least I should have been there to enjoy the man's surprise.
— You have murdered me! I said, covering my face with my hands and falling into an armchair.
— No harm done, said my aunt — you have only one thing left to do: dress up Léonie, Ambroise's wife, the kitchen-maid, and the washerwoman from across the street as Englishwomen and send them to the chateau tomorrow. This proposal produced an effect impossible to describe — roars of joy and wild laughter.
I am nearly smothered with laughing and twice lose my voice entirely.
I take the Graces to my room and we laugh as in former times. And who is the cause of all this merriment? Girofla — who is talked of, who is the hero? Girofla, always Girofla, everywhere Girofla.
Olga resembles him in a frightening way; I draw a moustache on her, I put my riding hat on her head, she strikes the man's pose — and the likeness is enough to make one cry out. And cry out we do.
All at once I am seized by an immoderate desire to see old Audiffret.
— Perhaps, said my aunt, these gentlemen will come this evening — be ready in any case.
And we hold ourselves in readiness, but no one comes. Besides, I am furious with all these people. I have never been so humiliated — for, say what I will, I let myself be perfectly caught; and from number 7, Promenade des Anglais, to number 55 bis, I loved him. Fie! fie! Say what you will — I say what is; it is perhaps wrong to say everything, but I say it and shall say it all.
He is handsome, this scoundrel, and he has a fine neck. I detest him, I am furious with him — and I take on his manners, I speak as he does, often without meaning to.
No — God will never give him to me, for I should grind him to pieces!
Oh! but to go and tell him the English ladies affair! And it was Nina who told it — with what wit I dare not say.
It is outrageous!
We picture the false Englishwomen of tomorrow — how he will receive them, how they will lift their veils. For after having told him everything, to come again would be… I no longer know what. And his surprise afterwards!
I have never laughed and cried out so much.
But towards ten o'clock I reflected: he would be capable of beating our servants, and that would set us entirely at odds. One must not involve the domestics in one's jokes. To be sure, it would be surprising — but he would take offence, and I will not have one more trouble; I have quite enough, thank God.
— Ah! if I had known, he said, I would have locked you in and forced you to admit it was you.
And tomorrow he would have locked up the women — and then what a surprise, what a scandal!
It would be too delightful, and that is precisely why it cannot be done. All these things have gone to my head; when everyone
had gone I locked myself in with my thoughts, wrote the gibberish you see here, and went to bed. How powerless the pen is! How I should like to recount all the nonsense we got up to — this evening my aunt herself was laughing like a madwoman, while as for me I proceeded through all our absurdities with a sublime gravity, which made me choke with suppressed laughter, then go and put my face against the wall and stamp my feet on the floor.
The Chateau affair grows more amusing with every day — each day something new is discovered that we had not noticed at the time.
Above all his astonishment — he cried out in despair at not having recognised us, said he wished to beat the gardener who would not let us in. Oh! when I recall that evening at our house, where he recounted the strange visit he had that morning — and when I hear Olga describe his consternation and his laughter today — I feel "from the depths of the soul flowing something I know not what that makes one swoon."
How strange it is — the things that were said are no longer funny when related; however much I try, as it were, to photograph our gestures and words — nothing. It is always flat or absurd.
Fortunately I love him no longer; I shall always recall with despair that from number 7 to number 55 bis, I loved him. I loved d'Audiffret!
He who spits in the air receives it back upon his face.
O great and sublime truth!
Why is Truth depicted as naked and at the bottom of a well?
Because Truth is always hidden, and in going to find her one risks drowning, or at the very least catching a terrible hoarseness. Truth is naked because nakedness is not admitted in society, because one is ashamed of it and because men pursue it with jeers. In short, because Truth needs a covering just as nakedness does — and, in her simplicity, she shocks respectable people.
I had understood it better, but I do not know how to write as I understand. It is like a nightmare — one wants to cry out and cannot!