Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Friday, 24 September 1875

I go out at ten o'clock, alone with Fritz — not a soul! A furious sun, a blue sea of that disagreeable violet blue, and
a sky of fire! I walk for an hour; back inside, arriving at the first-floor landing, I see a cab at the door of the Tower — well, I thought, it would be amusing to run into him after yesterday — and I go out again, but meet no one: the wretch habitually passes through the rue de France in the mornings in any case.
But I have not gone out in vain — I have found something in my head that will soften, in the creature's eyes, our escapade at the Chateau. You cannot hide an awl in a sack: a very apt Russian proverb.
Sooner or later he was bound to know, if he did not already, that we had been occupying ourselves with him. Yes, he might have guessed — but now it is a certainty.
I am done for, as Tite says. Everything is discovered, and crying out or pulling faces is both useless and undignified.
How proud he must be! What must he think of us!
And yesterday, when we saw him with his retinue on the Promenade, I am sure he was telling the whole affair to these gentlemen.
But really — to be caught as I am caught is an undignified thing. I knew very well he was bound to find out; I had even intended to tell him myself — but I had never pictured it; even while thinking that I would tell him, I could not conceive the thing.
The fact is that my position is delicate, and that he holds the upper hand.
At least it made us laugh for a whole month — and that is some compensation.
We are laughing this morning — the mason who does all the repairs for us arrives and begins boasting to my aunt of his honesty, declaring that Biasini is nothing but a scoundrel (I had not mentioned that three days ago my aunt dismissed Biasini for the monstrous basin he made us), that Biasini is a cheat, and then:
— Madame, you are friends with Emile — ask Emile, it was I who built the Tower for him. Oh! Emile knows me well — you are friends with him, ask him.
No longer Monsieur Emile — simply Emile.
There is nothing strictly amusing — yet it entertains me, because everything connected with this man interests me; I find his way of speaking adorable; everything one can say of him interests me particularly; the smallest things become events, and I learn with a joy somewhat too keen everything that can elevate or enlarge him — every extravagance, every folly,
every whim of this creature occupies me. And yet I cannot tell myself: I love him. He has irritated me; through sheer vexation I have begun to occupy myself with him too much — and if there is something in me for him, he may well boast of having created that something himself.
Well — one learns something every day. This man has taught me an immense number of things. Shall I know how to put them into practice? I think not. I am too frank — and yet one must not be; I find his method the best and I shall imitate it as far as a woman can imitate a man. To love no one; to do absolutely the opposite of what one says; to change abruptly so as to stun one's adversary; never to give him time to take stock — but to act so promptly, and so differently from what he expects, that however strong he may be, he remains stupefied! There, I believe, is a precise account both of his system and of mine, since I am adopting it. But no — I shall never manage it. Who knows? If at first you don't the succed, try, try, try again
I prepared several things for my new system and could not deploy a single one! We walked as every evening, and I had the vexation of seeing d'Audiffret pass and repass ten times, swift as an arrow — (such a bearing ought to be forbidden to cads; the Duke carried himself thus) — without thinking to dismount.
Would it not have been better to abandon all my plans from the very first moment I saw things were not going as I imagined? Most likely — I am very strange, I astonish myself. Why did I imagine this? Who invented it — how did I come to think of it?
There were reasons, apparently. What reasons? I no longer remember — I came to Nice, and all at once he began to look, and that is where it started.
But why get himself introduced — why come at all! Why! Nobody asked him — he came of his own accord! Why! After all, if he had given no grounds for suppositions, I should have supposed nothing at all. For I said nothing about Woerman, nor about Gericke, nor about Paparigopoulos, nor about Tanlay, nor about Barnola, nor about anyone. Not one of these gentlemen gave me reason to suppose anything. But this one, all of a sudden… There are moments when I think that Monsieur d'Audiffret made our acquaintance quite simply… well no — not simply at all — well, let us continue — I was saying, then, that he made our acquaintance… out of curiosity and
that is all; he comes from time to time and that is all — absolutely all.
Oh! but here is a grave mistake! Oh! you see how clearly one sees — too late! I did not miss a single day going to the baths — I let myself be seduced by the pleasure of going — I thought of nothing!
Fool, she-ass! I should have stayed away! Oh! but I was absurd. Well — let us hope that in future I shall profit by this excellent lesson.
One thing consoles me a little: that I went to the baths just as regularly before knowing him as afterwards. No — I should have stayed away! Oh the scoundrel — [text of the Ukrainian proverb, the translation of which follows] — a very apt Little Russian proverb: He bought himself a misfortune with his own money. I have understood his method and I shall employ it — let him be at ease about that!
In short, I literally do not know what to think — self number one and self number two are more at odds than ever. Mi confido in Dio and lime will show. In the meantime, vexed and cross though I am, I shall not rack my head with stupid hypotheses.
Paris and Nina dined with us; I left the dining room to take a third bath and do my hair — my aunt assures me the Niceois must come. Let me do my hair, and if they do not come — too bad; were it not for the shame of appearing beaten before my own people, I am completely resigned. And at the moment I have only a little vexation — a matter of wounded pride — and nothing more.
I have not said the main thing — I have not said that, for all this, I shall pursue my idea; I shall wait always, even if I must wait until the age of seventy. I have said that I had gone too far to draw back, and I repeat it.
It is past ten o'clock — no one has come — and already it seems to me that we know not a single soul again. As if to tease me, there were a few good days, and then once more solitude, solitude and sadness! Once again I fall back into the sentimental; I look at the sky and the stars, the sea and the dark trees.
Once more I am cast down, sad; I want to weep. As at Spa, I lived for a month as one ought to — I returned to Nice and once more fell back into this deplorable state for the whole winter. In spring, Girofla and the other Nice cads revived me, cheered me — but now autumn is here, and the tedium returns. No — I must leave; from the very first moment to today I have had nothing but affronts,
griefs, disappointments! Everything slips away from me here — the very ground gives way beneath my feet.
I — young, pretty, witty and educated — languish here with nothing to employ me, I am coming unstuck more and more, I am melting away; soon there will be nothing left of me. Oh Nice — for so much love, shame on you for repaying me with such black ingratitude! Ingratitude, they say, is the freedom of the heart. The man who said that is a vile man!
When shall we live as I love to, oh my God!
But let us leave this sad subject, the eternal subject of my lamentations. If only I could write verses — true poetry — to express all the sadness of my young soul, poor soul! At sixteen it has already suffered so many things, above all things it ought never to have known. Affronts, slanders, humiliations, even shames! The ingratitude and darkness of the human race, its cowardice and pettiness!
Good God — is that what I should have known! The greatest grief a woman can have at sixteen is a heartache. The other things ought not to be lacking: wealth, position — all that is as necessary as water to a fish, as air to a bird.
The unfortunate woman who lacks these things loses half her wit — the brilliant, polished half — she loses her assurance, and with more wit and beauty than others she appears awkward and plain.
Heartaches are the only respectable griefs — the rest must be left to cads and scoundrels.
— Do you know, Monsieur, someone said once to d'Audiffret — this morning I saw the funeral procession of a young girl who died of love.
— Well, my God, he replied — it is the only fitting death, the only death that is not ugly, that makes us a little beautiful, that ennobles us.
I think he is right. That being established, I find myself to be a bird lacking air or a fish lacking water.
But let us leave this sad subject. I think of it enough without this — it gnaws at me every instant.
Let us return to lighter, gayer things.
Let us once and for all pose a few good questions and answer them frankly and wisely.
— Does Monsieur d'Audiffret love me?
— No.
— What is Monsieur d'Audiffret?
— Monsieur d'Audiffret is a young man who has read the Mémoires du maréchal duc de Richelieu and wishes to follow in his footsteps. He aims at and achieves a certain don juanerie. He has not yet loved.
— Do I love Monsieur d'Audiffret?
— No. But he pleases me greatly and he has wounded my pride.
— What am I?
— I am a feminine Monsieur d'Audiffret. But I am very young, too young. I do not know whether I have loved. I believe I have. And even at this moment I almost love — if Monsieur d'Audiffret were a Hamilton or a Doria, I should love him.
But there is this barrier between us — for me, insurmountable. I have my plan laid out before me. I asked what I was — well then! Read my whole journal from the beginning and perhaps you will know.
I am a creature ambitious to the point of madness, but good; hot-tempered and headstrong, but generous. I love to be loved, and I love to love. I said something foolish in saying: "I do not know whether I have loved." I know perfectly well that I have loved — but as it was so long ago and I was then so young, I dare to doubt it, which is very wrong.
There — the question is disposed of, I hope. All the trouble is here: from the first moment I regarded d'Audiffret as a man who was mine. Soon I saw that I had foolishly deceived myself — but with my usual tenacity, I would not let it go; I told myself that if it was not so, it would be. I grew accustomed to the idea, and now find myself very unhappy at having to acknowledge my error — it has stung me to the quick, and I do everything in the world (mentally) to set myself right, to triumph over the man. But he does not love me, and that is what enrages me.
I said I wanted it — I want it! I shall pray to God — no! God does not do what I pray Him to do; He does not give me what I ask of Him; He is not good to me — or rather, I am unworthy of His goodness. I resign myself (not at all) — I wait. Oh! how tedious it is to wait, always to wait, and to be able to do nothing but wait!
All this damages a woman — the vexations, the resistance of surrounding things.
If man, from birth and in his first movements, experienced no resistance in his contact with
surrounding things, he would come not to distinguish himself from the external world — to believe that the world is part of himself and his body, as he extended into it with his gesture or his step. He would come to persuade himself that the whole is but a dependence and extension of his personal being; he would say with complete confidence: "The Universe is I!"
You are quite right to say it is too well done to be mine — I shall not pretend otherwise. It is a philosopher who said it, and I am merely repeating it. Well — that is how I had imagined I would live. But the contact of surrounding things has given me bruises — a fact I am excessively displeased about.
I loved Girofla! Not for long — but the fact exists. And so, falling asleep yesterday evening, I thought of this; I dared to compare — oh! it is a profanation! — I dared to compare with the Duke. And it did me good! But I do not love him at all, poor Girofla!
It was an error!
I mistook anger and vexation for love — as one might mistake seltzer water with a lump of sugar for Chablis when one expected Champagne.
Strange, is it not? Well — on every such occasion I think of the Duke again with a fierce intensity; he comes back to me entire, and I thank God for it, for he is my light! When I have him within me, I understand everything — I feel myself at last!
Oh! what a difference! How I remember — all my happiness consisted in catching a glimpse of him; for whole hours I would stay on the terrace, watching him pass, sometimes; and I would return home half-mad, throwing myself into Collignon's arms, hiding my face against her breast… she would let me do it, then gently make me rise and lead me to my lesson, still dizzy, drunk with happiness! Oh! how well I understand that expression: drunk with happiness — for I was.
I regarded him only as a fellow being — I never dared seriously to think of knowing him
How happy I am to find him again — when I doubt him it is like doubting God; I am wretched.
And I dared to call by the same name the base and vulgar feeling of today! Here, I wish the man to see me — but for him, so that he might love me, for him in the end; I enjoy seeing him too — but not as a happiness, as an amusement, because he is
more interesting than the others… for him in the end — because I have put this absurd idea into my head.
But then — it was for me, it was true! I loved the other one, truly, as only I know how to love! I love him still — I shall love him always.
[In the margin: No.]
How good it is to speak of him — how this memory purifies! Thinking of him, I rise out of this Nice mire, I am elevated. Ah! there was the true love — but I am ashamed to say it… I love him, my God — oh, I write it in a low voice, if one can say such a thing — because it is true, because it was a single time and as I shall never love anyone again. He seemed to me a god. Oh! if I saw him close, if he spoke to me, I should have no strength to say anything — I should only prostrate myself.
When I think of this, I cannot write much — I think, I love, and that is all.
No — I shall never be understood!
I wish that she who reads me could be me for an instant — to understand me! The others cannot understand — they do not feel as I do. But I! I! [Crossed out: Do you want to] To understand, one must be me! And still me — in my lucid moments!
Why make others understand!
To the devil with everyone!
Oh my God, my God — grant that one day I may see him, speak to him!
I will not think of it — I become too exalted! I will speak no more of Him; I rise too high; I fear I shall shatter on falling back into the daily wretchedness.

Notes

In English in the original. ↩
Mi confido in Dio: "I trust in God." In Italian in the original. ↩
lime will show: "time will show/tell." In English in the original; spelling error Marie's. ↩