Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Wednesday, 29 September 1875

Did I not dream all of that?
No — I wrote it yesterday. It is true.
I am more beautiful, younger — twice as young. I am superior to her in the upper half of my person — I say nothing of the moral comparison, which cannot be made — but physically. And this wretched boy!
That is why he has looked so confused these three or four days past; that is why he has come only once, whereas before one could count on seeing him every two days. That is why he turned pale. Bihovetz said yesterday:
— Tell me, what have you done to poor Audiffret? He looks so drawn, so piteous!
So — she heard those stupid rumors that have been circulated, she nearly devoured me with her eyes the other evening upon seeing me, and now she takes him from me. Ah! scoundrel! She will be forever in my path, in dream as in reality! She had only to say the word and she has reclaimed him. So then — she is loved! Filth and vileness are so very attractive!
So it seems. Besides, I have no idea at all how it came about.
And what does it matter to me! It is — that is what I know, that is the essential. I am not yet entirely angry; the astonishment still lasts. Before, I would look at her, I would run to see her; now I can do so no longer — and moreover I shall be obliged to see her.
No one can be my rival — it is absurd; we are so different! From the very outset the thing was to place me on a pedestal.
And that poor father — alone, sad, shut up in his house, miserable. My wish to see him continues. I pity him: he had a young wife, children, a fortune — and there he is, alone, wretched, and scandalized. Poor man!
Let us leave the father where he is, since nothing can be done for him, and let us mount our pedestal.
I dress and go out; it is not yet ten o'clock. The windows are open, the horses are waiting. I am going to see whether he will resume his duco-locomotion.
I walked without a hat, as is my custom, with my dogs, who give me a thoroughly picturesque air.
Keep [?] or not — refuse [?] [Crossed out: Gioia]
I was walking quietly and reading when I sensed Gioia. I say sensed because I did not raise my eyes — she was going quickly along the Promenade. Three minutes later she came back in, closing the gate herself.
As for me, I went to Nina's, who will bring Marie at one o'clock.
At one o'clock she comes, and we dress ourselves up — I as the old man, as the other day, and she as my wife.
We go to Daniloff and Bihovetz, who recognize us at once and laugh a great deal; from there to the photographer Bienmüller, who does not recognize us and refuses to pose us as everything is in disarray. But suddenly I remove my beard — Bienmüller and his wife cry out and seat us at once. From there we go for a walk, catch sight of d'Audiffret at La Victoire, and bow to everyone we meet.
Not a new amusement, but a diverting one.
Then Marie goes home and I resume my original form and go out with my aunt. Gioia — all in white like me, and without a hat — is at her door. As we advance a little we see the fiery châtelain walking on foot towards his carriage, which awaits him at the far end of the Promenade. He gets in; we meet, we bow, I turn back to look, he does too, and we exchange a smile.
That has erased my stupid coldness of yesterday.
I see the whole manoeuvre — one leaves one's horses and goes on foot! Very good!
But she! To dare to dress herself like me! And thus dressed and painted she is very beautiful.
Can you see me? No — you cannot see me!
Oh! how I rage!
Oh! the fine dénouement! One sees him no more — I go home, dine in haste, and go up to my room. I gnaw my nails; I want to have my dogs strangled and to set the château on fire!
And for whom! For a kept woman; for a Gioia of thirty-five! He goes about it in a thoroughly romantic fashion.
A rendezvous at the gate — sending the carriage away out of sight! O fury!
To prefer that woman to me! But does one know what I am capable of when exasperated to this point — of mar... No. I wrote half the word, and I feel incapable of such an absurdity.
It is the first time anyone has taken a man from me! Good God, how furious I am!
And he bows, and he smiles, and he looks radiant! Serpent!! Horror!
He has abandoned me, and all his attendants keep away as well — one sees them no more.
Ah! how miserable I am.
Oh! how I would have him thrashed — how I would box his ears with my white hand — how I would kick him and her — no, nothing for her: I would give her money to go away!
My God, my God! I was right to wait before knowing what I think — I could not have done otherwise. Yesterday I felt nothing, I was stunned, dazed; today I am wounded, furious — not merely furious, one often says furious when one is only put out — but truly furious, furious with fury, with rage!
And grieved. Everything fails me here. I want to leave — in three weeks, a month at most. The Promenade will see me no more; my little feet will tread its miserable dust no more; its sun will no longer burn my skin so white!
I am leaving! Where? To Rome.
What shall I find there? God knows.
I have had too many vexations of every kind at Nice to stay here — and yet I love it... at the thought of leaving it I weep! I adore Nice!
And at once the spiteful will say: she says I adore Nice, but she means I adore Girofla. No — I do not adore him, I do not love him; I am only slightly in love with him. But he is taken from me, and — and by whom! Good God!! By whom!
My beautiful Gioia — my adoration — she towards whom "I feel myself drawn" — she with whom "something tells me I shall have something to settle."
That is what I wrote in Paris, in this same journal.
Pardieu! Now you see what I have to settle with her. If at least it were a serious matter — if at least I were losing my temper over a man like Hamilton — it would be worth the trouble, and I should not regret the bad blood I am making for myself!
I wanted to go to the theatre. What is the use? Since he does not want me, it is pointless for him to see me. And I — I can do without his Nicean face. Besides, he will no doubt be at her house, in his Greek cap!
That reminds me of yesterday, and at once I have these words sent to the post, written in block capitals: Wretch! With your dressing gown and your Greek cap, You will rot!!!
People exasperate me!
Bihovetz has come; I must go down, otherwise my aunt will think foolish things.
He stays until eleven o'clock. [A line and a half crossed out.] We speak of marriage and I say that I shall marry a cardinal. Lubimoff said — it is Maman who writes this: Madame, I am neither a drunkard nor a spendthrift; I have an independent fortune. My daughter cannot be an obstacle — her fortune is separate. I have powerful connections; I can serve at the embassy. I have long loved Mlle Dina, and I should be the happiest of men, etc. etc.
If someone were to speak in such terms on my behalf, I would fall upon his neck — only to refuse him afterward.