Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Thursday, 30 September 1875

I went to bed at eleven but did not fall asleep until three, perhaps. I pricked the fourth finger of my left hand and it caused me horrible pain — I could not sleep; I wept, I stamped my feet; I wanted to wake the whole household. Never have I suffered so much!
I wish Girofla all his fingers as ailing as my fourth.
She has dismissed — that is to say, her previous gentleman has gone, and she is taking this one. Clever woman.
She is dressing again as before. During the stay of the gentleman who came with her she was playing the family mother — plain, dark gowns, an ugly coiffure, no paint — and I was already rejoicing at her growing ugliness.
In vain — alas, in vain! She has resumed her toilettes and her paint, and there she is beautiful again.
Above all tall and majestic — a full half-head taller than I!
Oh! now it is over — truly over. No more Girofla. Girofla is dead.
Oh! the cards, the cards! How truly they speak. Even the most incredulous would believe.
And yet I am amused almost as much as I am vexed. That is something new.
He is radiant and perfectly happy.
It was last night that there was the Greek cap! How ugly he must look in a Greek cap!
I should like to be at every moment now at the Tour, now at her house, to know when he goes to her. The first days he makes a mystery of it — but soon he will strut about everywhere with her, as before. The return is a good omen — he has money, no doubt.
That is why he has not left.
And my portrait! I must get it back. Yes — but how? One will see him no more except passing twice a day to and from her house, like the duke. Ah! creature!
I want my portrait — I must have it!
I do not want him to have it. Why this insistence on stealing it — why? No doubt for some vile purpose — to show it off!
My portrait! My portrait!
Ah! unworthy creature. He has triumphant airs — he rejoices like a child.
Does he love her? No — he cannot love her.
Well — do you know, I actually prefer this to anything else? He has left me in the lurch at least for Gioia — for another woman — that gives the thing a certain distinction, whereas if he had simply drifted away I should have thought it was the old song of Nice, my greatest grief. This is a personal vexation — it is cleaner — I prefer it.
My finger hurts! I wanted to go out — it is hot. Enough writing! This afternoon I shall no doubt see things that will make me scribble until nightfall. One knows my thoughts and understands my tedium.
No — what to do, if not write? I am incapable of occupying myself with anything whatsoever. This affair has entirely absorbed me.
If there were someone I would fling myself madly at that someone — but there is no one; no means of revenge! No means of distraction. O Nice, ungrateful and stupid city!
I must absolutely think of nothing else! I am a little pale, tired — this cursed finger kept me awake! And moreover I am vexed, which does not make me beautiful.
And that woman grows as beautiful as possible — toilettes, coiffures, cosmetics: all at her service.
Without her dress she is crumpled and ordinary; with it, she is superb.
She is taller than I!
And she dares to look at me as I pass!
And she dares to dress herself in white!
And yet it amuses me — the thought of measuring myself against this creature tempts me!
Do you know what is one of the humiliations of the slighted? It is the inferiority of height. It seems to me that if I were as tall as she I should be content.
As stupid as this remark may appear, it is exceedingly just — observe and you shall see.
When a smaller person insults you or surpasses you in something — which amounts to the same thing in my eyes — one takes refuge in one's own stature and feels superior for some reason one cannot explain. But when it is someone taller than yourself — then you are crushed, you seem miserable to yourself, you feel small. I do not know if everyone is so; I am, and that I know.
To think that I must still wait four hours before going out! Four deadly hours — for I cannot occupy myself, I am too much occupied already. I do not write at ease; my left hand disturbs me.
I expected everything except this.
To return to Gioia!
That is the last of all the things I could have imagined!
I have just written to Laferrière — I need gowns.
This left hand prevents me from writing.
For the moment I am entirely given over to gowns. I believe in dress — it is not half of a woman, it is three-quarters of a woman. Let us look after our three-quarters.
I see a living example: Gioia without dress is old and passable; with dress, young and beautiful. The devil! — I am better than she by nature: let us not allow what God has given to perish, but let us enhance it by every means.
But really — do you see this audacity — to dress herself in white like me!
I have just written to Ferry — this woman is well shod, but what a difference of foot. I have a small foot; she has a foot merely proportioned to her height.
I have many gowns and yet my toilette is not complete!
I go down to my laboratory, and — O horror! All my phials, all my flasks, all my salts, all my crystals, all my acids, all my tubes are uncorked and heaped into a filthy box in the greatest disorder!
I fly into a rage, sit down on the floor, and begin to finish smashing the things that were already half broken — as for whatever is intact, I do not touch it: I never lose myself entirely.
— Ah! you thought that Marie was gone, therefore she is dead! Everything may be smashed, everything scattered! I cried, still breaking things. My aunt was silent at first, then:
— It is quite natural that people should turn away from you! That they should not wish to look at you! Is this a young girl — it is a monster, a horror!
In the midst of my anger I could not help smiling at that one. For this affair is all on the surface — it is not in my depths — and at this moment I have the good fortune to touch my depths; therefore I am perfectly tranquil and regard all of this as though it concerned someone other than myself.
[Crossed out: Let us profit] What an astonishment! Girofla, Gioia — all this is indifferent to me. On the surface I lose my temper, but my depths are tranquil. I judge as a stranger: the anger of Marie Bashkirtseva touches me not at all. All of this has happened on the surface, and I swear before God that there is nothing in me — that I do not love Girofla.....
I do not understand what I am saying!
Nor do you? Is that not so?
Let us see, in a word. My heart is free, safe and sound; my pride is wounded — that is true. And even... well, there I go losing myself again. Here is the thing: I am at my depths right now, I am inside myself, and there I find only one thing: the most vain Ambition. Everything else is on the surface. I am as amused as possible by the Nicean's treachery — it gives me great pleasure. Gioia can prevent me in nothing — as the roast does not prevent the soup [translation follows] as they say in Russia. I am through myself; she is through herself.
It even gives me a certain triumphant air — it amuses me. I, little Marie, yesterday a child, face to face with Gioia, a courtesan at the beginning of her decline! That elevates me! I am enchanted.
And seeing me, he has the air of saying triumphantly: Aha, my dear — you see! — and I look at him and seem to say in the same tone: Why yes, I see — you are a good boy, and it amuses me.
If he is not a fool — and he is not a fool — he must have read that in my smile. So everything is changed: I am enchanted — or rather excited for combat, like a racehorse. I am going to make myself beautiful and crush him with my superb indifference, and with my encouraging and protective look.
Not even that satisfaction! One does not see him — as I predicted. Only the faithful, the insignificant Fiouloulou is at my carriage door.
The magnificent scoundrel walks with her two youngest children; she is in pink.
A few days ago, also at the concert, I was in pink and Gioia passed by with her gentleman and turned sharply to examine me.
— Look, said Fiouloulou, as if to himself — look, Gioia is studying the pink dress.
We meet her several times, and once she smiled looking at me. She forgets herself — she is mad. My aunt says: Carrion.
If I were to use such ugly words, I should say the same. I remain amused until six o'clock in the evening — but at six o'clock boredom takes hold of me. I had admirers; I had one in particular — and now I have nothing. It is humiliating. There are no others here, in this miserable country. Let us forget that for a moment things were otherwise: I have lived until now alone, seeing no one, without a single acquaintance, and I shall live so again; it would be supernatural for my life here to change.
For a moment I believed that God had taken pity on me — but He does not hear me! I am no doubt a very great sinner. Everything fails me here; everything pulls a face at me. From the first day until now — and yet I adore Nice!
You see — one always loves what does not love in return. Sic factae sumus!
Everywhere else I am a visitor; at Nice I am at home. And the proverb says: However comfortable one may be as a visitor, one is still better off at home.
Nice, ungrateful Nice.
The front box on the right at ground level is taken; we have the one on the left — the Durands' — and consequently find ourselves facing our winter box, Gioia's former box. It is occupied by her two children and the old woman. I am with my aunt and my Graces, my hand in a gauze sling.
For the return of Duplessis — a much-loved actor — they are giving Giroflé-Girofla, the family play, as Fiouloulou calls it. Faithful Fiouloulou who comes to see us.
All the actors are in fine form. Tiste offers all his absurdities to our box. Marie Petit — that pleasant little woman whom I have been watching for four years and who almost smiles each time — Marie Petit, I say, is very near; I slip under her fan: "You are very pretty this evening."
— To achieve that one would need to resemble you, she replies under hers with the most charming smile.
The words Giroflé and Girofla, repeated at every moment, amuse us tutti quanti in the box.
Ricardo comes and stays for two acts. Charming — Ricardo.
But let us come to the point. Gioia, who had been concealing herself in the salon, shows herself — and from that moment we know that d'Audiffret is in her box, in the back of that little salon from which we so often watched him this spring, my Graces and I, from behind the door.
It is simply filthy. To go into the same box with that woman — and her children. Her children — by whom?
She is there with her quiet and pleasant air, behind her children, speaking from time to time to the back of the salon.
He has no doubt told her everything, for she laughed and turned towards the door each time the name Girofla was spoken.
And my portrait! She has it no doubt — it is for her that he stole it. The wretch!
Before, it was excusable — one could say he is a child, that it is new to him. But now that he is no longer a child, and that it is not at all new to him since he had her for three years — how to explain, how to excuse such vile conduct? To show himself — or rather to let himself be detected — with that woman, and with her children, with the entire family! Fie!
[Across the page: I am very tiresome with these eternal espionages of thought, these suppositions. Is it possible to cling in such a way? But it is insupportable.]
In an interval he comes to the stalls with an air so low-class that it is disgusting.
Certainly he does not come to our box — he is afraid of that creature, and besides he no doubt has no inclination to come. All of this bores and amuses me at the same time.
We drop my Graces at no. 7, and while we are stopped Gioia's landau passes us, and I recognize the straw hat of the Nicean.
It is filthy.
— Come now, says my aunt when we are at home — enough of jealousy; go to bed.
— Oh! Madame, how mistaken you are if you think me jealous. Certainly it is disagreeable to have that face always before me, everywhere. Aha! But I am not jealous — we are so different! You were saying just now that he did it on purpose to draw me in further — it does not draw me in, but I am amused to measure myself against that woman. You understand that she is quite another thing from me.
— Yes, but he pleases you, and Girofla has succeeded — you are in love.
— No, I am not in love — he does not please me. Doubtless I prefer passing my time with him to passing it with Galula.
— And to passing it with Saëtone.
— A peasant!
— And with Bihovetz.
— An old man!
— And with Pépino.
— A scoundrel!
— And with Markoff.
— A lout!
— And with Woerman.
— A blockhead!
— And with Godard.
— A child!
— You see perfectly well that you prefer him to all of them.
— But you name such wretched people! Why will you not admit that a woman may love a handsome face as much as a man does. I assure you it is exactly the same thing — and as a man prefers pretty women, a woman prefers handsome men. As for me, I love handsome faces and I let myself be influenced by beauty.
— Give me another and I shall prefer that other! But there is no one — tell me, of whom can one take an interest here? The only being who can be called a young man is Audiffret!
— Yes, but it is over — you will see him no more.
— For the moment, yes. But listen to one thing: I have made up my mind that I shall have the man — and I shall have him. Do not interrupt me! I am tenacious: an idea once lodged in my head never leaves it.
Look — I see that table; I mean to take it. You would take it, smash it, burn it, scatter its ashes — there would then be no means of taking it, yes? Well — not so with me: I shall always have my idea, which I shall keep until death. It is stronger than I. For almost a year I have had the plan of taking Audiffret.
— You will never take him. He is too practical.
— I know — I shall not take him now. I shall take him when I am married.
— He will be married too.
— Well then, I shall take him married! What does it matter to me — since I do not want him for a husband. I want him; I shall have him — no matter when, no matter how.
— At this very moment, I say suddenly, he is in his Greek cap! Tomorrow my note will reach him.
— He is leaving tomorrow at six in the morning.
— Oh! how naive you are! He is spending the night at Gioia's and leaving at six in the morning. Nonsense!
— Go to bed and stop your jealousies.
— Again! But who do you take me for! I — jealous of Gioia! Come, my aunt, you cannot think it!
[Crossed out: And I go to my room. Not jealous from love but from something else. To be pref.[sic] And abandoned for Gioia.]
— I do think it — he pleases you, and he does all of this on purpose.
— On purpose? No, he does not do it on purpose. He does not think of me. He is a boy who sows, or believes he sows, love everywhere. Let us occupy ourselves with this girl for a fortnight, turn her head, he has told himself, then let us move on to others. That is what he thinks. And he is a very happy man to believe himself so powerful.
Well! Good night.
And I go to my room — jealous, not from love, but from pride.
Is it possible, I thought, undoing my golden curls which fell over my shoulders and down my back in beautiful ringlets — is it possible that this woman should be preferred to me? To say nothing of youth — is it possible that anyone should prefer that worn-out body, that faded and painted skin, to my divine body and my skin so firm and so white! Those insignificant grey eyes — to my eyes also grey, but quick, but spirited! That withered and crumpled mouth to my mouth fresh, small, and rosy. Those bony hands to my hands white and small — her large foot to my dainty foot — her sagging bosom — for her bosom sags; the corset conceals it, but I can see.
No — it is impossible; and indeed she is not preferred as a woman, but preferred as a kept woman.
I wish that by a miracle I could die and be reborn: I would make myself a public woman like Gioia for one year — to crush and annihilate all the others — then I would die and become again what I was before.
And I go to bed to fall asleep soon — but troubled and vexed.
If I had many admirers it would mean nothing to me — for a moment we were surrounded, and now we are alone again! It is mortally grieving!

Notes

Sic factae sumus — Latin: "Thus we are made" (feminine plural). Mock-classical resignation. ↩
Tutti quanti — Italian: "all of us, the whole lot." ↩