Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Friday, 8 October 1875

My aunt said — "Mademoiselle," in the Niçois way, as the Niçois himself used to say it — and it gave me such pleasure.
Everything was clean, young, and fresh! The season — for it was spring — and ourselves: I at sixteen, the man at twenty-four. In Nice, no strangers, no carriages, no dust — absolute tranquillity, disturbed only by us. Ah, it was amusing, it was charming, it was clean. One thing only... the creature's past; for I am as jealous of the past as of the present — more so, even, for nothing can be done about it!
And I venture to say it: the young man has strayed somewhat along the paths of virtue. Well, it irritates me!
I esteem myself above everything, and the very idea that I might be placed alongside another woman — that I am not thought different from everyone else, above everyone else — that idea alone enrages me.
Above all that one has loved before loving me — that one perhaps preserves the memory of that love — that one compares whatever one feels for me to what one felt for another! Ah, how vexing! I would want everything before me to be forgotten, trampled underfoot, despised and annihilated — that there should be nothing but me, and nothing before and nothing after, save the memory of me!
Only then shall I be content; otherwise I shall always bear a grudge against the man, whoever he may be, and it will always seem to me that he... enough — an occasion will arise, and then I shall speak my full mind. Strong words do not suit me here.
Good God! Days, weeks, months pass; worn out from struggling I sink into a kind of torpor and let everything go and fall silent; but a moment comes when this false tranquillity weighs upon me, when the things I had let go will no longer go, when I revolt and despair! October already, and nothing done! Good God, O Lord, is this year to be entirely wasted!
The disorder at home is a great grief to me — the details of housekeeping, those unfurnished rooms, that air of desolation and poverty, it breaks my heart!
Good God, take pity on me and help me to set this right.
I am alone!
As for my aunt, everything is all the same to her — let the house crumble, let the garden wither! I don't even speak of the details. And I — these neglected details exasperate me, they spoil my temper.
When everything around me is beautiful, comfortable, rich and gracious, I am cheerful and good and well — but desolation and emptiness leave me desolate and empty of everything. The swallow arranges its nest, the lion its lair — how can man, so superior to the animals, refuse to do anything at all?
When I say so superior, that does not mean I esteem it — no. I profoundly despise the human race, and from conviction. I expect nothing good from it. What dreamers seek and hope for — a good and perfect soul — does not exist! Those who are good are stupid, and those with wit are either cunning or too preoccupied with their own cleverness to be good. Moreover, every creature is essentially egoistical — now find me goodness in an egoist.
Self-interest, cunning, intrigue, envy! Blessed are those who have ambition — it is a noble passion; out of vanity and ambition one strives to appear good, at least before others and at moments, and that is worth more than never being so at all.
Well, my girl, have you exhausted all your learning? For the moment, yes. At least this way I shall have fewer disappointments. No cowardice shall grieve me, no vile action shall surprise me. No doubt a day will come when I think I have found a man — but that day I shall be hideously wrong. I shall let myself be caught by a certain arrangement of the flesh, and I shall think I have found what I sought. I foresee that day clearly — and since at that moment I shall be blinded, I say this now, while I can see straight.
But, at this rate, why live? Since everything in this world is villainy and wickedness?
Why? Because I understand that this is how it is, because I myself am not like this, because whatever anyone says life is a very fine thing, and because without probing too deeply one can live happily.
Count on neither friendship, nor gratitude, nor fidelity, nor honesty — rise bravely above human wretchedness and station yourself between it and God.
Take everything you can from life, and quickly; do no harm to your wretched fellow men, let not a single moment of pleasure escape, arrange for yourself a comfortable, noisy and magnificent life, rise as far as possible above others, be powerful!
Yes, powerful — powerful by whatever means! Then one is feared or respected, then one is — one is powerful, by God. And that is the summit of human happiness, because then those wretched fellow men are muzzled — by cowardice or by something else — and they do not bite you.
Is it not strange to hear me reason like this? Yes — but such reasoning in a young pup like me is one more proof of what the world is worth.
It must be well saturated with filth and wickedness to have blackened me so thoroughly in so little time.
I am only sixteen.
In this I see the divine mercy of God; for when I am fully initiated into the ugliness of this world, I shall see that there is only Him, high in the heavens, and myself, far below on earth. This conviction will give me greater strength; I shall touch vulgar things only to rise by using them as stepping stones, and I shall be happy — for I shall not take to heart the pettinesses around which men revolve, fight, devour and tear each other like starving dogs.
Such fine words! And where exactly am I to rise to?
And how? I who am not even equal to Mme Prodgers! O mockery! I rise mentally — always mentally — my soul is great, I am capable of immense things. But what use is all that to me!
Since I live in a dark corner, unknown to all!
And here I am regretting my wretched fellow men! But I have never disdained them — on the contrary, I seek them, I want them; without them there is nothing in this world! Only — only — I esteem them at their worth, and I mean to make use of them.
The multitude is everything! What do a few superior beings matter to me! I need everyone — I need brilliance, I need noise!
When I think that...!
Let us return to that eternally tedious, true and necessary word: let us wait.
Ah, if only one knew how much waiting costs me!
But I love life — I love its vexations as much as its joys. I love God and I love His world with all its vileness, and in spite of all its vileness, and perhaps even because of all its vileness.
I am drowsy and listless; since I mentioned my shoulder my aunt watches me with frightened eyes and it grates on my nerves. Everything irritates me! Even my dogs are unbearable, and the fear of an illness like the one at Spa makes my blood rush to my face and my heart pound! Never in my life have I feared anything as much as that!
Without pleasure or eagerness I go out; Nina and her children are walking, and we join their party. Ah, if you only knew how I treated the human race this morning, I said to Marie, in reply to I don't remember what.
And if you only knew how little it cares! It minds not in the slightest, replied the girl very wittily.
Indeed — it is none the worse for it.
Paris rode in the carriage with us — he is in a quarrel with his fine lady.
How sad it is to have no one to occupy oneself with.
The weather is still beautiful; the air is mild, the moon is shining, the trees are black, Nice is lovely — I would not prefer the finest view in the world to the one I have from my window. It is beautiful but sad, sad, sad. Fortunately my second existence is there, and at this moment I have reached an extremely interesting point; I believe d'Audiffret is going to kill himself a second time, and the Duke is about to appear.
Isabelle de Bavière is so badly written, the scenes so loosely connected, that it is pitiful.
I shall read a little more and then go and continue my cerebral novel.
[Crossed out: Saturday, 9 October 1875]
Why can one never speak without exaggerating? My dark reflections would be sound if they were a little calmer — their violent form robs them of naturalness.
There are great souls, there are fine actions, there are honest hearts — but in bursts, and so rarely that one cannot confuse them with everyone else.
People may say I have these ideas because I am thwarted by something. But no — I have my usual vexations and nothing particular. Do not look for anything beyond what is in this journal; I am scrupulous and never pass over in silence either a thought or a doubt.
I reproduce myself as faithfully as my poor mind allows, and if I am not believed — if one looks for something beyond or behind what I say — too bad! One will see nothing, for there is nothing.
My head is heavy and my eyes are closing — yet at the same time I feel like writing on; the pen glides well across the paper, and even if I had nothing to say I would go on for the pleasure of filling blank pages and for the agreeable sound of my pen scratching.
[Crossed out: My head is heavy and my eye is closing, And yet I keep on writing To tell what my heart holds within it — But I cannot... and I have so much, so much to say!]
Serious verse does not suit me.

Notes

Les chemins de la vertu (the paths of virtue) — used here ironically; Marie means the opposite: that Audiffret has had affairs. ↩
Marie had a serious illness in Spa (Belgium) previously, details of which appear in earlier carnets. The fear of its recurrence runs through the diary as a premonition of her eventual death from tuberculosis in 1884. ↩