Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Saturday, 30 October 1875

I do not go out; the day passes like an hour — I am not living, I am waiting for Sunday evening, and I fear it will not succeed, for I feel too happy. I smile at every jest. Marie, my mother's chambermaid — that droll woman who detests her husband — comes to tell me:
"Oh! Mademoiselle — I saw Émile yesterday; he was so proud of dancing with you, he had the look of a rooster."
"Aha! So you saw him."
"He loves you, Mademoiselle — and you are going to love him."
"Tell me, Marie — why is it that whenever a young man calls at a house where there is a young girl, people always invent nonsense?"
"Not all, but you are beautiful and Émile is handsome — and naturally..."
This woman was in the convent to which Mme d'Audiffret had retired after the affair; she saw Émile there — as she calls him — who came several times to try to bring his step-mother to a reconciliation.
She moved me to tenderness, telling me how beautiful Mme d'Audiffret was — white, pink, with large dark eyes, with superb hair so long "that she sat on it" — how she passed her days playing the guitar and singing to put her baby to sleep, and weeping. That every Sunday she received communion with her hair unbound, covered in a long black veil, and that on that day she never stopped weeping.
Is that not romantic?
"You were pretty yesterday," my aunt tells me. "You were not pale" — (if she says so one must believe it, for at the least pallor I am scolded, as if it were my fault!) — "you were rosy; I don't always say so, but yesterday you were very pretty, and he was melting."
"You are telling me this nonsense — from the very first day you assured me he was in love with me!"
"No — but yesterday he looked so intently, and, as is my habit, I caught him at it."
"If you were telling the truth, I would kiss you four hundred and forty-eight times — it would make me so happy!"
I was preparing to sleep when my Graces arrive disguised as men. At once Dina and I do the same, and we go out having smoked, sworn, said shocking things — everything of the most street-urchin, most disreputable kind.
There are many passers-by this evening but no one pays attention to four little Niçois strolling down the middle of the street. We arrive at Nina's, drink and smoke with unworthy gestures, dance impossible steps, and sitting all four on her bed try to bring her to a reconciliation with Coco.
Toward eleven o'clock we make our way home on foot; there is almost no one about, and we shout and howl nonsense in terms so choice that it makes one shudder.
Ah! I forgot — Mmes de Ballote and de Wykersloovth called, and after their visit the mothers went to Monaco.
I forgot something else!
This is more serious. Dina and I stationed ourselves at the window; Bibi and Galula, I believe, did the same at the castle — we looked at each other through binoculars, and those two monkeys waved their handkerchiefs.
Then — after a few minutes we went up to the second floor, and from behind a shutter continued to look without being seen. And my aunt and Walitsky, that dear old thing, who were passing back and forth and scolding from time to time.
"Scold away, scold away," I tell them; "without a stern aunt and a fellow like you, Walitsky, the Spanish balcony scene would not be complete."
And I die laughing.
But let us return to the evening — oh! I am ashamed.
In front of no. 53, Dina shouts to me:
"Hey! Émile — wait up."
"What! What do you want, Joseph!"
"I need to — attend to a small necessity!"
And she approaches the wall! —
I am indignant — but the last time I went further: I went into one of those public urinals and Giroflé followed me, as she has just been telling me — she is here while I write.
It is strange: going to bed late ruins my complexion when I am bored — but when I am enjoying myself, nothing shows; I am fresh and rosy as though I had gone to bed at nine.

---

Sunday, 31 October 1875

I wake with a start, step into the dressing room, jump onto my overturned bathtub, open the little skylight that opens into the corridor — in which there is a window directly opposite — and begin to chatter in Nissart with the women of the rue de France.
"But what on earth have you been doing this night, Mademoiselle?" asks Léonie, amazed.
"Why, I slept!"
"You must have been studying Nissart."
"Not at all — it came to me quite on its own upon waking; I spoke it at once."
It is frightening how I speak like the Niçois — like the handsome Niçois.
Good God! Heavens above! Can it be permitted to forget that yesterday, with Giroflé, having let Dina and Marie go ahead, we slipped back out, visited every bush, and executed our little project. We threw six stones, and a street lamp bit the dust. How chic!
Unable to conceal anything, I recount it all and receive a scolding [sic], to which I reply with nonsense.
Scold away, Maman; scold away, my aunt; scold away, everyone! It is the sugar of the thing.
There would be nothing pretty about it if you found it natural and proper.
Am I not right?
It is raining; Giroflé comes to my room after the Promenade — (I have not been out) — after the Promenade with Dina and Marie, and we shut ourselves in to practise spitting at a target.
Giroflé is an absolute sucre of a girl; we grow closer and closer; she makes adorable observations.
My Graces dress at our house.
How droll this Giroflé is! She put her knee through a windowpane trying to see Bibi, and in the carriage, when someone said "There's Pépino!" she threw herself at the window — but the glass was raised and she struck her face against it.
Around a quarter past nine we have serious anxieties! What if they don't come!
To have prepared ourselves in vain! We go back up to my room to keep watch at the window, after having danced and sung with Coco.
I lay out a patience; the cards say yes — and Giroflé bursts in like a bombshell to announce them.
But what is my astonishment — that dear Bibi, who said the other day "So Sunday we gather at our house?" to which I replied "Not at your house, but at ours" — this dear Bibi brings us M. Sommier. It is strange.
On Friday, when Saëtone was at our house, I asked him about M. Sommier — Berthe mentions him in her letters. But that is no reason to bring him like this without warning.
M. Sommier is a man of thirty-five, lean, and english-looking.
Pépino, Bihovetz, Ricardo, Galula and Bibi are there.
No Saëtone. Alas! Alas! Alas!
Oh! But who will thrash him for me — who will thrash him? Not Saëtone, but Audiffer — the Surprising Émile!
He is an animal — an animal who greatly amuses you, Mademoiselle!
Pépino is quite domesticated by now and is becoming pleasant.
Poor Fiouloulou!
You know why I say "poor Fiouloulou!" Too thin a subject, my lord, for me to speak further.
"I hold a little too tightly when dancing," says Audiffer, "but otherwise there would be no pleasure in dancing."
You hear that!
Indeed he presses my waist and my hand — que c'est un sucre!
I am cold — it is past two — but I so want to write this evening.
No more sulking, no more quarrels! No more grimacing! Impossible to behave as I intended — at the least thing he becomes so amiable that to pull a long face would be ridiculous.
He asks for the tarot again. I give him the numbers and he reads the explanation in the little book.
Twice it predicts he will elope with someone.
"I apply it to myself!" he says.
"Completely wrong, Monsieur."
"Also — that he will become entangled with a woman of loose morals. That too, twice."
"Here, Monsieur — it is too droll! Read it."
"Yes, yes," he says, "but no — it is nothing."
We are on entirely good terms together — not a shadow, not a cloud; I am not yet quite accustomed to it.
This poor lovesick girl comes to interrupt us ten times, begging us to stop and go dance. But I take no notice of anything. Poor Olga!
But then a tarot card says the man is in love with a blonde girl.
"I apply it! I apply it — that is true!"
"No — not that one, but the other."
"You know," he says to Olga, who approaches once more, "I am in love with a blonde girl — I apply it; it is true."
"Not true at all," I say. "You prefer the other."
"Oh! Not at all — the other — that is — well! I prefer here. The other — I don't want the other."
"That is easier — it is possible, at any rate — whereas here you will have nothing. Never!"
We dance again, and again, and I with Bibi; he tells me again that he is in love with the blonde person.
"It is not true!"
"Oh!"
Still dancing.
Then this clown draws a heart pierced by an arrow.
"That is me," he says.
"Since when, Monsieur?"
"Ah! But do you know what it means — 'since when, Monsieur'?"
I swore this would be my first words in these circumstances, and I have told the story at home a hundred times, and they laugh about it.
"I said since when?" I say to my aunt in passing. "My aunt — I said 'since when'! Un sucre."
My aunt doesn't leave me alone with the man for a single second — the moment we isolate ourselves by any chance whatever, she runs after us. It is amusing — oh! I am amused!
He runs off into my studio — I run after him; we stop at the door of the green anteroom; he slips between the two panels of the door; I press him between them.
"Don't go — what nonsense!"
"But why?"
"Ah! I tell you not to do anything foolish!"
He touches my hand with his finger — like an imbecile.
"What are you doing, Monsieur!"
"Ah! What pretty hands you have!"
At this moment my aunt comes running! I go into the salon, he into the dining room.
In a word, he is courting me very nicely. You understand my contentment — this contentment even spoils me; I am too animated, I forget my imposing manner.
They make me sing, but Walitsky accompanies badly; I stop, we laugh.
Then Bibi performs a hundred monkey-tricks, sings, pulls faces — to the great delight of the audience. You will see that tomorrow he will treat me with contempt!
Oh! But I have a lightning rod now.
[Two lines cancelled: We make at our place —]
These little Niçois are quite at their ease. Bibi... flutters about. Bihovetz plays, and everyone sings. Bibi spends — I don't know how long — searching for the "blonde girl" in the little book.
"You know what I am looking for? Wait!"
"Not at all — I shall find you the other one; that is all you will get. Ah! I can't find it — but you know what I mean?"
"Yes, yes, perfectly, Mademoiselle."
"Really? Good."
"A passable secousse. You know, Dina — it continues!"
"Aha!"
At supper I complain of my aunt's pursuit and tell them everything.
It is stupid — I can never keep my diary properly; perhaps in a year, in a fit of remembrance, I shall recall a host of things. Let us wait, since one can do no otherwise.
What I regret is that one cannot marry for a fixed term — I am certain that a two-month marriage with Bibi would give me great pleasure.
So one must wait for freedom — so one will have to deceive! For don't imagine I shall simply give up my Niçois — oh! not at all! One day, we will have something to do together. I have said it. The queen has spoken!
If I dared, here after such nonsense, to speak of God, I would say that I thank Him — He heard me! But I dare not; I shall not speak of it. He will know, without that, whether I thank Him!
"What, Monsieur," says Maman at tea, "do you not receive the Journal de Nice?"
"No — I receive Le Figaro."
"Not at all," I say; "you receive Le Journal pour rire, Le Petit Journal, Le Grelot — that is what you receive!"
That is how we are together.
"Ah! But — I ask for a country dance!"
In these wretched salons one can accomplish nothing.
Listen — that is not what I desire! I desire a proper declaration — serious, nice, and proper.
Ah! How I shall pray to God!
Do not mock me, you wise ones, atheists, brutes! You do not understand my character.
Bibi no longer restrains himself from looking at me — no more grimacing as before! Un sucre!
"Marie," says Walitsky to the chambermaid, who comes in to bring something or other, "Marie — the day before yesterday Émile was like a rooster, and today he was like a turkey!"
I must leave — absence will show me the truth. For I swear I do not know whether I am truly in love or only for amusement.
You understand — I am still all worked up; tomorrow I shall be too. It takes time to understand.
I am a good girl — I told everything at supper, just as I have written it here.
Ah! But I demand seriousness!

Notes

Colonne de Vendôme — the Parisian street urinal, named after the Vendôme Column for its shape. ↩
The Nice dialect, a variety of Occitan. ↩
In English in the original. Marie uses English words to connote fashionable distinction. ↩