Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Tuesday, 28 December 1875

I amuse myself playing the fool all day long, and everyone encourages my nonsense.
We were at dear Mme de Mouzay's — she is ill in bed.
I saw Manara, who shot me a meaningful glance.
The Surprising One is nowhere to be seen. Maman says that Balestro the stonemason came here for some job or other and told her that M. Emile was in bed. I think Maman invented that.
A charming pheasant tail from yesterday was left over, and it gave me an idea which I put into execution immediately. I found a long sleeve of red silk, sewed a circle of cardboard covered in silk to one end, gathered the other end and formed a kind of tassel at the tip, and at the front I fixed the pheasant tail held in place by a rosette. The result is a sort of toque whose back, sixty centimetres long, falls gracefully like a fisherman's cap. This hat I shall send to the Surprising One, from the Var, by slow goods train.
I want to make him burst with rage. I have sewn it very solidly so that he cannot tear it apart in his first fit of fury, for afterward he may reconsider the whole affair and bring the hat home the way Leon brings home his old stage props.
Besides which, I am writing him this:
Sardanapalus of the Tower, you shall rot. The outside is in bloom, The inside is in rot. Signed: Alfeda-da-fe Miserere.
And on the other side:
How is Papa? Baby is well, he already knows how to say: Papa, Emile. Are you pleased? I myself don't know what these brilliant jokes mean, but I laugh at them heartily.
If you think I am going to stop — ha! Not at all! He shall receive one every day. He has a very bad temper — one need only look at his handwriting for that: irritable, violent, capricious, wicked.
Each one of these qualities only makes him more attractive to me. I do not like men who are good, loyal, steady, straightforward — I like bad sorts, scoundrels. If you recall, I stated my opinion on this very point apropos of the expression on the Duke of Hamilton's face.
The drawing room of the château is lit up; I write at a small table with two candles before me. I have opened the door of my dressing room, which is directly opposite the window, so that I can be seen from there.
Not only for this man's sake — in general I like people to see everything that goes on in my rooms.
I have just been peering at the château — with my door shut my dressing room is in darkness and no one can see me. Up above there is only a faint, barely perceptible light, almost nothing. It looks like a candle through curtains to me, or perhaps a cab lamp — no, a cab lamp would give more light.
It is curious how a light up there amuses me, puts me at ease — and how when it is dark I feel discontented.
I should be perfectly happy if I knew he were always alone at home. Let him treat me with contempt — fine — but let him not look at anyone else.
Oh! if only I could shut him away somewhere, alone, alone, alone. I am annoyed even to see him in the company of men. Since he does not enjoy my company, I should like him to be bored utterly alone, locked up somewhere. What joy that would be!
For a moment the left tower door was lit up, and now it is completely dark.
The creature is no doubt at the Club, since nothing is playing at the Opera tonight.
And what makes me concern myself with him so? Idleness, and nothing else.
It is five minutes to ten. I have nothing to do — I shall go to sleep. Oh, how good life is!