Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Wednesday, 29 December 1875

Walking this morning with Collignon and Victor, I met the American introduced by Winslow, and he walked with us the whole time.
Little Émile, who had his migraine, drives quietly about in his little two-wheeled gig while we listen to the band.
We go to see Mme de Mouzay again and she gives me seven letters of introduction for Rome. God grant they serve me as well as this dear, excellent woman — who loves me so — desires! Let her be at ease: her kindness is not addressed to an ingrate; I love her with all my heart. I am so little spoiled that the smallest attention goes straight to my heart. And yet I wished to love everyone — but everyone spits on me.
Coming down the staircase I can see the windows of the Cercle de la Méditerranée all lit up and the shadows of the dancers. Matinée every Wednesday.
At dinner, little by little I lose mastery of myself and end up in tears. Collignon takes me on her lap and coaxes and consoles me. Bless her! But she cannot console me. I wept even more because I could not tell her my troubles. She knows well what makes me despair, but I am ashamed to say it to her.
Oh! I think I am going to die — I weep too much; I do not have a single moment's peace.
— And yet this morning you seemed in a good humour, quite cheerful, Collignon tells me.
Yes, indeed, I was not screaming — but one cannot scream always, and am I even quite sure I was not screaming inwardly?
It is wrong to despair at my age. I am not yet seventeen.
Until now I... no...
Will it never change? Will I never, never, never live like other people? I watch all those people pass by in their carriages. They are happy, tranquil!
No doubt each person has their grief — one is ill, another is in love, another wants for money, another is tormented by an absence or a death; each has their grief, even several — but not like mine.
For me, my whole life is grief.
You are no doubt saying: poor little idle girl, she thinks she alone is unhappy, when in fact she is happier than many. Not a bit of it — I understand life well enough to judge it clearly. And my grief is the most abominable of all. One loses a loved one; one weeps for a year, two years, one remains sad perhaps for all one's life — but one has moments of forgetting, everything fades. The greatest sorrow loses its force with time. But an incessant, eternal torment!
My age makes people think I am some little madwoman who... Oh! it exasperates me! If no one believes me, if no one understands me — so much the worse!
I have just read Mme de Mouzay's letters — one cannot be better; one cannot be more charming.
Oh! if only there were many like her!
And yet, see — more often than not, those who wish to help cannot!
She left Rome six years ago, and I rather doubt that her acquaintances will remember her. And besides, her influence was never very great.
She gave seven letters: one for Miss Sophie Haigh, the aunt of Sir Haigh who is always with the Duke of Edinburgh; one for Monsignor de Falloux, at the Palazzo Ruspoli; one for the Abbé Litsz; one for Countess Antonelli née Garcia, Palazzo Antonelli; one for His Eminence Cardinal Antonelli, the Vatican Palace; one for Baron Visconti, former director of the Empirisme; and one for the Marquis d'Épinay, sculptor.
What will come of it? God knows.
So much do I doubt, so accustomed am I to misfortune, that I fear the name of Mme de Mouzay will actually do us harm. I fear it because it seems to me that everything friendly to us must be rejected and ill-treated, just as we are.
What can one expect — I have paid dearly enough to know it!
This evening there is a grand performance at the Opera and Sivori will play. I am not going. There were only two boxes free — one on the first tier and the other next to the Surprising One's. The first-tier one could do at a pinch, but I have no inclination to go. What a pleasure! To meet only unknown or unfriendly faces!

Notes

In Italian in the original: Dio lo sa. ↩