Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Thursday, 30 December 1875

The letter signed Alfeda-da-fe was not sent; in its place, Maman sent the following telegram from Monte-Carlo:
Nice, Émile d'Audiffret, Tour Audiffret. The outside is in bloom, The inside is in rot. Miserere! Alfeda-da-fe.
By telegram it is far better.
"Hast thou ever suffered? hast thou wept? "Hast thou languished without hope, "The soul in mourning, the heart torn? Then, thou dost understand my suffering! (Mignon)
It starts at the Ade shop. While we are there, Mme Tutcheff comes in. Maman tells me to go and greet her, but I blush and do not move, so she herself goes up to this viper and speaks to her.
Every time I cried at home, Maman would say to me:
— Go and live with Aunt Tutcheff. And recently she spoke in earnest about a reconciliation.
But my dear aunt is as cold as possible. She was not alone — Mme Meynek, another sister of my father's, was with her.
That one spoke more as an aunt — she did not look like a yellow, hissing serpent!
But let us pass over this dry and disagreeable incident.
I went to the Sapogenikoffs' to invite them to come and sit up with me tomorrow and tell fortunes.
This evening, Sapho. I wore a sort of Neapolitan blouse in blue crêpe de chine and old lace. The front is white, the sleeves wide — well, it defies description, but original and as charming as possible. With a white skirt and a white satin reticule.
We arrive at the end of the first act and find ourselves next to the Prodgers woman, and with her is Miss Robenson, and I hear the voice of the Surprising One. It stopped me short like a bit stopping a horse in full gallop. I stayed throughout the entire interval without moving, listening to what was being said next door.
It is not for nothing that the Pointed One is known as the Beautiful American. There is nothing to be said against her face — she is young, fresh (genuine or otherwise, what does it matter?) and adorable. One might say she is too thin, which is true, but so ravishing a face silences that objection. Her hair... Ah, as for that, I cannot say — at Spa she was blonder than I am; here she is darker. No matter: she has very pretty eyes, and her hair is beautifully dressed. Looking at her I immediately felt my eyes too pale, my nose too large, the little curls at my temples ill-arranged. There is nothing that makes one uglier than feeling inferior to others — one's eyes grow dull and one loses all assurance.
Maman and my aunt did nothing but shift their eyes from the American to me.
— Marie has a pretty mouth, says Maman after a long scrutiny.
As soon as the curtain rises I hear the Surprising One leave, and I see Miss Robenson take his hand. How he must have pressed it — and how happy she must be!
He went off to an English lady who, having recently arrived here, has attracted all the men. Tournon, Bergerault and several others are at her house.
Seeing him there I recover somewhat. From a distance I see poorly, and he looked rather wretched — standing there as if reluctantly, without a word.
— He looks rather dull when he says nothing, doesn't he? I asked.
— No, replied my aunt, but he looks fierce — there is something of the wild beast about him.
You will understand that nothing could have been better calculated to make him more attractive to me.
Miss Robenson... (note how, since "the Pointed One," I have progressed to saying "Miss Robenson") — Miss Robenson, then, is perfectly pretty.
I simply acknowledge my inferiority and, crushed, do not move and desire nothing. Only I was burning, and every moment I had to bite my lips — both because they were dry and to keep from weeping like a brute in the middle of the theatre.
The Surprising One stays one act and one interval at the English woman's box, then comes back to his own and poses melancholically — not as before, not in an exaggerated way, but one can plainly see he is not doing it on purpose.
Prodgers and the American leave before the end — well before the end — and Audiffret cannot be patient enough to stay more than ten minutes longer than they do. At the moment when Miss Robenson rose and turned her back to the audience, I saw a glance from the Surprising One fix itself on her quilted back — an involuntary glance that said quite enough.
For a glance like that I would give a day of my life — if it came from anyone; and if it came from the Surprising One, a week.
As if anyone would take that week of a life as miserable and wretched as possible.
As long as I am animated, happy, I am pretty — but if I am as I have been of late, goodbye to all of it.
I become — and above all I feel — ugly, confused, miserable enough to bury myself underground.
By now the American, safely home, is no doubt sleeping a happy, tranquil sleep that will preserve her complexion and maintain her twenty-seven-year-old skin. While I lie awake, and this wakefulness is wrinkling me, ageing me, drying me out.
I did not speak in the carriage — I felt that with words would come a flood. Only a minute or two before arriving did I feel strong enough to say this:
— Truly, M. de Tournon and Bergerault have behaved like extremely rude people. They were invited, they did not come, they paid no call afterwards, they did not even come to the box. Oh! it is truly treating one's acquaintances like riffraff — like absolute riffraff.
— They have not been anywhere, says Maman.
— Do not say that, I beg you — people only do such things to us.
— To everyone, said my mother and my aunt together.