Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Monday, 31 January 1876

[Written across the page: I do three quarters of an hour of painting twice a week.]
My new model is a woman, and her name is Rosa. Not pretty, but amusing.
I remain alone at home all day. At five o'clock they return and read me a letter from my aunt, who reproaches me for writing to Olga about le Surprenant, for Olga has told her everything — or written to le Surprenant.
My aunt must be mad — I have never written anything to Olga that could cause scandal; I have never mentioned le Surprenant in my letters to her, except once, and all I said was this:
— You trouble yourself too much about your Saint Alforig — it is time to stop, my dear!
That is all. My aunt says le Surprenant no longer greets her. "And why write to that man," she says, "he is lost." In any case they are all such filth that I am ashamed to remember I have known them.
As to that I am of my aunt's opinion. She says further that one of the Englishwomen is married to a Johnstone, that the other is unmarried, and that they say le Surprenant is going to marry her — and that Mlle Bueno is marrying M. Francia. Such is the news. I do not firmly believe in the hero's marriage — they also said I was going to marry him. And who knows, perhaps this time they speak truth.
If I had left in October as I wished, I should have preserved a clean memory of Nice — whereas now...
Until now my diary seemed to me exaggerated — but instead of beginning once more to set out my grievances, I content myself with saying that it no longer seems exaggerated to me, and that if I only had time I would repeat every last detail of my humiliations.
At each new thing I receive a shock as though it were for the first time, and each time I want to recount everything from the beginning and be indignant. Can you understand these people of Nice? Did they not know to whom they were being introduced? Why then behave as they did? Yes, I see it — they had themselves introduced in order to insult us afterwards; they knew very well there would be no one to punish them; they knew perfectly well that four women would neither slap them nor fight a duel with them. How vile and cowardly they are. What joy to be able to crush them with my contempt at least from a distance.
I have a new and great sorrow — (I complain so often that I fear they will nickname me La Plaie) — a new sorrow all the same. It seems to me you think I am furious on account of le Surprenant. You do not think so, surely — you do not suppose me capable of such a baseness? I hate him as I hate the Howards, more so, because he pleased me whereas the Howards were always indifferent to me. See where a heart too warm and a spirit too honest can lead. I said I loved this man, while he despised me.
A sentence I have read in an English book came to me as a stinging reproach — a father speaking to his daughter: Bless my heart, Kate, are you mad? What, you, of all girls in the world, confess your love for a fellow who has not first said he loves you?
And I shall have many more troubles in my life because of this savage rage to dominate, in one way or another.
I want to be loved on a whim — and I end by loving (or believing I love) out of spite and wounded pride.
There is my whole story in a few lines; I shall never explain myself better.
In the evening, while I am dressing my hair for the Opera, a letter is brought which I open all trembling, my heart beating like a hammer, so much do I dread some new or old news. Perhaps of a different kind — the news is none the less among the most interesting: a newspaper cutting: "M. G. S. de Babanine gives notice that Mme D. Kandibine, who styles herself Mme Babanine, has no right to bear that name, as he was never married to her."
And there we are.
We are in a baignoire opposite Soroka, the charming princess, and the King.
The King is in the right proscenium box at ground level; the princess, with Mme de Monterreno, is above him. The house is full; they are singing Ruy Blas and the audience applauds frantically.
I am dressed in the Olympe style, and like myself best so. This dress, though not low-cut, opens at the front in [words blacked out: gondolière fashion like the] old gowns, while at the back it only exposes the base of the neck. Now you know, or perhaps do not know, that I have a remarkable neck — perhaps too remarkable for a ground-floor box.
These Italians look you in the face, examine you like a statue, a painting, or an animal. We arrive during the first interval, and I only come to the front of the box at the rise of the curtain — otherwise this black crowd would devour me.
At once Soroka seizes his opera-glass. However, this time he stares at me with less ferocity, while the others do not deprive themselves of that pleasure. An old man, finding himself too short no doubt, leaps to see better as he passes before the box. Lola is nearly dead with laughter.
Rossi comes to see us; unfortunately Soroka is not in his box while Rossi is with us.
[One line cancelled.]
— How sly Soroka is, says Dina — he stares less now.
— My dear, nonsense! I cried.
— No — you told me yourself that is the right way. One stares a great deal so as to make the person think something, then one stops staring, and involuntarily the person asks why. Then one stares again, but in secret.
I felt quite wretched, but the theatre animates me. We leave after the first part of the ballet. There is a crowd of men at the exit, but no Soroka — Soroka contented himself with examining through his opera-glass our departure from the box.
All these things irritate and torment me; I have prayed to God at length to calm me, to console me.
It is impossible as long as things do not change. I regret being noticed. The contempt of Nice seems to pursue me. And yet in Rome we are not yet besmirched.

Notes

Le Surprenant ("the Surprising One"): Marie's private nickname for Audiffret. ↩
"Saint Alforig": an oblique nickname Marie uses for Audiffret when writing to Olga. ↩
La Plaie: "The Wound" or "The Plague" — the nickname she fears being given. ↩
In English in the original. ↩
Baignoire: a ground-floor theatre box, so called from its enclosed shape. ↩
Ruy Blas (1869): opera by Filippo Marchetti, based on Victor Hugo's play. ↩
En Olympe: in the antique/Olympian style, with classical drapery. ↩