Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Wednesday, 2 February 1876

I am bored; I should like to write without end, to annotate all my diary, to correct it — for I know there are thousands of mistakes, and they do not come from ignorance but from laziness of thought, from excessive haste. I never know what I am going to write, and so much the better — there is nothing uglier than a studied diary, tiré à quatre épingles, above all when one is not a great writer. But I like my own letters better than those of Mme de Sévigné! Oh, you cry — you jackass! I leave you to cry, and only because I cannot do otherwise. Her style is so affected, so elaborate beneath its apparent simplicity, that it turns my stomach. Whereas my style has no style; I make mistakes, but at least I do not dress up my writing.
It is with the intimate conviction that I shall never be read, and with the still more intimate hope of the contrary, that I write my diary.
My life is so monotonous, so sad. I was bored at the Pincio, then we went to Mme Soukowkine's and I made the acquaintance of her daughter. God, what a meddler that old woman is! She wishes to make one think she is everywhere, that she knows everyone — and in reality she knows everything about everyone: fortunes, debts, scandals, everything. She is a very useful person.
From there we go to leave our cards at Mme de Reculât's.
No way of encountering Soroka in the street — I have seen him only at the Opera, which makes three times in all.
I believe that the one I used to call the devil is not Sir Frédéric Johnstone — and that the devil is the same man I see here. In a word, Frédéric is not Sir F. Johnstone; the one I thought was Sir F. Johnstone is not Sir F. Johnstone.
The man I see here is the same one I saw in Nice. Which means I do not know who he is, and that Sir Frédéric Johnstone is an imaginary person.
Finally, the one who is here we call simply Frédéric — all of that is to say that I used to stare at him a great deal and now I do not stare at him at all, but really not at all, as le Surprenant used to say — and that he is beginning to pose.
Provided he is not a moujik — that would be a pity, he is so handsome. He always goes on foot.
But who is Soroka? Provided he is not a contractor or some faquin. No — a faquin would not have such audacity.
We encountered the tall Doria on the Corso, on foot. He is much more elegant and better-looking in Rome.
I envy all those people — they are so happy. If they have troubles, it is de la graisse, as they say in Russian — a very apt expression: de la graisse, meaning in short: a dog goes mad from being too fat.
I cough; I have a cold. What if I were to lose my voice, or become consumptive?
It is sad when one has not a corner of the earth where one might wish to go, where one is at ease, where one is loved and desired. I am bored in Rome — in Nice I am no less bored. I shall go to Russia. A true wandering Jew.
I am seventeen — that is almost childhood, but time passes so quickly. Do you know what Domenica says?
Miloradovitch has seven million roubles as capital, and in addition thirty or forty thousand arpents of land. Reducing by half, that makes three million five hundred thousand roubles and twenty thousand arpents of land; three million five hundred thousand roubles at 5% yields one hundred and seventy-five thousand roubles a year. And the land — each arpent yields at minimum two roubles (since there are sands and forests) — that makes forty thousand roubles. One hundred and seventy-five thousand plus forty thousand makes two hundred and fifteen thousand roubles, which in French money is approximately seven hundred thousand francs a year in income.
All this at minimum and reduced by half, since one must believe only half of what one is told. It is a very fine fortune.
In the evening, dressed entirely in black, I go out on foot with Dina, Lola and their mother. The shops are closed; there is no one of quality — nothing but riff-raff.
I believe something unpleasant is happening in Nice — it is two days now since we have had no letters.
I wanted to go to the Opera to see Soroka — or rather to make myself seen by Soroka — but they are giving Ruy Blas again.
Let us suppose it is all the same to me — and besides I am very fond of hearing the same opera again — but I should have the air of going for something other than the opera, and besides one must not let oneself be seen too often.
I should like to have my own box — large, comfortable, hung with satin, with a pretty salon and curtains. If God permits I shall one day realise this dream in Nice. And with such a box I should be free — I would hide myself, show myself as I pleased. Then people would come to see me — perhaps more for the box than for me. To do this one would have to remove a partition and make one box of two. Numbers 1 and 2 on the right would suit me perfectly.
God, what sadness!
Since Lola and her mother have been here we laugh almost continually — they are lively, everything amuses them, whereas Maman is morally dead. They say she used to have a great deal of wit. Illness and sorrows have taken much of it from her; she is not stupid, however, but often lacks tact and commits blunders.
Ah, if I had her beauty! Failing anything better I would become an actress and all that follows, and would be celebrated by the entire world. With my face it is doubtful — and I shall risk nothing dangerous.
I have never seen a more beautiful face than hers — the eyes, the forehead, the nose, the mouth, the chin, the cheeks, everything. The ears are very ordinary, and to complete the whole they ought to have been like mine.

Notes

Tiré à quatre épingles: literally "drawn out on four pins" — immaculate, over-dressed; here figurative for overwrought writing. ↩
Moujik: Russian for peasant; here used colloquially to mean a person of low social standing. ↩
Faquin: a cad, boor, or person of no breeding. ↩
De la graisse (from Russian ot zhiru): literally "from the fat/richness" — troubles caused by having too much, not real misfortunes. ↩