Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Sunday, 13 February 1876

Visconti came in the morning to say that this evening's soirée has been postponed, and in its place he proposes an invitation to a ball at the German embassy.
Oh! if you knew how all this wearies me! I do not want to go anywhere — I would rather stay quietly at home than go begging for favours!
And what in the world could be more absurd than this call Maman paid on the ambassadress! Without an introduction, without a letter of recommendation! The ambassadress, being a polite woman, left her card, and there the matter rested. It is perfectly natural she should not invite us. If she were obliged to receive all the Russians who pass through Rome in that fashion...
At two o'clock, while Botkine is with us, Visconti comes again, this time with no particular purpose.
I am utterly crushed — crushed to the point of expiring! Soroka and Galula are there and watch us leave for the Villa Borghese, where they join us, then to the Pincio, and finally to the Corso. And in the evening they are there again. What curious creatures they are.
I believe this evening there were three of them, which sends us into fits of laughter, for I always used to say that Soroka comes for me, Galula for Dina, and that Lola would have to make do with their umbrella.
— Good heavens, it's my umbrella! cried Lola on seeing this third man.
But I think they are respectable people, for they exchanged greetings [Lines cancelled: with Prince Humbert; Princess Margherita was in her carriage] with many [Crossed out: others] people of good standing.
[Crossed out: You know that here one does not salute royalty without knowing them to some degree.]
Newspapers arrive from Nice. It appears that Audiffret has donated two hundred francs as a prize "for masks only" and named the prize: le prix du Rossignol che vola. Walitsky writes that Danis and d'Aspremont call it by no other name. I have asked for an explanation. I want to know if it is on account of the caricature.
No, none of that matters to me at all! Everyone has a home, everyone...
God! Is it possible that I have waited so long, prayed so much, wept so much, cried out so much — and all for nothing!
Why am I punished like this! And what have I done that is so terrible? Are my prayers worth nothing? Does God not hear me? Is there a God? Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me! But it seems to me incredible that the God of Christians can permit one of his creatures to be so desperate!
God, what must I do! Go to Russia — yes — and in Russia it will be the same again. No, for the lawsuit is the cause of all our misfortunes. We must go and defend ourselves openly against those infamous slanderers; we should have done it long ago, but life was bearable and we dragged ourselves along through smallness of soul, through timidity, through stupidity! We never foresaw that it could bring down a kind of curse upon us! But now it is another matter — this existence has become unbearable for everyone; we will go to Russia, I will go, for otherwise nothing will be left of me. It takes my seventeen years and my health to look like a pretty woman while bearing atrocious tortures and weeping in every corner!
I weep, I lament, I cry out that I am accursed! But no — it is not that. It is the lawsuit, for so long as Nice did not receive defamatory articles from the Russian newspapers, so long as shameful papers were not sent from Russia to the consul, all went well, everyone sought our company; but it was too much for him, and the consul was the first to withdraw. His enemies [Words blacked out: were already saying he was paid to conceal] our scandalous affairs, that he was paid for his protection. He very nearly lost his post; he withdrew while remaining polite, never saying a word against us. And after the consul, everyone else — and Madame Tutcheff arrived, delighted with the pretext, and confirmed all the fine things being said.
And the scandals of Georges. There it is, there it is, there it is — I see clearly now. There is a sort of satisfaction, too, in seeing where the misfortune comes from. I feel quite relieved by it, I swear to you.
Oh! But what a shame!
And what a fool I was — I saw nothing, and I kept urging that we try to go into society. Even here in Rome! God! Thank You for having opened my eyes. Truly! What happiness, to understand, to see! I know what I must do. Thank You, thank You, my God — ungrateful, absurd creature that I am! I see now that You have pity on me! Oh, I swear that through this divine spark You have done me an immense good! Yes, there is a God — and a good and merciful God!
I have only to live quietly through these next few months, resign myself, and try not to look at what others do. I assure you it is hard at seventeen, and with my temperament. But I will force myself — the greater the struggle, the greater the merit.
When some ball or fête comes before me I shall weaken again, I shall forget the truth, I shall lament again — but then I will have only to read this. At present I weep with contentment and gratitude. I am entirely changed in an instant.
We must make haste — leave immediately after Easter, stay only briefly in Nice, and go to Russia. That is my straight path. If I do not follow it, then I am unworthy of everything.
Now that I reflect, I see how much of a child I am. I pray to God and I want Him to do it all for me at once, as if by a wave of a wand. He could do it — but for a saint, not for an ordinary woman.
He has done much for me — He has consoled me, calmed me, given me back my life. It is a pity that one [word blacked out] lets Visconti have his way; everything should have been refused. That is what we shall do from now on.
If only time would pass more quickly! We are at the 13th of February; the feast of Easter [word blacked out] falls around the 16th of April — on the 18th or 19th we will depart.
Enough suffering, enough torment, enough of these slow and endless vexations! Let it all be finished at once. If it ends badly — I shall not die of it, since I have not died yet; if it ends well — my happiness will know no bounds!
It would all have been settled long ago if we had gone to Russia. The longer we drag our feet, the more it entangles itself, the harder it will be to unravel!
[Words blacked out: Vigier has not yet] sung at the Cercle; she will not sing until tomorrow, the 14th of February.
Reading La Vie Mondaine, I found among the names on the visitors' list a certain Monsieur Bœuf at the Grand Hotel, and the idea comes to me to write a letter to the Surprising One and address it to this gentleman with a request to forward it to Monsieur d'Audiffret. Besides, this time I write to him very politely — read for yourself:
Sir,
I take the liberty of congratulating you on the enterprise you have recently undertaken. It is advantageous in every respect. Indeed, a steam-powered boot-blacking establishment was precisely what a city of Nice's importance had been lacking. And you, sir, with your natural talents and industrious faculties, will be its worthy founder and director.
Accept, sir, the assurance of my most distinguished regards.
Henri Fichu.
I write two more besides:
1st: to Audiffret, again.
Your Grace!
A multitude of men reduced to despair stretch out their arms to you in distress!
All our tins of blacking will serve us henceforth only to stain our bodies in sign of mourning! Consider the number of shoe-blacks you are about to starve to death!
Remember that when you were much younger and infinitely less corrupted, you allowed our humble brushes to polish your boots every Sunday before going to the public gardens!
Remember the bankruptcy of Monsieur Krom!
The boot-blacks of the city of Nice.
And 2nd: to Saëtone:
Sir!
All the shoe-blacks of the city of Nice come to implore you on their knees to dissuade your friend Monsieur E. d'Audiffret from pursuing his scheme.
We cannot withstand the competition! We shall starve if he carries out his plan for a steam boot-blacking establishment in his magnificent great dining room!
Pray, sir, intercede on our behalf; take an interest in us, and we pledge ourselves to black for nothing your finest evening shoes, in which you appear as light-footed as the messenger of the gods.
Sir, in pity's name, try to soften your friend; it will be difficult, we fear, for word has it that he no longer possesses a soul.
The shoe-blacks, etc.

Notes

Rossignol che vola: Italian for "The Nightingale that flies" — widely understood as a coded tribute to Marie (the nightingale who has flown to Rome). ↩
In English in the original. ↩