Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Tuesday, 15 February 1876

Poor Galula — Troili, I mean — returning with his letter, he found all the shutters closed.
What a sordid business — this man who dares send all manner of messages!
But that is not why I have opened the notebook. It is to say that I am homesick. I have had enough of Rome.
Everyone has gone out for the promenade, but I feel like doing nothing — I stay at home and am bored; I can neither go out nor dress myself; I have no desire to do anything at all. I do not want to be seen; if I could live in a cellar I should be content. I love, when I do appear, for everyone to notice me — but in our present position I do not want to be noticed. Before, I did not realise this, and I was happier.
I wish I could go to Nice. To go back there now would be the height of impropriety. So here I stay in Rome — and it is not un sucre: I have all the same vexations as in Nice, only there I was at home, and here I am in a hotel! It is even sadder here because I expected something different. I always expect the opposite of what happens.
And now... now it is Russia — that is where my fate will be decided. If the lawsuit is won, I shall be the happiest of women.
God, what impatience! To distract myself from these tormenting thoughts I have Fortuné write a letter in the Niçois dialect. Then I copy it out, adding the names.
Animoù!
Doun es la sina anima ? Las venduta per 10 sous et le diou est touplen contente et Gros bauba et Bekyrcheff fa de cabriola et Robenson se facha
Lou carnaval sera pas ben perche noun si seis pas fare padre de Cimiès veiront lou tina mauré che tara veni man di cair ai porcé.
As ancora mandate iou sacrestan de la ilea russa. Qura vendras pia la tina anima ?
Pouiriras!
Le padri de Cimiès
Translation: [Where is your soul? You sold it for ten sous, and the devil is thoroughly delighted, and Gros barks, and Bashkirtseff and Robenson are doing somersaults and getting angry.
The carnival will not be fine because you did not become a monk at Cimiez. Your muzzle will be seen, and it will turn the stomachs of the pigs.
She has sent for the Russian sacristan again. When will you come back to reclaim your soul?
You shall rot!
The monks of Cimiez]
I do not yet know to whom to address this charming epistle.
Ah! what sadness — I go from the piano to my journal and from my journal to the piano.
I am going to read Roman history — perhaps it will distract me.
I am accustomed to going out, to seeing people — I am dying shut up at home!
Thank God I am rosy and well; without that it would be enough to make one expire.
I am homesick!
And I dared to confuse the young man from the theatre with that vile friend of Troili's! How blind I was! How mad! I have just returned from the Opera — we were directly opposite. I was in very pale white; he was looking at me, but not as before.
Soroka and Galula were somewhere below. As if I spare those people a glance! Dina is altogether inspired — I detest her when she is like that!
Rossi comes to see us, and we at once ask him who the gentleman is. It is Count Antonelli, the cardinal's nephew. Bigre! He could not be anything else. Now it all falls into place for me. Imagine — I had been confusing the handsome count with Soroka, and Soroka with another man even uglier. Well, now I have sorted everyone out! I saw Soroka below with Galula; I saw the young man from the first evening entering with Duke Cesaro — who has his brigands in Sicily — and Prince Odescalchi, and two others.
Count Antonelli resembles Gautier, who is perfectly handsome as everyone knows. This evening, as he looked at me less, I was able to look at him more.
Ah! Let us not forget to mention that Visconti called on us before the theatre.
But to return to the young man — the word Soroka has changed its meaning. Before, it stood for the very best; but since we gave that name to Soroka and Galula, the word can only mean a minor young man.
So I looked at Antonelli, and looked at him closely. He is charming — so charming that I declare aloud that I am in love with him, adding that I have no luck and that those I look at do not look at me!
He was ogling me — but decorously, not like a madman as on the first evening. He also struck many poses. And when we rose to leave, he seized his opera glass and, standing, did not stop looking.
— I asked you who this gentleman is, said Maman to Rossi, because he reminds me so much of my son; that is why I look at him so much — he must be quite surprised.
— He is a charming boy, replied Rossi — a bit of a pazzerello, very merry and full of wit, and very handsome.
I am delighted to hear this. For a long time I have had no such pleasure as this evening. I was bored, I felt like doing nothing because there was no one to think about. From this evening everything changes — I am alive, I am stirred!
— He resembles my son very much, Maman said again.
— He is a charming boy, said Rossi, and if you wish I will introduce him to you.
— I should be delighted.
— The next time I see him I shall tell him.
And to think that our letter for the cardinal came to nothing!
No more white drawing rooms — I plunge into the black ones up to my neck, and if necessary I convert to Catholicism!
For a moment I thought he had gone to the ball that Prince Borghese is giving this evening, and I became quite sad and began to lament our wretched position — but he returned after a few minutes, and I blushed with pleasure. If we went into society, we could meet him, get to know him! Ah! when I think of all that, the great deep despair takes hold of me again, and my heart fills with an infinite sadness!
Everything is ruined for me because of...
Bah! I shall find a hundred more Antonellis. No, no, no — this one pleases me, and beside him Audiffret seems red-faced and common.
Always reduced to theater flirtations! Misery of miseries! Oh, you will never understand my immense vexation, my profound tedium!
I would gladly curse everything and everyone! God... No — I complain no more. Thank You, my God; You have done enough for me. I must wait; I am waiting. Only I cannot help complaining — it is stronger than I am; it makes me suffer too much.
To see everything thwarted, everything denied me, because of this affair...
Oh!... in the meantime I shall fall asleep composing little stories with Count Antonelli — and Audiffret will have the villain's part.
Tomorrow I shall go out — I must see this man. Why does he never appear?
Ah! He is not the sort to stand for hours beneath my window! Alas, alas!
How instantly the homesickness has vanished — appetite and energy returned! I have an occupation.
What a pity it is I who do the talking, and not he!
I am delighted to have gone to the Opera instead of to the Soukowkines, who came this morning to invite us.
What shall I call the man? "Count Antonelli" is too long and stiff for everyday use. "Antonelli" alone might be confused with the cardinal.
Maman calls him pazzerello. I have not yet made up my mind.
He is adorable — my head is full of him. Good night!

Notes

un sucre: a French idiom meaning "a treat" or something pleasurable — literally "a lump of sugar." ↩
What follows is written in Nissart, the Occitan dialect of Nice. Marie provides her own French translation in the paragraphs below. ↩
Cesaro's brigands in Sicily: a sardonic reference to the lawless banditry that plagued the island in this period; a great lord with such associations would have been a subject of dark rumour. ↩
Pazzerello: Italian, "a little madcap" — affectionate. ↩
Salons blancs (white drawing rooms): secular, non-clerical aristocratic society. Salons noirs (black drawing rooms): papal and clerical circles, so called for the black cassocks. ↩