Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Thursday 23 March 1876

"They are red!" interrupted Pietro.
"Ah! Nonsense! [Crossed-out words] — no, but you understand — I had grown accustomed to looking on your horses as mine, and you see! Is that not dreadful?"
"What is deferred is not lost, Mademoiselle — besides, I am not selling my horses."
"I hope to buy them in the spring — for at present I dare not ask Maman for two more horses, but in a month."
"And when shall we see you?" says Maman.
"One of these evenings."
"Be quick about it."
"You are leaving?!"
"Soon."
The policeman had already been telling Luigi for two minutes to make way for another carriage; there was confusion, words lost in the noise, bows, hands held out, [blacked-out words: cries of the coachman and the policeman.] And at last we move. I, delighted like a madwoman. Dina does not fail to exclaim that Torlonia ran like a madman to greet us at the exit — that the poor fellow had miscalculated the time, that he was quite out of breath, etc. etc. etc.
"Besides, I am not selling my horses." I do not know why this phrase gives me such vivid pleasure. I cannot write; I stop at every line; I read; I walk round the room. It is absurd — I believe I am in love with Torlonia; not with Duke Torlonia, but with Clément, plain and simple.
[Four lines crossed out]
"He will beat you," says Maman. Very well — he will beat me, and I shall give it back to him.
God — if he would have me! I am going mad over it.
Is it possible to be so foolish! He could not care less about me.
He admires my figure — well; but not to admire it one would have to be blind, a woman, or past the age.
He is in love with an English girl — dark, florid, and common. Fie! And with that a frightened-sheep air. Is it possible!
During the garden scene, Marthe and Mephistopheles seemed to me Prodgers and Saëtone, while Faust and Marguerite seemed Audiffret and Robenson. To the devil with all that! Clément, Clément, Clément.
The day begins well. Maman and I try to enrage each other mutually; I succeed alone — so she is furious and I laugh. It is disgusting.
I do not take a step outside. It is barely ten days since Torlonia was introduced to me — and it already seems a month.
They are giving La Fille de Mme Angot at the Valle. We go to a ground-floor box and I settle behind Maman in a very dark corner. I was sad or tired — whichever you prefer — and wanted either to sleep or to listen to some sort of Antonelli.
He comes around ten o'clock, then comes to our box — [blacked-out words: asks to place] his chair behind mine; I would not agree to it, and he consoled himself by telling me that the previous night he had accompanied Muliterno back to the Hôtel de la Ville, that he had thought of someone and sung Dormi pure. I answered nothing, or almost nothing — but I was glad to feel him near me. Only he is so different from me: he does not understand the happiness of remaining silent and still beside someone one loves; he must lean down, gesticulate, torment one's fan, take one's hand.
He was asking what was the matter with me — for in truth I was not myself; I said nothing; I did not laugh; and this manner, added to yesterday's coldness, was enough to give food for thought. He did not understand that perhaps at that very moment I loved him a little — if love there is.
It seemed to me I heard him pronounce the name of Torlonia — but I did not hear clearly, and I feared to speak of Clément.
Antonelli reminded me that I had told him he did not know how to kiss hands.
"Yes, Monsieur — I said it and I repeat it."
"It is not for you to say so."
"And who then is to say it?"
"But," he said, "I am going to show you an actress."
He rose, placed himself behind me, and at the same instant I turned toward him — as furious as my state of moral and physical somnolence permitted me to be.
"Now," he said, "you know the difference — you said I did not know how."
Imbecile that he is! It was a hairpiece!
[Crossed-out words: I had imagined he had kissed my chignon.]
But it is a disgraceful and impertinent action! Zucchini, who was opposite, could have seen it; the others could have seen it! It is an outrage! Did he do it deliberately to boast of it, or out of foolishness — out of impetuosity? Fortunately no one saw anything.
"Are you drunk this evening?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"You are drunk, tipsy — you have been drinking?"
"I should not have permitted myself to present myself to you in such a condition."
"Yet you are behaving like a drunk man. Do not speak to me. Go away!"
The wretch turned quite pale and took his hat. Maman began to hold him back — but he was furious; I was foolish enough to take his hat and tell him to stay. Naturally he reared up.
"I must go and escort a masked figure to the Argentina — I have an appointment," etc. etc.
"Good night, Mademoiselle," he said, holding out his hand. I did not hold out mine; I did not even say good night — and he went out, quite pale, quite furious.
What a bad temper.
Good — so there is something to torment me. But ought I to have kept silent and endured such impertinence! No — let us reason like a reasonable person. He has gone away angry, furious with me; in half an hour he will regret leaving; he will blame himself; he will be miserable and dying to see me again. All that — if he loves me. Whereas if he does not love me, or if his love does not survive such a foolishness, so much the worse — and the devil take such a love. Nevertheless I am somewhat uneasy and very much offended by the gentleman's audacity. A devil whispers in my ear that he boasted to Zucchini that he came expressly to do it — in a word, that he is the most vile man in the world.
Maman knows nothing — she knows only that he left angry and pale — but she seizes the opportunity, and scarcely are we at the hotel than she tells me that my conduct this morning has already been punished by the Bon Dieu, since I did not know how to behave with a child like Antonelli who gave me a flick on the nose.
Find me anything more foolish, more petty, and more offensive!
You know what I replied? I laughed. I laugh at everything this evening — perhaps it is nerves.
Wretched son of a priest! I said too little — I was too good. His audacity ought to have been punished after the piano kiss. If he is sincere he deserves nothing; if not — if he is jesting, if he does it only to pass the time, if he loves me no more than I love him!… Then! Then, then, it is dreadful and I shall not be able to punish him. How am I to avenge such an insult!
Let us not forget Maman's second pleasant contribution. She told me that by my letter to my father I shall provoke from him the most disgusting anonymous letters to Antonelli and to Bruschetti. For he is capable of anything.
That too! Find me anything as disagreeable to say!
Was it not she who wrote first!
Fie! How I hate vulgar, foolish, and spiteful people!
I am not capable of saying such wounding things. Madame my mother comes to my door begging me to open it — to make up. But I too rear up! Besides, all this has irritated me — nearly maddened me. And over what, all these scenes? Is that not foolish enough!
Let us not torment ourselves — if he truly loves me he will return more submissive, for he will feel his fault. Besides, it is not he who is the issue here. Men do everything the wrong way! If Antonelli had not committed his impertinent foolishness, I should have allowed him to place himself behind me and he would have stayed thus until the end — perhaps even holding my hand; I was in a mood to allow it. Upon my word!
You asked for it, absurd man — or rather, child.

Notes

Marie projects the Faust characters onto people she knew in Nice: Prodgers, Saëtone, Audiffret, and Robenson are all names from her earlier Nice diary period. ↩
La Fille de Mme Angot — a highly popular comic opera by Charles Lecocq (1872), set during the French Directoire period. ↩
Dormi pure — Italian: "Sleep peacefully"; a well-known Italian song or lullaby. Pietro sang it thinking of Marie. ↩
In 1870s fashion, elaborate coiffures were frequently augmented with false hairpieces (faux cheveux) attached at the back of the head. Antonelli had kissed what he thought was Marie's hair — but it was a hairpiece. The chignon note in the crossed-out line confirms this. ↩