Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Tuesday, 4 April 1876

Maman wants to frighten me by speaking of diseases. It serves no purpose except to rob me of my peace of mind. But since the principal aim of her life is to disturb her own peace and that of those who have the misfortune to be around her, she goes on tormenting me. She knows perfectly well that we are leaving on the 16th, and that there are not many days until the 16th — but she comes at every moment to tell me of this or that disease, or that so-and-so has just left Rome, or that some other has just died. All this, I swear to you, with the sole aim of producing little scenes in which I stop my ears, repeat that we are leaving on the 16th, and, irritated, bored, disturbed, run to lock myself in. [Written across the page: She was quite right. If I had left, it would have been so much better.] People are surprised that I am always locking myself in — I should like to see anyone else in my place. After one of these scenes Maman always comes to beg me to open the door; I used to open it — now never, for she came only to continue the thorny conversations and push me to the limit.
Now I have a system — I stop my ears and say:
— You want a scene? I do not. Goodbye.
But seeing that I am fleeing, she takes care to shout after me something so disagreeable that I arrive in my room furious. The Parthian shot — in reverse.
What is the use of harassing me, speaking to me of diseases? On that account we shall not leave before the 16th — even if I were not objecting.
All winter she tormented me to go to Naples; I always replied that I did not wish to interrupt my lessons and go gadding off God knows why. Come now — was I not right? What a pleasure to pack one's trunks, go to Naples, come back to Rome again! Whereas it is perfectly simple to go to Naples when leaving Rome. That is what I intend to do — and now Madame my mother is tormenting me not to go there at all. Her reasons? None.
Truly one must have a special constitution not to croak with vexation. I do not understand this character always in search of something tormenting, something disagreeable to say. They do everything I want — but taking care to do it in a way that robs me of every pleasure I had planned to enjoy, robs me of my rest, torments me. We stay in Rome — and with all one's strength one tries to make me fear epidemics, to poison my stay one way or another!
It is spring. They say all women grow more beautiful in this season. It is true, to judge by myself. The skin becomes finer, the eyes brighter, the colour fresher. I am no longer lazy — I want to go out always, to see everything, to go everywhere. It is the 4th of April. I have fifteen days of Rome still — no, less; only twelve days. What is to be done about Pietro? How strange — as long as I wore a felt hat we were in winter; yesterday I put on a straw one and in an instant we are in spring. A dress or a hat often produces this effect, just as often a word or a gesture brings about something that had been preparing for a long time but did not yet seem to exist — which required that small shock. I am expressing myself badly — have you understood my idea? No doubt, if you are intelligent; and if you are not intelligent, it is all the same to me. I do not trouble myself about idiots.
I must dress and go to the Palazzo Borghese, and then to the Villa Torlonia — the former Villa Albani, which Prince Alessandro Torlonia has just purchased for three million. It is a marvel, they say. I should like to be able to afford caprices costing three million. And who would not? How beautiful Nice would be if Pietro came there with us! I hope his stay in the convent and his general reconciliation will give him enough independence to come. See in what Torlonia surpasses Pietro. Torlonia does what he wishes. He is, whereas Pietro is not. That damages him greatly. Independence and money would make him ten times more stylish.
Nothing destroys a man so much as a stupid dependence — for a woman it is different; and even a woman gains by doing as she pleases.
Let us not forget to buy the four hearts. One for me, one for Dina, and two for my Graces. A.T.E. It is truly pretty. And to think the idea was not mine.
The so-longed-for journey to Russia is approaching. All the better — ten times over.
We visited the Villa Torlonia — it pleased me greatly, though I felt its inferiority to the Villa Borghese. One cannot enter by carriage. We encountered the Sarasins there, who introduced their friends M. and Mme Rigaud, and we went round the palazzo together. From there, to the studio of my teacher Katorbinsky, where we found Mademoiselle Soukow'kine taking a lesson. Katorbinsky is a boy of talent, to judge by the innumerable half-finished canvases crowding his studio.
At the concert we chatted with a Monsieur Simonetti whom Mademoiselle Soukow'kine introduced some time ago. This gentleman pointed out the Princess of San Faustino, who has dressed herself entirely in white. Honour to me — the fashionable lady imitates me.
— You set the fashion, said Simonetti — but you were the first; the others merely imitate.
I am wearied by this hot, heavy weather. On the Corso I saw Torlonia gesticulating with two shabbily dressed men. Truly he has a remarkable way of bowing. Am I not mad enough! I have seen him so little — I see him so little! All his words come back to me little by little and I arrange them in order, as one arranges objects in a museum. He has a habit of taking one's hand at every opportunity — as if to interrupt what one is about to say — and saying: Non, écoutez — "No, listen." Well, I do nothing else. Dina is driven to distraction; she cannot raise a glass of water to her lips without my stopping her hand with the eternal: No, listen.
[Written across the page: I do not understand what is so wonderful about admiring this Torlonia that I boast of it at every moment.]
Torlonia has never taken my hand — only Maman's — but no matter. I am sad. The devil take me — I am humbling myself! No, listen — I have already had three unhappy passions: Hamilton, Audiffret, and Torlonia. Merjeewsky, Bruschetti, and Antonelli — the three counts are a compensation for the other three. I do not yet count Plowden — I am so prudent.
And Maman who speaks of Torlonia as the most adorable and irresistible creature in the world! Why? I can see well enough for myself. Those strands of hair that always fall across his forehead, that insolent beard, that air so full of will and caprice — they have unsettled me from head to foot and foot to head. It is silly to encourage me to love a man who does not love me. And who forces me to be encouraged? The devil — that is evident. By some strange obstinacy I always want to speak of him, and speaking of him gives me an incomprehensible pleasure. Besides it is always thus. Let us hope I am not punished for my premeditated infidelity to the monk.
The baroness from the table d'hôte is charming; after dinner she invited us to her rooms, and I stayed an hour at my ease and in good humour. The Sarasins know her — she is one of the aristocracy of Geneva and has a château between Geneva and Lausanne, facing Mont Blanc. The château was built so long ago that nothing is known of it; one only knows that Queen Bertha gave it to one of her knights.
The stout baroness invites us to come and stay for a while; she kissed me on both cheeks as we left. This lady is full of wit — such lively, fresh wit, and above all for a woman of fifty-eight. One of her daughters is married to the grandson of Necker — the Necker of the first Revolution, of Louis XVI.
And if Pietro did not return! No, listen — I should be desolate, truly desolate, I should weep; to console me would require nothing less than Torlonia — and since Torlonia would not deign to console me I should remain inconsolable. Or at any rate unconsoled.
I opened an encyclopaedia at random and looked at the sixth line on the right to find out whether Pietro is thinking of me. Here is what I read:
— "…in a fatal manner, the soul thinks and cannot but think."
I am quite moved by this, and if he arrived at this moment I should throw my arms round his neck. One has moments like that — but it would be improper, and that is why he will not arrive at this moment; he will arrive when I am not so tender. No, listen — we shall go to see the Colosseum by moonlight.
Let us see — let us ask the book whether Audiffret thinks of me, then what he thinks of me, and how he thinks of me.
To the first question, here is the answer: "in comedy above all."
To the second: "censers, confessions, the effect of a popularity that grew every day." The answers are satisfactory — but I shall try again. It is established that he thinks of me above all in comedy — that is, when he is at the theatre. Let us ask how he thinks of me: "But nothing was to be found there that cannot be borrowed." That makes no sense — one must try again. This time it will be the last; in a word, seriously: "…in a fatal manner, the soul thinks and cannot but think."
The same as for Antonelli. No, listen — it is too perfect; I shall try again out of modesty.
— "other games such as the open-play pipes, to obtain the grand jeu." How charming.
No, listen — well, here I am saying non, écoutez at every step and without meaning to. No, listen, I say — I am thinking of Pietro. I tell you that far from humbling him, his love elevates him and rubs off on me. I am grateful to him — silly creature that I am; if he loves me it is because it pleases him to do so — he does not love out of philanthropy or self-abnegation. There is no reason for gratitude.
— "One can invent nothing better than love" — said Villemain in his essays on the novel. I may well think so when a man as learned and serious as he has said it openly; perhaps not in quite the same sense as I understand it — but no matter, almost the same. I am no longer writing my novel; I am waiting for inspiration that does not come.
Three more days.
Visconti came this evening — he had been at Princess Ouroussoff's dinner, he mentioned names, I listened at the door — and my despair and torment made me once again so miserable, so miserable, so miserable!
Ah, if only Pietro would return. He makes me forget everything. I do not know why I believe it is my duty to speak of Torlonia after having spoken of Pietro.
Let us ask the book whether Torlonia thinks of me. Oh! What an answer — bigre! Listen: "All his life, to establish this yoke more burdensome than useful." It is superb. Too perfect — let us try once more, out of modesty: "Against the military despotism of the republic against the empire." I don't quite understand — once more, a third and final time: "whose errors he repeated with a docility a little too credulous."
No, listen — all this is silly.

Notes

"À la musique" — attending the open-air bandstand concert on the Pincio, a fashionable Roman social institution. ↩