Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Thursday, 13 April 1876

Imagine — Troili came to the station; when we were leaving the hotel he was prowling about in the Via del Babuino. The Swiss thus stayed until the last moment near the carriage. I was tolerably composed all day — it was only at the station that I began to feel something like regrets scratching at my heart.
Scarcely in the railway carriage, he came back to my mind adorned with all the charms he possesses and does not possess — I closed my eyes and fell to dreaming and to forming conjectures.
— You know, says Maman, who guessed where my thoughts were, you know what Léonie told me —
— No, I don't know.
— She told me that the hotel servants say that Count Antonelli is so rich, so rich — and that he is so in love, oh! but in love with Mademoiselle!
— You spoke with Léonie?
— No — she came to tell me herself.
— Ah!
I hardly slept at all, though in a coupé, and at six in the morning we arrived in Naples.
The idea that he never loved me — that he only played a comedy, amusing himself — makes me very unhappy.
The city could not appear beautiful to me at six o'clock, I being half asleep, sullen, and flushed with sleep. What hotel are we going to? Maman kept asking me.
— To the Hôtel Victoria — it must be good since Fanny Lear stayed there!
We go to this hotel but find it execrable in advance, as is generally the case with things I recommend. Admire then Vesuvius smoking like a cigarette, while we feel weighing upon us and our companions a great discontent like a triple cloak of lead!
I had forgotten that we should quite simply have gone to the Hôtel du Louvre, since that is where the Duke of Hamilton always stayed — the Duke whose every movement I had been following in the newspapers and the foreigners' lists from every country. But at that hotel there are the Prince and Princess of Prussia, who occupy the best apartments.
We are led to the Hôtel de la Ville a few steps further on. We take five rooms on the first floor and remain there.
At eight o'clock I got up and, feeling freshened up, took my coffee, then went to my room.
Here I have a room separated from the others by the drawing room. But instead of writing I fell asleep thinking of the unworthy son of a priest.
I do not know what hour it is. I am tired — despite this rest I am bored. I regret having come to Naples; I should have gone there only around the 17th, to stay for the races — then perhaps I would encounter him there. Brute! Again!! I am coward enough to want to see him come for the races! No, it is only a passing moment. One must always and in everything be independent, and above all one must never listen to anyone.
Every time I have listened to my family in anything whatsoever, I have had nothing but troubles and regrets.
See Naples and die. I desire neither the one nor the other. Let us go and see what time it is and what my family is doing.
I have let them go out. I am stupefied — I cannot go anywhere. It is three o'clock. The weather is beautiful as in Nice, and I see from my window superb carriages and horses pass by, of the kind that Rome has but very few. Besides, Naples is renowned for its luxury of horses and equipages.
Did he leave of his own accord or was he made to leave? That is the question.
A worrying, intolerable question! Let us shake ourselves and think of it no more — it is unworthy. Besides, if I think of it so sentimentally it is only because of fatigue, and since there has just now befallen me the unpleasant thing that never befalls men, I am more than tired — almost ill.
I write facing a large mirror — I look like Béatrice Cenci without the turban. It is beautiful — a white dress and hair flowing loose. I put on false hair for riding and for the theatre. That is to say, at the theatre and in the evening I put on only a small curled fringe in front, simply so as not to have to cut my hair and curl it every evening — which one would need to do to obtain the same effect in front. I dress my hair à la pompéienne, as Pietro used to say.
God, how I should like a Dumas novel — it would spare me the boredom of writing these absurdities and above all of rereading them afterward.
If I cannot imagine that a man could have played a comedy like Pietro's, it is because it has never happened to me yet. If it seems monstrous to me, it is because I still know very little of men and their lovable qualities. On the other hand I know women, and I know myself capable of the same thing. Would I not have continued for a long time to encourage a man, and then, seeing things going too far, would I not have left? Yes. And in encouraging him (it being understood that he would be an agreeable man) I would have been in good faith — I would not have quite deceived him — I would have closed my eyes to the future and enjoyed the present. That is how I acted with Pietro. What pleasure would he take in serenading me so much if I were entirely indifferent to him? He loved me as I have loved Audiffret — as I would have loved him had I not been persuaded of his love. That certainty made him dear to me and caused him to triumph over all the Audiffrets in the world. His so-called love had rubbed off on me; I never tormented him. And yet he complained:
— If you loved me a little you would not hurt me so!
You laugh and you do not see how much you make me suffer! If you loved you could understand me — but you are made of ice, you have a mania for victims, that is all. If it is true, tell me, I beg you! I make no declarations — I come to you and say simply that I love you as I have never loved. Listen — I do not know whether I love you, but I have never felt what I feel at present. I seek you, I desire you everywhere — when I am alone I close my eyes and dream of you; I have become foolish, I have become weak! Well, I think this is love. I have never felt anything like it. I have had only simple affairs as all men have when they are young — I used to mock everyone and everything. Ah! I swear to you that you drive me mad with rage with your cold expression! You do not even change colour! But are you not a woman then? Look — you are this! (and he struck the piano keys). I love you — and he leaned toward me — I love you. Do you love me? And seeing that I did not answer:
— A little? You love me a little?
Poor soul. I would sooner cut off a finger of my right hand than believe in his villainy!
Ah! If you knew what consolation there is in thinking so!
You are too young, they will tell me, you do not know men — they say far worse things!
Ah! The devil confound you for suggesting such ideas to me!
They say far worse things — agreed. But to say them to me — to what end?
When men say such things, they are more or less sincere — there is not one who is infamous all the time. In the moment at least they say what they think. They often say it in order to obtain... but this is not my case, and there can be no question of that here.
What I have just written of Pietro's speeches is repeated word for word. I remember those speeches perfectly, and little by little every last word comes back to my mind.
I have just reread the piano scene. I am almost recovered enough to go out. It has calmed me, given me a little confidence — I needed it so very much.
If I think and conjecture like this much more I shall go mad.
A cold, a sore throat, pain in my head, pain in my right side, pain in my finger — pain everywhere — and pain in my soul!
I wandered like a ghost until I had the idea of sending out for a Dumas novel. To read it requires neither attention nor inclination. It goes down.
Shut in, I wept several times. It is like arriving in Rome. God, how I hate changes — how wretched I am in a new city.
Coward, coward, coward! Ah! If I could throw those three words in his face! He has neither the courage of his convictions, nor of his love, nor of his own person! Vile nature — weak, cowardly.
They ordered, and he obeyed! Oh! To obey like that he must have loved me very little. He did not obey when it was a matter of military service — he swore allegiance to the King, breaking with the Vatican in that way. Yes, but then he was foolish. Now he is wise — he knows only too well what inconveniences this new rupture would bring him. They would cut off his pay... Enough, enough! Fie — the wretchedness of it! Fie — the baseness!
Coward, coward, a hundred times coward. I can no longer fix my thoughts on such a man. If I lament, it is for my unhappy fate — for my poor life that has scarcely begun and in which I have had nothing but disappointments! Certainly, like all men — perhaps even more than others — I have sinned; but I have goodness too, and it is unjust to punish and humiliate me in everything!
My first thought on learning who was the man who had been ogling me so persistently was this: He pleases me — I could love him and become his wife. You see plainly that there was nothing criminal in that.
Why then this sad affair! I did not deserve it. I deserved troubles for Audiffret, and I had them — and that is enough.
I stood in the middle of the room, joining my hands and raising my eyes, and something told me that prayers were useless. I shall have what is reserved for me. Neither one pain less nor one suffering more! — as Monseigneur de Falloux says.
There is only one thing to do — resign oneself.
I know very well, by God, that it is difficult — but where would the merit be otherwise?
Mad as I am, I believe that the surges of a furious faith, that ardent prayers, can achieve something! God demands German resignation — and I am incapable of it! Does He think that those who resign themselves thus have had to overcome themselves? Oh, not at all — they resign themselves because they have water in their veins instead of blood, because it costs them less effort. If one asked them for prayers like mine, holy as they are, they could not give them.
My merit would lie in a tepid submission, theirs in a feverish ardour. Neither the one nor the others are capable of what is asked of them — that is why nothing is granted to them, and that is why there are so many unhappy people.
Is it a merit to be calm when that calm is in one's nature? Walitsky is calm — not from any Christian feeling, God no! From laziness, and that is all!
If I could resign myself I would obtain everything, for it would be sublime. But I cannot! It is no longer a difficulty — it is an impossibility! During moments of stupefaction I shall be resigned — but not by my own will; rather because I shall simply be so.
I believe I am rambling. Let us read. The more one reads, the less one finds to say.
My God, have pity on me — let me find calm. Let me find a soul to attach myself to. I am weary — very weary...
No, no — it is not of storms that I am weary, it is —
[Continued]
It was on the 13th of last month that Torlonia was introduced.
After all, I have nothing to complain of. Is it not Holy Thursday these days — are these not the days during which Our Lord Jesus Christ suffered? He, a God! Is it not just that I should suffer? More than just. I did not go to hear the Gospel in church — I wanted to amuse myself, when I ought to have been spending my time in prayer. As for church — it is not a sin; one goes only to be seen, to see, to criticize and be criticized. Agreed — but I should have prayed at home. I prayed every evening, but I prayed only to ask.
That is not what is required. I see clearly now why I am tormented — for my impiety, though only apparent. I made light of it and mocked fasting.
Well then — culpa mea, culpa mea, culpa mea.
One must be more religious — I did nothing but believe in God; that is not enough. It is true that when one follows all the rules of the Church, one's love and belief in God scatter themselves imperceptibly across priests, images, and insignificant practices.
Take from the most ardent Catholic woman her confession, her church, its ceremonies, its priests, its images — and see what remains for her! Nothing! — for little by little she has made all these empty trappings her God, and the true God to whom all this is meant effaces himself.
To air my room full of cigarette smoke — those indispensable companions of sadness — I opened the window, and for the first time in three long months I saw a clear sky, and the sea through the dark trees, the sea lit by the moon. I am so ravished that I run to write it down. God, how beautiful it is after the dark, narrow streets of Rome! It is one o'clock — not a soul on the quay. Such a calm, such a beautiful night! Ah — if he were there. If you take that for love!
One cannot sleep when the night is so beautiful.
Coward, weak, unworthy — unworthy of the last of my thoughts.

Notes

"Le Suisse" (the Swiss) — Marie's contemptuous nickname for one of the young men in their Roman circle. Presumably the same "frightfully Swiss" son of the fat baroness mentioned in the previous entry. ↩
Coupé — a half-compartment railway car with only one facing bench, more private than an open carriage. An upgrade intended for comfort on the overnight journey. ↩
Fanny Lear — the American courtesan Harriet Blackford, who under the name "Fanny Lear" had a celebrated liaison with the Grand Duke Nicholas Konstantinovich of Russia. Her notoriety made her hotel choices a kind of society code. ↩
Marie's habit of tracking the Duke of Hamilton through published "lists of foreigners" (guest registers printed in newspapers) is a recurring detail in the diary — a charming window onto the 19th-century surveillance of the aristocratic circuit. ↩
Marie addressing herself with this insult — directed at her own weakness, her continued hope of encountering Pietro. ↩
«Voir Naples et mourir» — the famous saying attributed to Goethe (Vedi Napoli e poi muori), meaning one can die content having seen the most beautiful city on earth. Marie subverts it with characteristic wit. ↩
"That is the question" — in English in the original. Marie code-switches to Shakespeare's Hamlet for this existential dilemma. ↩
Béatrice Cenci (1577–1599) — the Roman noblewoman executed for parricide, whose legendary portrait (attributed to Guido Reni, much copied) shows her wearing a white turban. Marie's self-comparison is both aesthetic and faintly ominous. ↩
À la pompéienne — a Pompeian-style coiffure, evoking the classical Roman hairstyles visible in Pompeian frescoes and mosaics, fashionable as a romantic classicist look in the 1870s. ↩
«patafiole» — dialectal/slang verb, possibly from Provençal or Italian patafio, meaning roughly "confound" or "take away" (a mild oath). Per LAN note. ↩
Monseigneur de Falloux — Alfred de Falloux (1811–1886), French Catholic politician and author, known for his pious resignation in the face of suffering. The phrase is a paraphrase of his spiritual writings. ↩
"résignation allemande" — German resignation: Marie's characterization of a stolid, passive, unemotional piety she considers foreign to her temperament. The opposition of passionate southern faith vs. cold northern acceptance is a recurring theme. ↩
Marie notes the coincidence — Torlonia was introduced exactly one month before this entry (13 March), and here she is again on the 13th, in Naples, thinking of him. ↩
Holy Thursday (Jeudi Saint) — the Thursday of Holy Week, commemorating the Last Supper. Marie's arrival in Naples coincides with the solemn days before Easter. Her Russian Orthodox background gives her a keener sense of this. ↩
Manger maigre — "eating lean": the Catholic and Orthodox Lenten practice of abstaining from meat and rich foods on Fridays and throughout Lent. ↩
«culpa mea, culpa mea, culpa mea» — Latin: "my fault, my fault, my fault" — from the Confiteor, the opening prayer of the Latin Mass: «mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa» ("through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault"). Marie reverses the word order, perhaps from imperfect memory or for rhythmic effect. ↩