Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Saturday, 6 May 1876

Today is the opening of the flower exhibition at the Villa Borghese. The Princess will be there, and everyone. I am just as glad to be at Nice — for I could not be there as I would wish, properly.
It is a pity to be here alone before my mirror when one has an angel's complexion, pink ears, and golden hair! I am almost in a rage. I have not gone out and shall not go out, and it is already six o'clock.
Do you know how I spent the whole of today? Leafing through Le Siècle de Louis XIV, The Musketeers, Twenty Years After, and The Vicomte de Bragelonne — by Dumas.
Fie! No — listen, I am quite entitled to read Dumas since I read the most tedious books of Greek and Latin antiquity; and besides, I assure you I hold Alexandre Dumas père in great esteem.
I do not know whether the interest I take in the books I have just named arises from the manner in which they are written or from the choice of that era — the most brilliant in the world, where everything flourishes: glory, letters, and love. In any case I find a singular charm in those novels and reread them several times with pleasure; indeed I enjoy them perhaps more than the first time — for then impatience and whetted curiosity made me swallow rather than read. There are many who scorn this serious sympathy for Dumas; I myself would not wish to read in another what I write here. And besides, I do not love all of Dumas — far from it.
And then I love to read The Three Musketeers, Twenty Years After, and Bragelonne because they speak of Aramis, who was of the Church — as do the other books, where I see in detail all those turbulent and gallant cardinals and prelates whom I have seen only in outline in history. You can easily guess why I take such interest in prelates of every sort. I have always had a weakness for... cardinals. My one regret is that the age is past when they made the devil of a stir — they still do, I know, but less so. This inclination has turned into... an inclination too, but a more pronounced one, since Rome and Antonelli, whom I persist in seeing as half a priest. A fortune-teller predicted for him... Ah! no — she predicted only that he would die in despair. He told me so several times, each time I tormented him.
You know — an idea? I should madly love to see Pietro a monsignore, marry elsewhere, and come back to see him. What a scene!
I do not know whether it is the novel going to my head — but positively, I have this desire.
After all, the affair with the cardinalino has ended badly — as I had foreseen, or rather feared, at the beginning. What torments me most is that kiss. But I must console myself by thinking that these are scruples which no one in this low, very low world understands. I wished to be different from others — fate will not have it so. For here I am with lips as impure as la Robenson or l'Olive. But, my girl, have you not wisely dreamed of a life that closely resembles a series of follies more or less grave? Yes, it is true — but not for the first time: I wished to be as pure as an angel of heaven before belonging to the man who would be my husband, and then it would have depended on him and on my feelings. Oh! my lips — soiled, soiled, soiled! I blame only myself; he would never have dared. And to crown the disgrace, he did not understand — he understood nothing but a contact more or less... (supply the word)...
I, who had put into it — no... I was so frightened that I had put nothing into it but a great deal of love, to the point that I fell back breathless onto his shoulder and hid my eyes and face in the black broadcloth of his coat — the same coat he wore to all the veglioni of carnival, the same he was wearing when, at the opera, the whim came to him to escort Fanny Lear to Naples.
And just imagine the contacts that unfortunate coat must have endured.
All of this would be nothing if he loved me — but I doubt it, and my pride and my self-esteem, greatly incensed, raise their fists at me with expressions that seem to ask: What have you done with us?
By the way — the Olives are the wives of two English captains, Messrs Malone and Greville. But it is not about them that we are speaking — it is about that animal in Rome; but enough — dinner is called. Eating is my sole consolation at Nice.
And even that consolation failed me today — I was hungry and wore a rather unpleasant face at table before the Sapogenikoffs.
But this evening I am giving a party the like of which has not been seen in the rue de France for years.
You know that in Nice there exists the custom of tourner le mai — that is, one hangs up a garland, a lantern, and dances round-dances beneath it while singing. Since Nice became French this custom has been dying out more and more; one could scarcely see three or four lanterns in the whole city.
Well — I am giving them a Rossignou, as I call it, because the Rossignou che vola is the most popular and prettiest song in Nice.
I had prepared in advance and hung in the middle of the street a great machine of foliage and flowers, adorned all over with a multitude of Venetian lanterns. On the wall of our garden Trifon had been charged with organising a firework display and illuminating the scene from time to time with Bengal lights. Trifon is beside himself with joy — he is a big child; yet I have no doubt that if he had been in the service of a great man, he would himself have become something remarkable.
All these splendours are accompanied by a harp, a flute, and a violin, and liberally watered with wine. The good women came to invite us onto their terrace, for Giro and I were watching alone, perched on a wooden ladder. We go to the neighbours' terrace, and then Giro, Marie, Walitsky, Tchernichoff, Dina and I station ourselves in the middle of the street, call to the dancers, and try — and succeed — in giving the affair some spirit.
I sang and danced in circles with everyone, to the great delight of the good Niçois — especially the people of the neighbourhood, who all know me and speak the highest good of "Mademoiselle Marie."
Being unable to do anything else, I cultivate popularity! And it flatters Maman, who does not stint at the expense. What pleased most was that I sang and said a few words in the local dialect. While I was on the ladder with Giro pulling at my skirts I was very tempted to make a speech — but I prudently abstained... for this year.
I watched the dancing and listened to the shouts, all dreamy as often happens to me; and when the firework display ended with a magnificent sun, we all went home amid a murmur of satisfaction. I had barely gone up when Léonie came to ask whether I would like to hear the serenade that "the young men" were about to sing for me. Of course I wished to, and I went to the landing window. I applauded and had wine distributed.
Then I was called from the pavilion, and when I came down they held me on the steps with a chorus from Hernani, and I gave my thanks by gesture and word most graciously.
But this was beginning to bore me, and I went to join the others in the pavilion.
It is a pity to part — I am very fond of Nina and Giro, who are fond of me too. At last we take our leave at eleven o'clock, having given each other an appointment for tomorrow at eight o'clock at the station.
As Giro and I were walking about the garden, we recalled our nocturnal escapades, our disguises.
— Every spot in this garden, said Olga, reminds us of something.
For her especially — who is leaving here her love, uncomprehended, or perhaps too well comprehended.
— These are perhaps foolish things, she continued — but we shall always remember them with pleasure, shall we not?
— I should think so!
— You went to Rome, you enjoyed yourself — and yet you have forgotten nothing, not the smallest trifle from here?
— Not the smallest.
— We shall meet again one day?
— I hope so — but who knows?
— Oh! I do hope so.
— Yes, my dear, hope — it is the best thing there is.
— Thank you for your friendship, Nina said to me, embracing me.
— Thank you, Madame — but do not worry; I shall see you soon in Petersburg.
And there they all are, in their carriage — Nina, her husband, Marie, Olga, Louba, Jeanne the little daughter of Mme Daniloff, and Dr Tchernichoff. That ugly man pays great court to Marie.
And here I am alone in my room — a Beatrice Cenci, minus the turban.
If you think I am cheerful, you are entirely mistaken.
It is on Tuesday or Wednesday that I ought to receive Pietro's telegram — if he has not forgotten. It is vexing to remember alone.
Well! I have quite forgotten Frère Émile — I remembered him only to say that I have forgotten him. And yet I should like to meet him in order to despise him with great indifference, like the celebrated Andriot Saëtone.
I am bored and I am grieved.
— No doubt, Maman said this morning — you would do well to go to your other relations; you would go into society, whereas with us it is impossible — I say so plainly.
Well! by God, I am going to go to my father — for I can bear it no longer. It will be a mortal grief for Maman and for my aunt; it will be very disagreeable for me too — but I am dying ten times a day and I cannot bear it any longer.
My mother must go to live with her husband — for in going to the father, I disavow and accuse the mother, which is impossible for me — not from feeling, but on account of the world.
Ah! I assure you my position is not among the most comfortable. The devil take whatever will get me out of it!
GOD.
And so I do not neglect to beseech Him each evening on my knees, and all day long standing, sitting, or in the carriage. I hope He hears me, and that He knows I am not content to pray only in the evening — but that I pray always, and that all my thoughts are supplications.

Notes

Cardinalino — "little cardinal"; Marie's nickname for Pietro Antonelli, nephew of Cardinal Antonelli. ↩
Veglioni — Italian: grand masked balls held during carnival season. ↩
Fanny Lear (1851–?): American courtesan and adventuress, famous in Rome and St Petersburg in the 1870s. Her presence in the same social orbit as Pietro Antonelli underscores Marie's jealous concern. ↩
Tourner le mai — a traditional May Day custom in Nice: a decorated pole or garland is suspended in the street and people dance and sing beneath it. ↩
Nice was ceded by the Kingdom of Sardinia to France in 1860, following the Treaty of Turin. ↩
Rossignou che vola — Niçard dialect: "The nightingale that flies"; a traditional song of Nice, sung in the local Occitan-influenced dialect. ↩
Trifon — a servant in the Bashkirtseff household. ↩
Hernani — Victor Hugo's celebrated Romantic drama (1830), later set as an opera by Verdi (1844). Its choruses were widely known. ↩
Beatrice Cenci (1577–1599): Roman noblewoman executed for parricide, subject of Guido Reni's celebrated portrait showing her in a white turban; a Romantic emblem of tragic beauty. ↩