Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Monday, 8 May 1876

It is raining and I spend my day playing the piano, reading, and above all grumbling, cursing, and complaining — now laughing, now weeping — so that there was laughter throughout, and I said the most extraordinary things as if they were trifles.
In the evening we spoke again of the Sapogenikoffs, of Yourkoff, and of the whole affair. Collignon, who thought that — seeing her adoration for my Graces — I would take back what I had said, or at least hold my tongue, was very astonished to see me repeat everything and remind her that I had already said it to her once before.
She is especially shocked by what Marie said to me on the terrace the day before her departure:
— In every family there is something of the sort (that is, a Yourkoff), and it is very good to have a declared lover — for when a woman has none, society says she belongs to everyone.
— Marie has changed a great deal since then, said Collignon, with great confidence in her own wholesome influence on the girl.
— But it was not "then," Mademoiselle — it was one day before her departure.
— Impossible!
— Then I invented it.
— What a notion, my dear child...
— Well! from the tone in which you speak... but as to the past — look here, you no doubt remember what I told you about my displeasure, when I came to complain to you of those young ladies' intrigues with their chambermaid Mélanie, regarding information gathered about Audiffret?
— No — what?
— You no longer remember... it was one evening when we were walking along the Promenade on foot and I was advising Marie to marry Antonoff.
— You know, I was saying to her — he has a coupé, a victoria; you are only two, and when you are three, there is a seat on the bench. I was speaking of the child she might have — but mistaking my meaning, Marie said to me:
— Oh! my dear — Pépino is too big to sit on the bench.
Collignon is horrified, and I relish her state. I am not being malicious — the Sapogenikoffs tell their affairs to everyone and have told them to Collignon. Besides, I have often told them what I think of their way of thinking, and that does not prevent me from being fond of them.
My dominant thought is the telegram — I await it with very marked cardiological palpitations (from the Greek: kardia, heart, and algos, pain).
This evening Maman spoke of Pietro at length to my aunt; idleness, boredom, and solitude make him appear very attractive to me, and I wonder whether I shall once again be disappointed. Well! no doubt — it is my lot in this world.
Ah — I remember the charming dream I had last night. I was sitting on the top step of a staircase with Prince Doria, who was making me a declaration of love, and I was so happy that it left an agreeable impression on me for the whole day. Yet I did not think at all of my bête noire.
It is a very amusing story, this affair with Pietro... But — look here, just at this moment an idea comes to me which seems to me the true explanation of everything; listen then: he loves me, but reason commands him — because of that very love — to be entirely submissive and obedient towards his parents, who are not opposed to his plan but maintain a prudent reserve, both to ascertain everything and to keep in check their young torment who has caused them so much grief and so much trouble.
But now I shall say that all this is very wise and very foolish. For I am not a wretch one can take or leave without my thinking of making a move. This wisdom of Pietro's wounds me and makes me doubt his love — besides, I am not complaining of his slowness (if slowness is all there is), for by pressing me he would make me, in a moment of domestic spite, commit some incorrigible folly; whereas this way I reflect. My nose is itching... what if it were the cardinal? And what do I care?
I have the weakness of finding excuses for him — he does not write because he expects me at the races; but then I need to know the date, for he does not know that Nainer has written to me about it; and in order for me to know the date I must receive a telegram, and this telegram I should receive tomorrow or never, the races being fixed for next Thursday.
But he will not send it — just as he did not send his portrait which he had promised to Maman.
I was about to begin a series of explanations to convey what my vexation and anger are — but I content myself with a long sigh.
Was it necessary for me to set about detesting Bruschetti — a man of heart, a man of intellect, a serious man — in order to demean myself with this young pup, chtchenok as they say in Russian — chtchenok is a very expressive word that translates into French as jeune chien, which conveys neither its character nor its true meaning.
To everything that is happening to me now I present a calm and contemptuous face — but at moments I shut myself in to weep. I am stupefied for the moment; would that this stupor cease only to give place to joy. Ah! I doubt it.
With Antonelli, it would be a humiliation far more outrageous than the imaginary foolishness with Audiffret. Audiffret said nothing, did nothing — I had worked myself up, and seeing that things were not as I had arranged them, I fell into a rage. Besides, the affair with Audiffret was more a matter of acquaintance, as I have already said. That is why I cried out, howled, and raged so much — love had little to do with it, and only on my side. Whereas here it is different: there is no affront like those you know of — there is, you will say, a greater affront and insult! Yes — but one that has nothing to do with my torment, and which for that reason seems to me, comparing it with the others, mild and agreeable.
Mild and agreeable comparatively — because amorous affronts are only more or less painful amusements in comparison with the other affronts: outrageous, humiliating, vile, hideous, abominable!
My heart beats at the thought that tomorrow my doubts will be resolved — for good or for ill.
Besides, I consent to accept the injury provided the world knows nothing of it — it might compromise me. Before my own family — pah! But the world, all the world, the filthy brutes who compose what is called the human race.
My God — I am perhaps the first of those filthy brutes, but I believe in nothing good from human beings. I believe in friendship — on my own part: to oblige a friend I would do anything, travel to Paris, to Russia, to the devil, provided I have the means; and I would not regard it in the least as a service that must be repaid in kind, for I would do it because it pleases me to be of service and to do good — I would do it, therefore, out of self-interest. I would ask and above all expect no gratitude — for I believe that friendship such as I profess is as unfindable and chimerical in others as a four-legged ostrich. Deplorable maxims for so young a child, the hypocrites and those not yet betrayed by their friends will say.
Deplorable but true. I have not been deceived, and yet I am as convinced of what I say as if I had been deceived a hundred times. It is not boredom and disappointments that make me speak thus — and if, at this instant, someone were to make me rich, honoured, respected, sought-after, I would not change my opinion; I would only close my eyes to all this filth and instead of stating my views as I do now, I would content myself with silence; perhaps even, carried away and giddy with happiness, I would cry out that everything is good, that everything is honourable — but that, I warn you, would be pure recklessness.
Besides, such as it is, the human race pleases me, and I love it, and I am part of it, and I live among all these people, and on them depend both my fortune and my happiness.
On the vileness of the human race I would say what I said one day to Bensa.
— All men are mad, he said to me.
— Well then, Monsieur — since all men are mad, it must be their natural state, and therefore they are not mad.

Notes

Chtchenok (щенок) — Russian: puppy, young dog; as a term of contempt for a young man, it implies immaturity, recklessness, and lack of substance. ↩