Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Thursday, 25 May 1876

I wrote to Domenica and replied to Yssayevitch, taking care when writing to the latter to space the words out so that the letter would seem longer.
At eleven o'clock Maman took me to church, and at lunch Mme Daniloff came to report that she had received a visit from a Monsieur Bonnet or Bonnin — crony of all the priests and accomplice of all the monks — who had come to ask her for the Bashkirtseff family's address on the pretext of a charitable work, while at the same time asking every imaginable question, beginning by asking whether these were the same Bashkirtseffs whose young lady was to have married Audiffret. Mme Daniloff answered everything and came to our house, where she spent the whole day with her little Jeanne.
I am greatly irritated by my mothers' scolding of the servants and by Grand-papa's unprovoked bellowing.
I have in my pocket the envelope with the address and a rose inside — but I could not go out because of the rain.
And then something tells me that it is all over, and that I shall have nothing from it but shame and tears. What could be more natural?
They tell me I am in love with him. I wish it were true — then I could have married for love and that would have been the end of it. Whereas now, how am I to marry Pietro when Demidoff of San Donato buys paintings for thirty-five thousand francs!
For the moment I content myself with satin-hung rooms and fine furniture — but that is only for now, while I wait. A woman with my tastes cannot help but love paintings, statues, bronzes, diamonds — beautiful things, in a word.
She needs all that; I need all that. I cannot hear without longing that so-and-so has bought such-and-such a painting or object of art. It is not a commonplace desire but the innate aspiration of a creature of taste.
How am I to content myself with dresses! How vulgar!
In taking Antonelli, I condemn myself to mediocrity in perpetuity. One cannot count on uncertain inheritances. And what if God, to punish me for all these calculations, gave Antonelli to another woman and made him a millionaire as Visconti suggested? That would be a fine joke — and one I should deserve, in all conscience.
Come now, I will speak frankly. Pietro loves me — he has told me so, and I know it, and so forth. His love has rubbed off on me in part; but it was not I who noticed it, not I who ran after him — in a word, he was almost indifferent to me, to the point that Audiffret has occupied far more of my heart than he ever did. It was at a moment when I was looking for someone; someone loved me; I let things take their course; I was charmed; I am charmed still. But search as I may, search my memory as I will, I cannot find a single moment when I found Antonelli entirely to my taste. I always found something to criticise in him — now his hands, now his slow, nonchalant, Jesuitical walk, now his complexion, now… no matter what. Whereas I have very often found Audiffret perfect. In short: I was in love with Émile, whatever I may say, and on arriving in Rome I was looking for someone to distract me, compensate me, avenge me — to show myself and my family that Audiffret was nothing. That is why I set myself to proclaiming a grand passion for the cardinalino.* Until I learned that he loved me — then… I do not say he was indifferent to me; that would be a lie — but then… then he loved me, and, as I have already said, his love rubbed off on me. And who knows? Perhaps I love him. Upon my honour as Marie, I have no idea. Judge for yourselves by my conduct.
That was three days ago. Patton called on Mme Daniloff.
"You must know," he said to her, "that Mlle Bashkirtseff is to marry Count Antonelli — since it is settled."
She replied that she knew nothing of it, whereupon the illustrious consul added that I was wrong not to marry.
"Pretty women," he said, "first despise everyone, intoxicated by their success, and end by marrying ugly men they would not have deigned to look at before."
Dear Consul — what tender solicitude! There is one who, without being asked, can very well send along charming information. I hope he knows what is done to people who busy themselves rendering such services, and will hold his tongue.
Let me see, what else is there to say? Ah yes — M. di Clavesana had entrusted me with a letter for M. de Laurenti, and today I sent that letter.
As for my own letter — it is still in my pocket. This envelope in my handwriting coming from Nice might compromise me later on… Bah! I need only tell the truth. I sent a flower — nothing more.
Yet I was truly moved when he came that day, the eve of my departure. He had just said to me: "Be my wife." I was flushed and did not know where to look.
"Come," I said, "let us say no more of it — I am leaving and it is over."
"No!" he cried, with a vehemence I had been longing for and had tormented myself over not seeing after each of my remarks of that kind. "No!" he cried, "it is not over! For I am going to Nice. I have spoken to my mother about it. Surely you understand this cannot go on like this! I shall go to Nice."
"But," I said, "in a month I am going to Russia."
"Then I shall do everything in the world to follow you."
"Are you serious, Monsieur!"
"No," he said, sitting down again. "Do not be angry with me. If only you knew how I love you."
"I will not hear another word of it!"
"Always — but you know that I love you; surely you have guessed it?"
"You have told me so many times."
"Yes — but afterwards I always said things to make you think I did not love you. I do not know why I did that."
Without knowing it, he was answering an old, secret anxiety I had about the tone he would take after each I love you.
"Enough, Monsieur. I am leaving."
"Yes — but if I come to Nice…?" he asked.
"Well," I said, looking at the carpet with eyes quite moist, "well, if you come to Nice you will be welcome" — and my voice dropped involuntarily. It was at that moment that he asked me whether I loved him, after which I let my head fall onto his shoulder.
I was rather agitated in writing this and have muddled it a little. In any case these are things of little importance — a few forgotten words, that is all.
I was happy then — not with love, but with triumph, for it was always a triumph. A man cannot pay a woman a greater honour than to ask for her hand in marriage.
Before I did not understand the full significance of the proceeding.
Why do I say all this? Is it to prove that I do not love Antonelli? That is unnecessary — one must be able to see the truth for oneself.
"You say I shall not be received in Nice," he said.
"I do say so."
"You detest me?"
"I said you would not be received as a suitor by my parents, and I repeat it — but I tell you that as an acquaintance you will be well treated. Only do not confuse the two; do not suppose that one is yours simply because one is civil. My mother is civil with everyone — you must not mistake her welcome for something more."
Was I not right to say that, and other things of the same kind?

Notes

"Le compère de tous les moines": "compère" implies cunning complicity, not mere friendship — a crony, accomplice. ↩
"Une œuvre de bienfaisance": a charitable work — the pretext used to gather information about the family. ↩
Prince Paul Demidoff (1839–1885), immensely wealthy Russian industrialist and art collector who became Prince of San Donato. Thirty-five thousand francs was an enormous sum at this period (a worker might earn around 1,000 francs per year). ↩
"Cet amour a déteint en partie sur moi": literally "his love has bled/run onto me in part" — like ink or dye running onto another fabric. A vivid metaphor for contagious emotion. ↩
Cardinalino: Italian diminutive of "cardinal" — Marie's nickname for Pietro, referencing his uncle Cardinal Antonelli. ↩
Consul Patton's "tender solicitude" is savagely ironic — Marie fears he will volunteer damaging gossip to the Antonelli investigators. ↩