Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Thursday, 1 June 1876

I have just been laughing like a madwoman. It is two in the morning; I was finishing my supper when the blue five-branched candelabra tips, falls, and I am left in complete darkness. Not a single match! I had to do without writing or drinking — I was thirsty, and trembled lest the bottle of château-margaux had been knocked over as well. I had to make sure; I left the room, passed through the blue room knocking into all the furniture, and went into Dina's.
— Well! she cried. What is it!
— My candle is dead, I have no more fire! Give me a match.
— I haven't any.
— Impossible!
— Just one.
— Ah, give it here.
— Here.
— Let me be the one to light it — I'm afraid you'll miss.
— No, no.
And in striking the match, she made an awkward movement with her hand, and the little pedestal table — loaded with glasses, carafes, jams, milk, water, medicines — crashed to the floor with an appalling din.
I burst out laughing, sitting down on I know not what, and Dina did the same.
— And the match? I cried in despair.
— There is still one more.
But the candle, soaked through with various liquids, refused to light and extinguished the match with a crackling like a miniature volley of gunfire.
— One more.
I ran to fetch my other candelabra; we lit it, but when we saw the wreckage strewn across the carpet we burst into even louder laughter. Above all it was that single candle burning in the candelabra that struck us as so lamentable, illuminating with its sinister rays the scene of desolation.
I fetched a dustpan from my room and began sweeping everything toward the fireplace, taking stock of the broken objects and imagining what my aunt would say at the sight of all this wreckage and the jams floating in a liquid so thoroughly mixed that it looked altogether... comical.
I spoke in Audiffret's voice and manner — I don't know why — then I thought of Pietro.
— Enough, enough! Dina was crying, making the most comic gestures at me from under her blanket. You'll be the death of me — and what will my aunt say!
— Oh! Ho! Ho!
— My aunt will weep. Ah! Ha! Ha!
— Ho! Ho!
— Ouf.
I returned to my room feeling altogether sad, so that before going on I shall read a little.
Well then, here I am. I wept this morning because there were not two hundred francs to send to Ferry, who is not sending my orders, which I badly need. As if money troubles were not the last straw. I was unable to paint; I stayed in, cold and hollow, then went to Tolon's about some mirrors — and would you believe it, I looked pretty and lively. Extraordinary.
At six o'clock Comte Laurenti arrived; during dinner Papa put me on burning coals by saying his usual obscenities about Collignon and Barnola, of whom the mad old fool is jealous.
Afterward we moved into the garden, then the drawing rooms. We looked at photographs; I was completely absent in spirit, and it was by pure chance that I replied and kept up the conversation — and, upon my word, not too badly.
Having come upon Antonelli's portrait, Laurenti began to criticize that face; he had known him five years ago at the de Cessoles'. I truly do not know what he had against poor Pietro — he was so uncharitable about him.
Until midnight we passed the time tearing apart our neighbors and reciting verse.
Picture me lounging on the divan in the smoking room, reciting verse while Laurenti devours me with his eyes. I would have been quite witty had I been a married woman, for my position as an unmarried girl so often obliges me to hold my tongue.
Leafing through a book published in Nice — a sort of survey of the season's pleasures and portraits of well-known figures, L'hiver de Nice à Monaco — I came upon a few lines speaking of Cardinal Antonelli's jewel collection.
Ambition and vain vanity have risen — or rather descended — from my head to my heart, and here I am biting my nails with humiliation, love, and above all uncertainty.
I telegraphed from Genoa, I sent a flower from Nice... and nothing!
Must I believe that he deceived me, that he played a part to amuse himself and obtain from me those kisses that still burn, knowing that once I had left he would have nothing to fear? No, no — for in that case he would not have spoken of it to his mother, nor would inquiries have been made.
Almighty God! You have helped me more than I deserved, you have extricated me from difficulty many times, you have protected and kept me through epidemics (in Vienna), through dangers great and small. Almighty God, be good, be better than I deserve — let light into my poor mind!
Antonelli is no doubt confined or away from Rome — otherwise he would have replied; simple politeness requires it!
Where is my pride, where is that self-assurance a woman such as I ought to have?!
My God, my God, I beg of you — let this uncertainty end, for good or for ill.
If this comes from Pietro's parents, he can still write to me, say something.
Perhaps he does not dare... No — he is not in Rome.
Can I think otherwise without going mad with rage?
[annotation]
He is not in Rome! What does that signify! Can he not write to me from elsewhere?
Does he not know where I am.
Madness, madness, misery!
Madness.

Notes

"Ma chandelle est morte, je n'ai plus de feu!" — an allusion to the French nursery song Au clair de la lune, "My candle is dead, I have no more fire." ↩
guéridon: a small round pedestal table, typically beside the bed. ↩
sur des charbons brûlants: lit. "on burning coals" — extremely uncomfortable, on tenterhooks. ↩
fumoir: the smoking room — a gentleman's parlor where unmarried young women were not usually received. ↩
mange des yeux: lit. "eats with his eyes" — stares at her with intense desire. ↩