Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Tuesday, 13 June 1876

There are quite enough moral irritations that one cannot prevent — physical irritations ought not to exist. The most foolish and almost the keenest irritation is the one felt when one eats badly. And I eat badly. The cook, far from inventing dishes that tempt one to eat in this heat and this summer sadness of Nice, is merely a mediocre artist — less than mediocre. The bare rooms are hung with satin; now the food and the service must also change. I shall see to it — but it will cost me.
I keep saying that I am ill, and so I am. So much grief cannot but crush. I feel nothing but a deep dejection, a great sadness of heart and mind arising from a host of small irritations and great humiliations. I am not living — I am languishing. I am in some measure satisfied by this: Maman and my aunt are worried, above all by my essentially discouraged and indifferent air, the result of having been irritated too long. Perhaps they will do something for me. Horses were mentioned in the General's presence, and I said they kept me waiting so long for everything that no doubt the horses would serve only to drag me to the cemetery. Maman then began to cry, and not wishing to cause a scene before a guest, I became the peacemaker and conciliator, assuring everyone that one should worry about nothing and follow the precepts of Epictetus.
Collignon maintains that these are bad books. On the contrary, they calm me. When the General had left and in the small smoking room only my aunt, Walitsky and Dina remained, I began to advance the best reasons for explaining my apathy and my desire to die. I expounded with despairing logic and in a voice imitating the dry, monotonous, rapid hammer strokes of a machine, the necessity of my conduct in society. They told me I was vain — I replied that I was made of vanity to such a degree that if one were to flay me one would find it is my stuffing. They told me that girls my age ought to think of nothing — I conceded the point and added that I claimed no resemblance to everyone else; that I wished, that since I was able to command I did command. That I was capricious, mad, selfish, vain, wicked, proud — but since I was thus constituted, one must take me as I was and satisfy my caprices instead of irritating them. They told me that by going to bed so late I would die. I replied that I asked nothing better.
— Let us set all that aside, I said after an hour of fierce pleading — calm by dint of concentrated despair — and consider only a young and pretty girl of seventeen, coquettish and a little frivolous like everyone, who is dying of boredom. To ask for palaces, diamonds, and kings would be folly; but to ask for an honest position is sense. That you refuse me a velvet gown and mules embroidered with pearls — very well; but that you refuse me a chemise and leather shoes — that I do not accept! No one contradicted me; there was agreement; I was only told that if they did not give me these things it was because they could not. — That is absurd — intrigue, try, pray, ruin yourselves — but do something! And, for heaven's sake, look at the pretty characters one receives here, and then examine yourselves!
I was then told that in Nice one had implacable enemies — the devil knows why... It is true. And these enemies are of the Mme Tutcheff stamp. You understand that if a new Russian face presented itself, one would go to ask news of them from the Russians one already knows. Who? The Boutowski, the Skariatine, the Tutcheff woman. I was assured that in Rome I would go into society. But one still needs a letter of introduction to the embassy, without which one cannot be presented at the Quirinal — anywhere. In Rome there is only one society; one enters it or one goes nowhere.
I exhausted myself explaining all this, and explaining that I had not come to make scenes but to ask for counsel, for support. They told me I was irritated. — I should think so! If I were talking about my old violet slippers I would be calm — but here it is a question of my death or my life. I warn you — you can see it plainly enough. I am not being modest; one must not oppose examples to me; I do not deny that I know myself to be wilful, spoiled. Such as I am, I wish to command. You obey very well. Why then provoke me? I was too young two years ago, but I was on my knees begging you — you — to go into society. It was my caprice, and since it was easy for you to do, why did you not do it? Why did you torment me? I left no time for observations — I anticipated them, I knew them, I answered them.
— No, no — I ask nothing extraordinary, as you can see plainly. It is you who imagine that with our way of life and consequently with such a reputation and a white gown one can do everything. I show myself from two to four on the promenade, from eight to midnight at the theatre — a king falls in love and comes to offer me on the tip of his cane his crown and his heart. Wait!... You believed that four or five young men were the supreme glory. But every pretty woman has that — be she queen, actress, concierge, or fishwife, when she is pretty! You await a Prince Charming — very good. One turns up, notices her, is charmed, asks who she is, and the reply is: nobody — like Ulysses's Cyclops. And off he goes. And it will always be like that. Will you ask me tomorrow what I want? Will you cry again that I do not know what I want? I shall answer: I want to go into society. And with my chest aching, my cheeks burning and my eyes bright, I went up to my room followed by my aunt, who was alarmed, then reassuring, then anxious, weeping with grief and rage at seeing me in that state and being unable to calm me.
To die? And why not? What is there left for me to endure — I have endured the contempt of society, that infamous and constant humiliation which destroys everything: joy, goodness of heart, purity of soul, trust. I have endured also the greatest humiliation a woman can suffer. I was asked in marriage; I consented; I was abandoned. Now I am mouldering like that wretched Audiffret. They seem not to notice the Antonelli incident. Beyond the adventure itself, there is the fact that I might have come to love this man. Fortunately I am spared that misfortune. I do not suffer from love — but I suffer no less. From shame, yes — from shame. Why then live?
God is great, God is good, God is just. I take refuge in God. God — who should be man's first refuge — is his last. For man in his mad vanity thinks he can do without Him and has recourse to Him only at the last extremity, when all hope in men is lost. But have I not always prayed — have I ever solicited men? Never, since I understood what God was, have I prayed to any but Him. At Baden, five years ago, I wanted a croquet set — I asked it of God, and my aunt gave it to me; if I dared I would say: God gave it to me. Yes, there is God — there is only God. But I am worn out. I who wanted to live seven lives at once am not living even a quarter of one. I am in chains. God will have pity on me — but I feel weak; it seems to me I am going to die.
It is as I said. Either I shall have everything that God has allowed me to glimpse and to understand — in which case it will mean I was worthy of having it. Or I shall die. For God, being unable without injustice to grant so much to one unworthy, will not have the cruelty to keep alive a wretch to whom He has given the understanding and ambition of what she understands. God did not make me as I am without design — He cannot have given me the faculty of seeing everything merely to torment me by giving me nothing. That supposition does not accord with the nature of God, who is a Being of goodness and mercy. I shall have — or I shall die. It is as I said. Let Him do as He sees fit. I love Him, I believe in Him, I bless Him, and I beseech Him to forgive me what I do wrong. He gave me this understanding to satisfy it, should I show myself worthy. I am not worthy — He will make me die. It is therefore my fault; one must merit. My God, do not take these words for false humility — besides, You see to the bottom of hearts.

Notes

Mules: backless slippers or low shoes, a fashionable form of boudoir footwear. ↩
An allusion to the Cyclops Polyphemus in the Odyssey, who when blinded could not identify his attacker because Odysseus had said his name was "Nobody" (Outis). Marie uses it to mean: one cannot identify or claim someone who has no name in society. ↩