Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Sunday, 17 September 1876 (5 September) — Gift Exchange and Hunting Expedition

— By all the rules I ought to give you a gift, but I am not a man for bouquets — I am opening a credit of a thousand roubles, three thousand three hundred francs; you shall buy whatever you like.
— A gift, Papa? I am perfectly willing. Give it — and thank you; but I owe you fifty-five roubles. Please accept them.
And I paid him this gambling debt.
Alexandre advises me to ask for money. I cannot — my policy forbids it. My prestige would be lost; I would no longer be myself. But accepting a gift is entirely natural, and to refuse would be impolite.
It is worth noting that since I came into the world I have never accepted a toy or money from my father. And accordingly he had for me a sort of respectful hatred.
I am not proud of today, as you see. Cassagnac is making a noise in the world. How fortunate these gentlemen are. The age of the Fronde was a paradise for women; this age is the paradise of men — each one shouts, each one makes a name for himself, each one makes a commotion, and people talk of him and occupy themselves with him.
Poor me!
While awaiting my future fame, I hunt in men's clothes, a game bag slung round my neck and a Funk in my hands. We set off, my father, Paul, the Prince, and I, at around two o'clock in a bench cart, and I shouted to the peasants we met that I was a woman — for I was very well disguised.
But imagine those hips — Michel's trousers were half too narrow, so I had to take my father's, which were too long, but I tucked them into the boots; and as the outfit was in unbleached foulard, it suited me very well.
Now I find myself running dry when it comes to describing things, not knowing the names of... well, all those hunting things. The brambles, the reeds, [the grasses], the wood so dense one could barely pass through, branches grazing one from every side, and a deliciously pure air, no sun, and a light rain made to charm the hunter... who is too warm.
We walked and walked and walked; I went around a little lake, gun cocked and ready to fire, hoping at every moment to see a duck take flight. But nothing! I was already wondering whether I might not discharge my gun against the lizards that leapt over my feet, or against Michel who was walking behind me — whose eyes I could feel fixed on my person in masculine dress, and with the most culpable thoughts.
I found the juste milieu — the golden mean that France itself cannot find — I shot stone dead a crow that, perched at the very top of an oak, suspected nothing, the more so since my father and Michel, lying on the grass in the middle of the clearing, were attracting its attention.
I pulled out the tail feathers and made myself an aigrette. The others had not fired a single shot — they merely walked, my father at the head in his underwear tucked into his stockings and wearing enormous shoes. His thinness was plain for all to see, and I took advantage of the moment when, entering a marsh, instead of lowering his voice, he began speaking French — the wild ducks not understanding.
Paul shot a thrush — that was the sum total of the hunt.
A mother who believes her child dead — dead through her own fault — who is not certain of the death but dares not speak of it for fear of confirming it; this mother suddenly finds again the mourned child who caused such anguish, who gave rise to so much doubt and suffering... that mother must be happy. It seems to me that what she must feel is much the same as what I feel on recovering my voice after each bout of hoarseness.
After laughing heartily in the drawing room, I paused a moment on the stairs — and all at once I was able to sing!
It is to Walitsky's remedy that I owe it.

Notes

The Fronde (1648–53), the 17th-century French civil wars during which aristocratic women wielded significant political influence in the salons. ↩
A Funk hunting rifle. ↩