Monday, 22 January 1877

I was. I you We go to the Races; the only people we see are Rangoni, the Greek of five years ago, and the Souvoroff, who comes for a short while and cries out as she passes that she is cold.
Pelikan and Mme Zurmüllen come to eat with us, and I go with them to the grandstand, where there is a regiment of cocottes in white!
A dazzling drive home in superb weather.
We settle on my terrace to watch the passers-by; Soroka goes past. I had already seen him at the races, and he had plunged forward over the barrier as he raised his hat to me.
The celebrated Gautier comes onto the terrace, and we spend an hour squabbling.
At last, in the evening, I have a fit of despair that goes as far as moaning and drives me to drown the dining-room clock in the sea. Dina runs after me, fearing some sinister design, but it is only the clock. It was of bronze, with a Paul without his Virginie, angling, in a very pretty hat.
All that is left for me is to go mad. I am quite astonished not to be playing the violin on a broomstick yet, or making lemonade out of pebbles! That will come!
Dina comes to my room; the clock seems to amuse her greatly; I laugh too, but...
People, serious or frivolous, who stroll on the Promenade and go to the Cercle, will never understand that anyone could take my situation tragically; myself without I often laugh at these dramas myself...
At last, while teasing me, Dina gave me an idea... which makes me write these two letters in block capitals.
Copied letterLettre anonyme que Marie s’écrit à elle-même en lettres d’imprimerie, signée « Don Fortunato », 22 janvier 1877
Wretched girl! With your white gowns you look like an advertisement for innocence! Leave the world! The convent opens its arms to you! Don Fortunato.
Copied letterLettre anonyme que Marie s’écrit à elle-même en lettres d’imprimerie, signée « Turcan », 22 janvier 1877
Having lately arrived in Hell, I met your soul there in the company of the most frightful rogues, male and female. Turcan.
Both are addressed to Mlle Baschkirtseff, by post.
Every Monday weighs on me particularly. The Prefecture receives... and our most relentless enemies. The Tutcheff has an insolent air that revolts me.
I have ruined my complexion with crying every day. The thing is, my torment is daily. And at every moment I want to write that I am suffering, that I cannot bear it any longer! You know it; there is no need to repeat it and explain it in every line!
But no, you will never have any idea of it; never will you understand my grief at weeping over something so shameful!

Notes

Marie wrote these two anonymous letters to herself and posted them. “Turcan”, the signature of the second, was the name of a man executed in Nice for murder in December 1876 (Marie mentions the execution on 15 December). ↩