Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

I stayed in bed with Maman until three o'clock, because *we found me* excessively unhappy — or rather, pursued by ill luck.

I stayed in bed with Maman until three o'clock, because we found me excessively unhappy — or rather, pursued by ill luck.
One proof of it is that wretched Antonelli. Indeed nothing succeeds with me — neither what is worth the trouble, nor what is worth nothing. Whereas so many others who are uglier, stupider, poorer, more miserable... No matter. Instead of compassion for my misfortune, all these reflections make me loathe myself. I detest my face, my bearing, my clothes, my voice — everything! I detest myself as I once detested Bruschetti.
So that I scarcely notice Larderei... why should I look at him, since I disgust myself.
This morning I went into our charming neighbour's room while he was absent — to embolden myself for a future scheme of tossing my fur coat and parasol onto his bed. This evening I wanted to rehearse the plan; I open the door and three cries ring out one after another like an echo in a cave. I give the most natural "Ah!" as I slam the door shut — I truly did not expect to find anyone there. Larderei, who was admiring himself in the mirror, gives the second "Ah!" and the third comes from his manservant.
Ten minutes later Rosalie tells me that the Count had spoken of it with his manservant and said: that this young lady is charming. Delighted I am.
After spending an hour or more peering through the keyhole and listening, I heard them ask for the hat, and I rushed to the corridor; as they were going out, I went in without turning round — as if it were all a serious matter. I only wonder what the point of it is.
Dreaming of it all, I fell asleep until midnight, and at midnight we set out for the charity veglione at the Teatro San Carlo. Dina and I have black gowns and capes with Chantilly lace hoods lined in black, with satin bows. Such hands and feet! Maman wore thick gloves and a pink mask beneath a black domino, which made her look like a man in disguise. We had not been two minutes in our box before it was already besieged.
The hall splendid and splendidly lit by gas and wax candles, the second-tier boxes full of low-necked ladies without masks, and in the middle, groups of black coats swaying about, full of boredom.
When I saw some thirty of them before us, fright seized me and I signalled to my companions to be silent — which only increased the curiosity and the number of curious onlookers.
[Detailed masquerade dialogue with silent masks creating intrigue]
— Won't you speak?
Affirmative sign.
— You are mute, then?
Yes.
— And it will be so all evening?
Yes.
— But do say something.
— They have no tongue!
— Poor masks.
— I see adorable feet and hands.
— Not that one — pointing to Maman.
— That one is a man.
— Oh! yes, just look.
— But is it not a cowardice to deceive us so?
— Oh! the hands.
— It is a web-footed creature — the last of the web-footed creatures, gentlemen.
We were beginning to laugh outright.
And more and more and more. They all spoke French.
There was one who, instead of doing as the others, had installed himself on the edge of our box as if at home, and began to be silent.
— Are you enjoying yourselves? we were asked.
Yes.
— Well then, said the man, I do as they do — I am amusing myself: and he continued saying nothing.
— For the love of heaven, say something to us — a foolishness?
I leaned toward the man:
— You bore me, I said in a voice muffled by the beard of my mask.
Catching sight of Larderei, I half rose from my seat.
— Look here, someone said to him, here are masks who refuse to speak and we cannot guess who they are.
— Aha! he said, drawing near — what language do they speak? Silence.
— Ah! but that is sad!
— Really, said Dina, it is true — so why don't you all go amuse yourselves elsewhere.
— There is no wit in the hall.
— And we have a great deal, have we?
— Well, you are speaking.
— One must, mustn't one?
I assumed a strong English accent.
— They are Americans.
— Russians.
— English.
— Neapolitans.
— Oh! no, Neapolitan women are very stupid.
Off with you, off with you, gentlemen. There are some very handsome ones among you, but I do not even know the first letters of your names. Admit that to find conversation one must be cunning. We were the ones who were intrigued.
— Tell me — do you not sometimes take the wrong door on your way in? said Larderei, installing himself on the edge of our box with thoroughly French grace and Parisian ease.
I played the innocent.
— Then it is not that, it is rather that — you see — something happened to me.
— What story? asked thirty mouths.
He told mine.
— It was done on purpose, I said.
— Oh! no — one fled too quickly and one cried out too naturally.
We could not bring ourselves to leave, and they kept bringing everyone to us, all loudly proclaiming that here was the box of wit!
Larderei alone did not relish this wit and went pirouetting and jesting from side to side with gestures of the cancan very lacking in dignity. The persevering man persevered, and finally induced me to take his arm — that of Prince Ruffo — while a young man of twenty remained with Dina. He had regular, fair features, grave and gentle, with calm, intelligent eyes that go straight to the heart. A sweet creature.
[It was on the Prince's arm that I encountered Larderei, who asked me to come with him, promising to be very proper.]
Many recognized us as many different ladies — they knew the voice, the eyes, the accent.
The young man spoke of going mad, in a voice so harmonious that I could listen to it forever.
Every ten minutes Larderei came back to complain of his own masquerade companions.
At last, thinking it was time to yield to his requests, I went in pursuit of him — for he had been carried off by a yellow-haired woman who was scarcely masked.
— She won't let go of me!
— Do you know her?
— A Pole, I think.
— She has the accent.
But again I had not succeeded; five minutes later I went to pluck him from the box of an actress.
— Now you are in your element, I whispered in his ear.
— You absolutely want me, then!
— Absolutely.
— Ah! good heavens!
— I have a story to tell you...
— Let us hear it!
Just as I exaggerated this man's beauty, I had exaggerated his ugliness a year ago. The truth is that Larderei is a charming fellow, not ill made, witty, well bred, and finished. To be finished is something, whatever people say. One may be so at any age; one is born complete or incomplete. My father, my brother, Pietro Antonelli, Georges, Count Platter, will remain unfinished all their lives, however witty and learned they may be.
Larderei is a madman, everyone says so — that does not prevent him from being finished, as are Torlonia, Merjeevsky, Albert, and others.
Larderei is taller than I, and it was with genuine pleasure that I submitted to the proximity of his pale and handsome face. He has a thoroughly blond moustache with dark chestnut hair and black eyes. French eyes, dry, somewhat greyish — not very black.
I should never be done if I were to recount everything.
— I saw you at the Capitol last year, and then you made the acquaintance of the nephew of a certain cardinal.
— There are so many of them.
— Antonelli.
— Well then.
— Well that is all — but at the Capitol you had a figure and a gown and a figure, there was none other.
— I have not a pretty figure.
— You have grown stouter?
— Thinner.
— Ah! good Lord.
— From love of you.
— You have loved me since then?
— Since then.
— So it was for me that you returned to Rome a fortnight later, with your aunt, leaving your mother in Nice?
— I have an aunt?
— Oh, please! Besides, you are well known — that box full of relations: aunts, uncles, cousins, all watching over you; I have only to take you to the other end of the hall for thirty-six messengers to be dispatched, one must always have you in sight, always there... before the box.
— That troubles you?
— No, since I recognize you.
If he recognizes me, he is the only one; there was a pair who attacked me over some invitation I had not sent, and then I was followed and addressed as though I were the duchess of... devil take it, the name escapes me, and then!
— Look, here comes your barnacle?
— It pleases you to say so, said the yellow-haired lady. I am a poor little seamstress of Naples.
— Oh! that is evident from your yellow hair.
— And you must have wit, since yellow-haired women are reputed to be limited and cold.
— Yes, when the hair is natural.
A little more and we would have been pulling each other's hair.
Larderei points out his sister, the Countess of Mirafiore, daughter-in-law of the King. Thereupon I reproach him for dishonouring his connections. He assures me he wants to reform. Oh! not from virtue, my girl — for the sake of novelty, something new. I am settling down, I am seeking to marry.
— Oh ho! And your wife?
— What would you have — we parted ways after four years.
— It was she who left you.
— No, it was by mutual agreement.
We came and went; I said a few words here and there which, by some miracle having proved apt, intrigued several strangers.
But Larderei took it up in a drawing-room tone — asked whether I wished to make his acquaintance, that he would arrange a formal introduction, and that as proof of having recognized me he would send me flowers.
— I shall send you a bouquet of violets tomorrow, I told him.
— And I shall send you one every day during my trip to Florence — it will make you think of me.
— I always do, I said.
— Those are just words. And the day you receive no bouquet it will mean that I am in Rome.
— And then?
— Then I shall go wherever you wish. Come, let us make a little arrangement — when do you leave?
— In three weeks — I do not know.
— Well then I shall come back to Naples and pay you serious court — do you agree, say.
— But yes, I want it.
— Tell me so clearly, for I do not want to make a hole in water; and on that subject I would have told you an anecdote about the Duke of Modena, were it not that I recognize you.
— Pah!
— So you are staying in Naples?
— Yes, but why are you leaving?
— I have a bill of ten thousand francs and have not a sou to my name.
— Splendid.
— He! ha! that is how it is.
The man of wit that he is, he has spoken from the start of his nose and his debts — in order to forestall anything one might say about them.
— I am going to Rome, I said.
— Then we shall leave together — let me know the hour and we shall go... by the same train, in the same suite of carriages, without anyone suspecting. That would be amusing.
— And my husband?
— You have no husband.
— Are you mad? You do not take me for an actress, I suppose — were I a young woman I should not be here.
— Why not? Considering how you are here — watched, kept under observation — and then you see how I am... prudish.
— Prudish?
— Oh! yes.
— Seriously — who do you take me for?
— Seriously, I take you for a charming person.
— Oh! that is certain.
— For a person of society, for a young Russian lady.
— Could you be in love with me as I am with you?
— That might happen.
Several messengers from the box were calling me... to leave.
And before I left, he had me repeat our arrangement and repeated it himself — as if it were a serious matter.
— My dear friend, I told him, you are not consistent. If you truly recognize me, I have nothing to tell you and you will find out on your own when and how I shall leave.
— That is true.
— Au revoir.
At the door of the box we shook hands, repeating the conditions once more — truly like a serious matter.
I had cast my eyes on the poetic young man to serve as our escort — I had chosen well; he maintained a rare courtesy throughout, and his honesty, his youth, his open eyes charmed me as nothing can more. One seldom encounters such sweetness without the ridiculous. I have never seen a masked ball so elegant, so amusing, and so respectable. Not so much as a fingertip was pressed; I was thought as witty as an angel, which supplied me with a great deal of it. After such a night, one may make confession without any shame.
Arrived at the foot of the staircase, I sent for Larderei — as much to hear again his voice and accent, which please me, as to propose Tuesday in Rome.
Ruffo, Larderei, and the young man put us into our carriage like acquaintances...
And I went home happy as never before after such pleasures — for the least of those... words are avowable.
All was well — there was not even one ugly domino. Velvet, satin, lace, richness everywhere and often good taste.

Sunday, 11 February 1877

"Toledo 292, Mme A.T.E." — these words traced on a sheet painted by Duchad are sent to Larderei with a bouquet of violets.
Still entirely under the spell and turning over thirty-six new schemes, I dressed and we set out.
[Coming out of the room I found myself face to face with Larderei and both of us made that movement of surprise which I always find so unnatural when performed by actors in the theatre — and which is, nonetheless, perfectly natural.]
He watched us leave from the balcony with Melissano — I love Larderei's type so much!]
But to understand our situation in the midst of the Toledo one must know what it is like on a day when coriandoli — confetti mixed with chalk or flour — are thrown. Ah but, ah but, ah but! One who has not seen it cannot imagine those thousands of hands at the end of black and fleshless arms, those rags, those superb floats, those plumes and gilding, those hands above all that wave with fingers of such agility that Liszt himself would burst with envy.
In the midst of this pestilent rain of flour, these cries, this seething mass, we felt ourselves seized by Altamura and almost carried up to his balcony.
But there we find a quantity of ladies who, in the grey linen gowns obligatory for the occasion, struck me as... cooks. I had given appointments to three people yesterday, and here I am incapable of being recognized... And all these people offering me food, drink, smiling at me, being amiable! And Larderei leaving tonight! I went into a half-darkened salon and there, draped in my bédouin from head to foot, I began to shed tears while admiring the antique folds of the wool. I was grieved — but with a grief that brings pleasure. Do you understand as I do the sweetness in sorrow?
Back home immediately, I returned to my observation post, covering my head with the door-curtain as though for photography, so the other could not see. For two or three days we have done nothing else. I stoop to chattering with my lady's maid, to listening to what the Count's coachman has said.
The coachman serves him as valet on his travels and above all as a sort of supervising nurse. Truly my conduct is worthless. The further I go, the more I believe I have been to school, the more I believe myself learned, the more extravagant I become — it is like a madness that takes hold of me and I am no longer mistress of myself.
This morning I had already encountered Larderei's nose, and a little later his eye. And this evening I saw the creature in his underdrawers and without a shirt — at first I thought he was in a corset, then I understood it was his underdrawers fastened over the shoulders like a baby's garment. Those bare, round, white shoulders — it was extraordinarily comical. One is not accustomed to seeing gentlemen in such a costume.
I laughed about it all evening, at San Carlo where they were performing Les Guaranis. One of the most detestable operas I know... Altamura and Pelikan as escorts...
with Larderei.
I sent Rosalie to the festival masked ball with orders to tell Larderei that he is a cheat, and that if he thinks of paying his ten-thousand-franc bill with what he saves on violets, he is mistaken.
He is not leaving tonight; he told me so — that is to say, he told his coachman Charles.

Monday, 12 February 1877

Larderei did not go to that ball. What follows is difficult to recount. Know only that in very short order I shall be raving mad. But there is someone to watch over you, you will say. No — no one can do anything about it. If I were prevented from doing what the evil spirit commands I should become furious and disasters would follow.
So today, hearing my neighbour go out, then his coachman closing the trunks, I felt seized by a kind of sadness... What, I said, he is going off like that — and whom shall I watch? And the veglione tonight? And a host of things. But I shall die of boredom!
He is leaving. One might leave too. But one must also see the gala Corso on the Chiaja, and our balcony is at the best spot, since we are staying at the Hôtel du Louvre. Hmm! I shall go and watch him leave anyway. It serves no purpose, but it will perhaps please me. I am so unhappy that I seek to distract myself, to kill time. So I set off with Maman, and the first person we find at the station is him, with Merisano and an officer. To secure entry to the waiting room I buy two tickets to the first station — namely, Cancello.
Larderei and his two friends enter after us. I wanted to laugh; I set about perusing a newspaper. There was no hesitation to be had — one had to retreat shamefully without otherwise explaining our presence at the station. Larderei passed through to the platform throwing me a glance. I approached the ticket-collector at the gate and asked if there was a return train from Cancello immediately.
— C'è un treno che arriva a Napoli alle quattro.
We make our way onto the platform and look for a compartment — they are all full. Larderei follows us at a respectful distance, lost in the crowd.
At last comes that movement and noise of footsteps which gives one a kind of sickly haste in railway stations; I was waiting for Larderei, Larderei was waiting for me, the conductors shouted the departure — one of them takes hold of me and indicates an almost-full compartment; I climb in, sliding my eyes toward Larderei who is behind me and who, letting fall at last the sort of comedy we had been playing, prepares to follow me like a man who has made up his mind: but there are only two places!
Then came a moment both comic and charming: myself in the middle of the compartment, Maman restraining Prater who was writhing to launch himself under the seat, and Larderei hesitating and looking at me as if to say: what is to be done? Oh! but with eyes so seriously questioning, and his arm, which held a travelling rug, expressing so much young and charming perplexity in so great a libertine, that I shall always remember it with very particular pleasure.
— We shall suffocate here, I said at last — especially if someone begins to smoke.
— They are adding a new carriage, Madame, said Larderei to Maman — you would do better not to take this one, you will not have enough air.
— Ah! a new carriage, I said to no one, well so much the better.
All the compartments of the new carriage bore the word: reservato, except one.
— Reservato, reservato, I read as I passed — so everything is reserved. That one too?
— No, Mademoiselle, said Larderei again — you may enter.
— Thank you.
There were already several packages everywhere — fur coats, portmanteaux, etc. — which Charles was arranging.
— But this one is taken!
— No, Madame — there is only me.
I sat down, moved to the point of speechlessness, with an incredible desire to laugh.
He chatted with his friends, giving instructions to his coachman Charles (English-style, if you please).
And so: Maman and I with our backs to the engine, she on the right, I on the left, Larderei facing her.
Ten minutes to Cancello. Lost time can never be recovered! — that lugubrious truth was ringing in my ears. We three looked at one another. Speak — but how? Be silent — but then what? Ah! ha! It was repugnant to me to depart from my habits and converse with fellow passengers.
There was above my head, placed high and quite solidly, a hatbox that did not inconvenience me at all.
— Allow me, Madame, to move that hatbox.
— Please do, Monsieur.
A new silence.
Ah! but.
— I should very much like to know how long it is to Cancello? I asked Maman.
— I have no idea.
— Yet one should know...
— Could you tell me, Monsieur, how many minutes it is to Cancello?
— Thirty minutes, I believe, Mademoiselle — thirty minutes.
Nothing more was needed. Both parties, given the little time available, ceased to dissemble their intentions.
— You are going to Cancello? asked Larderei, while I noticed withered violets in his buttonhole and remarked how much he resembled those papier-mâché lacquered all-white masks that Pierrots wear.
— Yes, Monsieur, to Cancello.
We began to converse as if long acquainted. He said he had seen us in Rome, with Antonelli, then in Naples, with the clan — then all the usual things one says in such circumstances.
— Poor Antonelli is ill — he is languishing in the country.
— Really, said my mother, poor child — he is very good.
— Very amiable, I said with an air of indifference for which I cursed myself, and which did not leave me for a minute.
— You are staying at the Hôtel du Louvre, are you not?
— Yes.
[Prater emerged from under the seat; I called him my son, as did Larderei, who has the good nature of girls — or rather of men.]
— And I was your very close neighbour.
— Really?
— I learned it yesterday, I said, and I confess I was somewhat confused — for believing my neighbour to be some English lady who spent her life on excursions, I made no difficulty about chattering and laughing with my sister and singing whatever came into my head.
— I believe I am a very agreeable neighbour, he said — I am never at home and one does not hear me.
— That is true.
I felt myself behaving badly and could not help it — I was entirely given over to the joy of having... what?
He says he will return in ten to twelve days, that he goes on very important business to Florence where he must be on Tuesday. That he is always travelling, that he will return to Naples.
His manners and his conversation remind me so forcibly of le Surprenant that it is almost disagreeable.
In the space of those thirty minutes we went a little like the locomotive itself, so that at the twenty-fifth minute Larderei was saying he was in the process of ruining himself. It is so that when others are heard to say so, no one is shocked. Clever...
I forgot to say how I explained the trip to Cancello.
— You are going to Cancello? he asked.
— Yes — a strange adventure has befallen us: my aunt has lost her luggage and her money and telegraphs to us from Cancello where she is in distress. We received her dispatch this morning.

Notes

veglione — the grand masked carnival ball; an Italian tradition at major opera houses. ↩
domino — the classic masquerade costume: a long hooded cloak worn with a half-mask. ↩
fini (finished, complete) — Marie's idiosyncratic concept of character: a person either possesses an innate wholeness — in manners, presence, and social ease — or does not, regardless of intelligence. ↩
The Countess of Mirafiore was the morganatic wife of Vittorio Emanuele II's illegitimate son, the Count of Mirafiore. ↩
traite — a bill of exchange or promissory note: a debt instrument falling due at a specified date. ↩
coriandoli — Italian carnival confetti; in the 1870s this included small pellets of chalk and flour as well as paper. ↩
bédouin — a loose enveloping cloak or burnous-style wrap fashionable in the 1870s. ↩
Les Guaranis (1870) — opera by Carlos Gomes; a Brazilian work enjoyed considerable success in Italian opera houses. ↩
C'è un treno che arriva a Napoli alle quattro — "There is a train that arrives in Naples at four o'clock." ↩
le Surprenant — a prior romantic interest of Marie's, referred to by this epithet (The Surprising One); he first appears in earlier carnets. ↩