Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Saturday, 10 February 1877

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 goes right for 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 Larderel... why should I look at him, since I disgust myself.
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This morning I went into our adorable neighbour’s room while he was out, to embolden myself to make a better “mistake” one day and toss my fur cloak and parasol onto his bed. This evening I wanted to rehearse; 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. Larderel, 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 someone call for the hat, and I rushed out into 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 masked ball at the Teatro San Carlo. Dina and I have black gowns and hooded capes of Chantilly lace lined with 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 ladies in low-cut gowns and 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.
— Won’t you speak?
A nod of assent.
— You are mute, then?
Yes.
— And it will be like this all evening?
Yes.
— But do say something.
— They have no tongue!
— Poor masks.
— Why, I see adorable feet and hands.
— Not on that one — pointing to Maman.
— That one is a man.
— Oh! yes, just look.
— But isn’t it cowardly to deceive us like this?
— Oh! the hands.
— It is a web-footed creature — the last of the web-footed creatures, gentlemen.
a chance of still being something 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 he owned it, and proceeded to say nothing.
— 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 — some nonsense?
I leaned towards the man:
— You bore me, I said in a voice muffled by the beard of my mask.
Catching sight of Larderel, 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 and 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.
Go on, go on, gentlemen. There are some very handsome ones among you, but I do not even know the first letters of your names. Admit that it takes some cleverness to find anything to talk about. It was we who were being mystified.
— Tell me, don’t you sometimes mistake the door when you come home? said Larderel, installing himself on the edge of our box with thoroughly French grace and Parisian ease.
I played the innocent.
— Then that’s not it; it’s just that, you see, something happened to me.
— What story? asked thirty mouths.
He told mine.
— It was done on purpose, I said.
— Oh! no — someone ran off too quickly and 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!
Larderel alone did not relish this wit and went pirouetting and jesting from side to side with cancan gestures sorely 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.
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It was on the Prince’s arm that I met Larderel, who asked me to come with him, promising to behave very well.
Many recognised 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 should like to listen to it forever.
Every ten minutes Larderel came back to complain about the dominos pestering him.
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 once again I did not get him; five minutes later I went and plucked him from an actress’s box.
— Now you are in your element, I whispered in his ear.
— So you absolutely must have me!
— Absolutely.
— Ah! good heavens!
— I have a story to tell you...
— Let us hear it!
Just as I have exaggerated this man’s beauty, I exaggerated his ugliness a year ago. The truth is that Larderel 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, Pierre Antonelli, Georges, Count Platter, will remain unfinished all their lives, however witty and learned they may be.
Larderel is a madman, everyone says so — that does not prevent him from being finished, as are Torlonia, Merjeewsky, Albert, and others.
Larderel is a little taller than I, and it was with genuine pleasure that I submitted to the proximity of his pale and handsome face. He has a quite fair 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?
— Well, that’s all — no, but at the Capitol you had a figure and a gown and a figure; there was no one else.
— I haven’t a pretty figure.
— Have you grown stouter?
— Thinner.
— Ah! good Lord.
— Out of love for 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, everyone knows you by that box full of relations — aunts, uncles, cousins, all of them keeping watch on you; I have only to take you to the other end of the hall for thirty-six messengers to be sent after you; they must see you, always there... in front of the box.
— That troubles you?
— No, since I recognise you.
If he recognises me, he is the only one; there was a pair who accosted 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 Neapolitan grisette.
— Oh! that is evident from your yellow hair.
— And you must be witty, whereas yellow-haired women are reputed to be dull and cold.
— Yes, when the hair is natural.
A little more and we would have been pulling each other’s hair.
Larderel points out his sister, the Countess of Mirafiore, daughter-in-law of the King. Thereupon I reproach him for disgracing his family. 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 do you expect? We dropped each other after four years.
— It was she who dropped 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, mystified several strangers.
But Larderel 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 recognised 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 court you in earnest — would you like that? Tell me.
— Why, yes, I would.
— Say it plainly, for I do not want to labour in vain; and on that subject I would have told you an anecdote about the Duke of Modena, were it not that I recognise you.
— Bah!
— So you are staying in Naples?
— Yes, but why are you leaving?
— I have a bill for ten thousand francs falling due, and I haven’t the first sou of it.
— Splendid.
— Heh! heh! that’s 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; if I were an unmarried girl 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 lady of good 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 recognise 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 beyond all measure. One seldom meets such sweetness without anything ridiculous about it. I have never seen a masked ball so elegant, so amusing, and so proper. No one so much as squeezed my fingertip; I was found as witty as an angel, which made me wittier still. After such a night, one can own to it without the slightest shame.
At the foot of the staircase I sent for Larderel, as much to hear his voice and his accent again, which please me, as to propose Tuesday in Rome to him.
Ruffo, Larderel, and the young man put us into our carriage like acquaintances...
And I came home more contented than ever after such amusements, for even the least... words can be owned to.
All was well — there was not even one ugly domino. Velvet, satin, lace — luxury, in short, everywhere, and often taste.

Notes

In Italian in the original: 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, born Bianca de Larderel, was the wife of Emanuele Alberto Guerrieri, Count of Mirafiore, son of King Vittorio Emanuele II and Rosa Vercellana, the king’s morganatic wife — hence «bru du Roi» (the King’s daughter-in-law). (Source: it.wikipedia, «Emanuele Alberto Guerrieri di Mirafiori»: he married Bianca Enrichetta de Larderel, daughter of Enrico de Larderel, in 1872.) ↩
traite — a bill of exchange or promissory note: a debt instrument falling due at a specified date. ↩