Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Wednesday, 23 May 1877

As every day, one arrives at six o'clock — painting, singing, reading, making music — and at six o'clock one goes to the Skating rink, where this evening there is a fabulous attendance: we come first with Gautier, then the Vigiers, d'Auzac, Chablikine (a very dirty old rich man who entertains), and Emile for a minute, and two strangers — not counting the staff and the instructor's children. Since this poor journal will only be read after my death, I must explain who Vigier is: she is the famous soprano Sophie Cruvelli, married to Vicomte Vigier. She is fifty and has been trying for at least fifteen years to pass for a young girl. Canary-yellow hair, and hats and dresses such that those who see her for the first time emit howls and cock-crows of astonishment. The anecdotes are inexhaustible. The other day her dress split and everything was on display — one is even assured that shovels had to be brought to restore the contents of the bodice, etc. The other evening Laurenti asked her why she didn't sit down.
"Because I am afraid of bursting," she replied.
"Pray give me warning, Vicomtesse, for I might get something in my eye."
She was superb — and if she dressed properly, she would still be very handsome. She must have been made like me, but now there is nothing more extraordinary than to see her at the Skating rink. When I see her approaching from a distance I stop, and we regard each other with apprehension like two locomotives on the same track... I compare myself to the good Vicomtesse because, like her, I am afraid to venture out alone. This evening I launched myself, and she imitated me, floundering like a puppy one is trying to drown. This eternal subject for jokes made us laugh once more with Gautier.
I am [words blacked out: a little] free perhaps, but amusing — it is in Italy that I acquired this manner which suits me because it exhilarates and amuses me and comes quite naturally.
Audiffret greeted me from very far off — in winter his sight was worse, but it is in summer that I suffer from this complaint.
"Audiffret is not a bad man," said Barnola, "but Saëtone is a lout! I myself heard him prevent Audiffret from coming to pay you a visit at the theatre — I saw it with my own eyes!"
Ah! Dear Andriot, that hardly surprises me — I mocked you so thoroughly, and my aunt did nothing but speak to you of the absurdities, the malice, and the ugliness of the Lacroix girls, the eldest of whom is at this moment your tender half.
Good Ricardo stayed until twelve, and so did Anet, Grand-papa's oculist.
Towards eleven o'clock people came to my rooms; the anteroom strikes one with its red satin, its Pompeian paintings, and its red lamp — one is in a strange scarlet vapour. I love to see the effect it has on people for the first time. Anet is a young man of twenty-eight, well-bred and handsome by all accounts; as the doctor who comes twice a day he is a little part of the household, and on entering he knelt and asked whether we were in a chapel or a small inferno.
"I no longer knew what I was entering," he said. "This red, this light, then this sky-blue — one expects first devils to appear, then angels, and one is quite giddy, overwhelmed."
That is exactly what I wanted. We talked until half past one — conversations interspersed with Barnola's singing, enlivened by my sallies, and accompanied by a pianissimo on the mandoline as in the dramas at the Théâtre Français of Nice. Anet was exchanging glances with Mme Kondareff — glances he immediately explained away by directing at us ones so mocking that another woman would have noticed.
[In the margin: I later discovered that between them there existed a touching intimacy — so touching that they had touched each other rather too closely, perhaps.]
And that is my life here — and all these... arrangements will have to be dismantled, and the furniture moved, and money spent... let us not weaken; it must be done.
Do not be surprised — this is a reply to Marcuard:
You mentioned casually that I should give you news of us — and I do so in earnest. The fact is I adore writing and do not easily spare others my calligraphy. We are well, and it no longer rains, so Dina does not have the satisfaction of the ducks but remains beside my grandfather in a camera obscura, which is most diverting when one is sickened by light — whether that is her case I don't know, but I spend two hours a day there myself and find it very fine. You who have such taste — I regret that you cannot see my little den; the anteroom is scarlet and can represent purgatory tolerably well; then comes my bedroom which more or less represents heaven, and finally a Pompadour room which can only represent the earth! It is in the earth, or on the earth, as you please, that I have just finished Melissano — but I placed him so far to the left (because of the heart — that is understandable) that the right-hand side is quite empty and very ugly. You might remedy this, however, by sending me a good photograph of your friend Alexandre from which I could paint a pendant to the dear Prince — who would thus have both a surprise and a double gift.
By way of distraction we have the Skating rink and the sea-baths — practical people say that in this season they are much the same thing. I purchased the other day something you would pay a great deal for — a fourteenth-century glove-box (this is to enrage him). On the subject of antiquities: the young harpist was never intended for you — we were simply counting on your friendly intervention to write to Vienna. But how can she, poor creature, contend with the fierce descendants of Árpád!
To whom was the medal given? All the same, Monsieur, do not browbeat the shooting committee — it is a fine institution.
Where did you collect those famous phrases about me? They are flattering — but one might, after all, have said less well.
Did you know a certain Audiffret, and how? etc. etc.
I had asked him to tell me what was said of me, and he writes:
"I have at last gathered a few phrases about you here and there. Everyone agrees that you have an enormous amount of distinction and style."
To this I reply that: I was so plain that I shudder merely to think of it; in Nice I have recovered my true form — I do not say this because you cannot verify it, but it is true; in Italy I was never seen looking even approximately well.
Oh! When I think that one lives only once, and that every minute brings us closer to death, I go mad!!! I do not fear death — but life is so short that to waste it is an infamy.

Notes

Sophie Cruvelli (1826–1907), celebrated operatic soprano who retired from the stage around 1856 upon marrying Vicomte Vigier. ↩
Camera obscura: literally "dark room." Here it refers to the darkened room prescribed for grandfather's recovery after his eye operation. ↩
Pendant: a companion portrait designed to hang alongside and balance another — here, Alexandre's portrait paired with Melissano's. ↩
The parenthetical "(c'est pour le faire enrager)" = "(this is to make him furious)" — addressed to her imaginary reader in teasing mockery. ↩
Árpád, legendary founder of the Magyar nation. Marie's ironic epithet for the Hungarian women in Budapest competing for Alexandre's attentions. ↩