Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Sunday, 22 July 1877

Come then, at bottom what do I have to be discontented with about Naples? Do you want to know, foolish as it may be? It is because, having excited a great deal of admiration, I inspired true love in no one — no one except the little Marquis Santasiglia. But my dear child, what more did you want? Nothing; it is only involuntarily and inwardly that I can complain of being admired without being loved; [Crossed out: having reasoned about it I find that it is] but the moment it comes to writing it down I found it is perfect. What difference can it make to you, in a numerous gathering, that one single person loves you supremely?
I feel very strangely, see and understand nothing clearly, and want to stay stupefied at home; but as the horses are paid for every day my aunt is very anxious to make use of them, and so as not to be annoyed by being called I go to the Bois, to the devil, I know not where.
You know that a white handkerchief, once belonging to Alexandre, is sealed in an envelope and kept as a relic, in case I should decide to make him a true first love.
But I have yet another handkerchief of his that Maman brought back somehow from Sorrento. It is a batiste handkerchief with a violet cross-hatched border, with an L. in one corner. Since the little comedies I played out in Nice before my domestic audience, I have formed the habit of never parting with this handkerchief; it is always with me — at night I put it under my pillow, from time to time I take it out of my pocket, look at it, touch it, run it over my face, cover my head with it. When I write, it lies on my table. When I have nothing to say to the baroness, I show her the handkerchief — and it is the occasion of many a remark from Rosalie or from me in the course of the day and on every pretext.
At the beginning I truly enjoyed touching it, because it had belonged to Larderei; then it was mere affectation; and now it is a habit so dear to me that the touch of this scrap of batiste is like a beloved caress.
Listen — the French boast of having an art of their own in painting and in singing.
Everything they know they learned from the Italians, and the poorest, the most unfortunate, saves, economizes, and runs off to Italy! God! how stupid it is to tell people things everyone knows!
We were at Fauvel's, and as I was asking whether in two months I might begin lessons:
- Yes, he replied, only one must take great care, and when you engage a teacher, take an Italian — the Italians, whatever people say nowadays, are the foremost teachers in the world.
- But, I resumed, greatly moved, people say that the French method...
- But, Mademoiselle, the French learn from the Italians.
Then why stay here! Why blind oneself with a few boastful phrases uttered by a few Frenchmen who know nothing of it — like the baroness and her husband!
Why stupefy myself in Paris when I can live over there!
And the Exposition? One can come for the Exposition!
Come now, no delicacy between us... and a husband? The choice of titles and fortunes is greater here; everything rich and great comes to Paris. Yes, no doubt, but one falls in love rarely in this city where there are so many girls and so many married women. Let us reason bluntly.
In Italy one more often inspires love — suddenly at the theatre, by chance. Italy was made expressly for it.
For it is a husband alone who can lift me from where I am!
I could die, so irritated am I by all these reflections, calculations, etc. etc.
Let us be fatalistic!