Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Wednesday, 1 August 1877

Until three in the morning yesterday I lay half-asleep in my bed while Rosalie sat on the floor telling me variations on the eternal theme. And yet, despite the play, despite the stories, I could not be moved to sentimental foolishness as I had the stupidity to be a year ago. Which proves once more that I am becoming charming, and that that rascal Alexandre has made me more comme il faut in matters of love (?)
And this does not prove that I am indifferent — only that before, I was so much a child that I did not know "where to put myself," as I often say. I was bored, and I quickly gave that boredom a body. The childhood of individuals, like the childhood of peoples, which understood nothing immaterial and for whom the least things took on a body. I do not wish to disown what I wrote about Antonelli, for I did not write too much, nor without reason. You know it besides, O those of you who will never read this magnificent work. But the Antonelli affair was a matter of interest in which I was foolishly led into error by my ignorance of the ways of the world, and which I nearly made into a sentimental matter — always by this rage to give a body to all my impalpable tediums. I come back to this very often: it is that as I become more charming I feel more and more the things said lightly standing out — things I never thought seriously, which said would be nothing, but which written are so heavy and so embarrassing!... were it only a question of me, that would be one thing — but it is a question of what you will think, and you know who that is.
"Two sentiments are common to natures that are proud or affectionate: that of extreme susceptibility to opinion, and of extreme bitterness when that opinion is unjust."
What adorable creature wrote that? I no longer know, but I already cited these lines exactly a year ago, and I beg you to think of them sometimes when you think of me.
You perhaps think that in saying Alexandre had made me more comme il faut in matters of love, I intended to make you believe I was treating Alexandre as a lesson in the manner of Audiffret and Antonelli? No, is it not? No, because I repent of nothing; it was bound to be so; I would have done it again; I do not admire myself, but as it was involuntary I do not accuse myself either. If such things did not happen, life would be too perfect — it would no longer be life.
[Words blacked out: I regret that it] came about thus, but from that to explaining my actions, to restoring to them their missed significance, to saying what I said for the sake of others, to raging against myself at last... No.
What enrages me, for instance, is that he... saw me ugly and clumsy and even... look, coming back from Sorrento, in the carriage, after that struggle — you remember — he hurt my hand, and to excuse himself, and soliciting Madame's approval with a glance in order to proceed more decorously, he kissed my hand between the glove and the sleeve. Well, the struggle, the heat, the dust, the glove — who knows? — had made that part of my wrist almost wrinkled... the skin looked unsightly, peeling!...
"Ugh! What ugly skin you have there!" cried Alexandre! My skin, do you understand — the one thing, perhaps, that is irreproachable in my person! Was I not spell-bound!
Well, that is what enrages me, exasperates me, would make me do the very devil to rehabilitate myself!!!! Without [Crossed out: Dina and Alexandre and] without the slightest idea of making myself loved, I should not even think of it.
I saw my scholars again and believe the catalogue might be realized.
Those people laugh because I concern myself with such things.
I want it so very much.
Rémy never leaves — when he comes, I am very glad if people enjoy being with me.