Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Wednesday, 8 August 1877

[In the notebook Marie noted "Tuesday 7 August 1877" but it is the 8th]
They left on Monday — yesterday — and we have just received a telegram from Maman in which she says they have lost three large trunks.
On account of a poor book — the Journal d'un diplomate en Italie by d'Ideville — a storm!
No doubt the baroness does not understand that anyone could prefer anything to the boulevards of Paris, and I am sure that when I complain she treats me, mentally, as a barbarian — a little half-civilized eccentric who is rich and does not know how to use her money, while she, a Frenchwoman, civilized, and above all a Frenchwoman!...
There are very few French people who understand a pleasant existence outside France — above all those who have not travelled.
Since I adore Italy, I imagine everyone will find me stupid for adoring it, take me for a fool howling at the moon, and dispute the beauties, the charms, the attractions of that country. A unique, marvellous, incomparable country.
From which I am exiled!!
And the only means (?) of returning there is to stay in Paris! To get married at last! I shall search in Paris, then go to London, to Spain, to the devil!!!
One weeps at oneself and laughs at oneself, but one is more sad than gay.
If I could go there now, I should find a husband there more easily than elsewhere. But if I could go there, do you think I would marry just like that?! Oh, no. Then I would only marry for love.
I went to stupefy myself at the Bon Marché, which pleases me as everything well organized does.
We supped at home. Hall drank and drank and drank; the baroness a little too; the baron returned from Georges's rather tipsy; my aunt and I enjoyed the spectacle. At last the baron laid his old head on his wife's shoulder; Hall wanted to take me in her arms to match them, bursting into laughter... I laughed — but really... I am sad, desperate!
And it is impossible. A dreadful, despairing, horrible, hideous word!!!
To die, my God, to die!!
To die... without having left anything behind me? To die like a dog, as a hundred thousand women have died whose names are barely engraved on their tombs?
To die like...
Madwoman! Madwoman who does not see what God wills! God wills that I renounce everything and devote myself to art! In five years I shall still be young — perhaps I shall be beautiful, beautiful with my own beauty... Yes, but what if I became only an artistic mediocrity, like so many?! With society that would be well enough, but to consecrate one's life to it and not succeed... I reason as if I had a choice! Wretch, madwoman, coward, unworthy, fool... ridiculous!!!
In Paris as everywhere there is a Russian colony... it is not those petty considerations that enrage me — but however petty they may be, they drive me to despair and prevent me from thinking of my greatness.
What is life without company? What can one do, always alone, alone, alone! It makes me hate my family, hate myself, blaspheme! To live, to live, to live! Holy Mary, Mother of God, Lord Jesus Christ.
Who to appeal to, who to implore, what to do?!
My God, come to my aid!
But if one devotes oneself to the arts one must go to Italy!!! Yes, to Rome — and that is impossible.
That [Words blacked out: granite wall] against which I want to dash my forehead at every moment!...
I shall stay here.
[Marie noted Wed.8 and Thursday 8, but corrected it afterwards]
Since my air baths I no longer eat — an effect completely opposite to the usual one. While one is shut inside the chamber it is impossible to read nonsense; I divide myself between a physiology textbook and a book of Roman history of the fifth century. It lasts two hours. My aunt and Hall were reading novels while I was put inside. Oh! yes, I am inside...
There is nothing surprising in Gaston's wife speaking French like a Frenchwoman — her mother is French (a Fitz-James) and her father is the Duc Salviati, second son of Prince Borghese and Princess Borghese née de la Rochefoucauld. The eldest son is the current Prince Borghese (father of the famous Don Giovanni of Naples), and the third son bears the title of Prince of Aldobrandini.
Where do I know this? From the Journal d'un diplomate by Monsieur d'Ideville. This, and a great many other things, which put me in states where I would dash my skull against the first milestone I met!! And I am nothing!!! Oh, envy — oh, rage!!!
If I still had my voice! One could... a great talent opens every door.
And to think that the visit to the embassy is what ruined everything!!
I was a child — I thought it was the same everywhere as in Nice...
Almost all the Roman aristocrats have married foreigners — not only La Rochefoucaulds and Branickis, but also Americans, sometimes for their money, but sometimes also for their beauty.
The arts! But for the arts one must go to Italy! Call it useless as some people claim, say one can do without — very well. But why do all the artists from every corner of the world go there? Call it absurd if you like — but it is so universally accepted that it would become obligatory even if the only reason for it were the fashion of Panurge's sheep.
And if one looks closely, everything or almost everything in this world is an effect of imagination.
And that horizon over the countryside and the Villa Borghese in the foreground — can one ever forget it? And the clusters of umbrella pines scattered here and there, the old walls of Honorius, the gigantic aqueducts!! That admirable landscape framed in the dark blue sky one sees only in Rome; the tepid, slightly enervating atmosphere; the sharp perfume of the evergreen trees — all of it, down to the muffled rumbling of the carriages on the Pincio, down to that silence full of gaiety and poetry, penetrates the soul and engraves itself as an ineffaceable memory... the artists who have had the good fortune of a long sojourn in that blessed corner have experienced those sensations of well-being, recollectedness, and peace!
For some days I had grown accustomed to the idea of having a letter for Florence — and I believe I shall not have it. Miss Smith is going to travel this winter; my American learned this from that person's sister.
It was like a blow, and I had to go and take air on the balcony. I would thus have attended Hall's suppers for nothing! Stupid! If Julie could be met this summer, it would perhaps be a hundred times better...
Oh! look, I hate myself, I hate myself, I hate myself!
This book that speaks of Italy — I cannot read it, because the whole time it gives me hot and cold flushes, shivers, tears; it is surprising and stupid like Emile.
I have arrived at being suspicious and superstitious to the point of madness. I think that Miss Smith's sister will have seen me here and will have advised Hall against giving me the letter. Then... I met her on a Friday, and Paul de Cassagnac on a Monday.
I have at last seen the celebrated Worth himself. While we were talking about a gown, all the employees — men and women — gathered around us and listened with reverential rapture.
Rémy came to us; if everyone talked as he does I might perhaps revive.
I live now only to come and record my detestable impressions here twenty times a day.
I have become a slave to the least things; I impose conditions, absurd necessities on myself: do this and such a thing will happen — or else: if the person who opens the door is a woman, such a thing will not happen — etc. etc. etc.!
And I believe in these stupidities! I believe them in spite of myself!!
I tell myself it is senseless — and I truly believe it!
It is like the thought I have had for two months now: stop keeping your journal and your luck will turn! If I were to write no more... I should take notes in secret from myself.
Ah! I am worn out, lost, finished, annihilated!
[A few words cancelled]

Notes

Henry d'Ideville, Journal d'un diplomate en Italie (1872): memoirs of a French diplomat in Turin and Rome during Italian unification, containing vivid descriptions of Roman aristocratic society. ↩
Panurge's sheep (moutons de Panurge): from Rabelais's Pantagruel, where Panurge tricks a merchant's sheep into jumping overboard one by one; a proverbial expression for herd mentality and blind imitation. ↩
The Aurelian Walls (murailles d'Honorius): ancient defensive walls of Rome, originally built by Emperor Aurelian (270–275 AD) and reinforced under Honorius in the early 5th century; still largely intact, a defining feature of the Roman landscape. ↩
Charles Frederick Worth (1825–1895): English-born Paris couturier, founder of haute couture; his house at 7 rue de la Paix dressed the Empress Eugénie and all fashionable Europe. ↩