Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Wednesday, 29 August 1877

[One line struck through]
Having long been tormented by the point — obscure to me — of the transition from the Empire to the kingdoms and the final fragmentation of Italy, I took a book by Amedée Thierry [Crossed out: a few words struck] and went off into the woods, where I read, searched, and learned what was needed, all while wandering at random, not knowing where I was going and vainly imagining encounters like the one I described in a monstrous poem about Schlangenbad, written last year at Nice.
But in the afternoon, sad to say, I am overcome again by the desire to live among my kind. I am miserable and wretched thinking that I might have been like so many others — loved, admired, known, listened to...
And perhaps not — how not? And those first days in Rome and Naples and everywhere?
So many people, stained, so many upstarts, so many people of scandal and shame are there, and I?!
I am literally losing myself — it is absurd. I am about to seek... if we had not... Enough!... Speaking of the past is stupid; let us speak of the present. It is not a question of knowing what might have been if such and such a thing had been done or not done; it is a question of seeing what one can do... My God, Holy Virgin, give me enough virtue not to curse my father!!!
Next winter I shall be twenty. And I am terrified.
And my family, who will do nothing!
The Russians are going from bad to worse. I was in the house across the way where my family are lodged, and they were talking of cream, of coffee which is very good at the Waldmühle... How the devil can they busy themselves with such trifles? They do not love me, I suppose. They were reading the war news: the Shipka Pass is still in Russian hands; tomorrow we shall know the result of the decisive action. Immediately I make a vow not to say a word until tomorrow, so that our side may win.
You may imagine what use my dear Silène would be to me this evening, since Rosalie, who reads very badly, cannot understand my miming.
I have become so timid that at the mere thought of appearing somewhere I blush to the tips of my ears. And I look arrogant and determined.
I at twenty — it is an absurdity. My talents in the state of weeds, my hopes, my manias, my whims are going to become ridiculous at twenty... to begin painting at twenty, when one had the pretension to do everything before and better than everyone else!
Some people deceive others; I have deceived myself. What a flop! — to use Audiffret's expression.
And my family, who see all this... as if it were the most natural thing!!
That is to say... never have I been so indignant and so ready to die of rage and tears.
The fact is I have no luck, as they say vulgarly — if I had "luck," some wealthy lord would turn up to carry me out of this pitiful, wretched, cruel, shameful situation!