Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Thursday, 30 August 1877

I did not speak, and this evening at Wiesbaden we learned that Shipka is in Russian hands, that the Turks have been beaten (at least for the moment), and that great reinforcements are coming to us.
This news is conveyed to us by [written across the page: the Baron von Bechman], an embassy attaché in Paris who has been decorated by France for acts of treachery, and who regained Bismarck's favour by delivering up the Count d'Arnim to him. Mme Bechman, I am told, has made many advances which were crowned this evening by her sharing this despatch — which they have through the embassy — announcing good news for us. Lautrec will be, I believe, our go-between.
There is a fine skating rink at Wiesbaden — I skated.

*"Skating": in English in the original.
On my return I had a new conversation... or rather, no: I spoke of the perpetual matter, and after they had exasperated me with a shameful silence, they drove me mad by shouting that I did not know what I wanted, that I made scenes about everything, that always, in everything and for everything, I did nothing but quarrel, etc., etc. Always, in everything and for everything — these three phrases repeated with infinite variations, interspersed with memories of what I had done in Russia, or at Spa, or at Baden-Baden. One can do nothing against a foregone conclusion. And it is impossible to recount those infamous, cowardly, imbecile, stubborn answers — on one single point no matter what one says, begs, curses, weeps!
Nothing is more heartbreaking and ridiculous than to speak of embassy introductions through tears and shouts. I shouted because they prevented me from speaking by shouting stupidities.
And it is also infernally maddening. There are things one is reluctant to specify, to demand — and they forced me to, in order to embarrass me.
Can one be so... wicked, wicked, wicked!
I weep for myself as I once wept for the villa they had sickened me of.
What would it cost to answer me in a friendly way, to try with me to find some means, instead of mocking me pitilessly, exasperating me!!
What is more horrible than a drama over an invitation? One is quite ashamed to press on such things...
"You don't know what you want; you do this about everything, in everything, and for everything."
And there you have it.
Now I want nothing more; what I say is for a last easing of conscience — but I want nothing more. How can I enjoy myself, or go out, or dance?
I have lost confidence — in myself and in everything. I am afraid of everything. And all my future pleasures are so drenched in tears and covered with suffering, exasperation, and humiliations that one cannot see them through all that, and I would be ashamed to enjoy them.
[Bottom of page removed by Marie]
When I was small, every one of my pleasures was preceded by a three-hour scene, which did not at all prevent my being "adored" — and yet I enjoyed nothing; I had wept away all the pleasure I might have had. So it is now.
And I am even sadder when I begin to grieve that it is so, and to weep because I cannot [Crossed out: be able to] enjoy what I obtain — disgusted, anxious, on edge, afraid of everything, not daring to take a step [Bottom of page removed] or say a word.
No matter how much I write, one will never understand what importance the most wretched things can assume, and how unhappy they can make one.
What could I sacrifice to live? Everything. Without exceptions or restrictions — everything, everything. And since it would be wrong, I should be punished for it by the remorse I would have deserved. And rest assured, I shall not complain!
In moments like this I ask myself very seriously: what is the use of everything I desire? And I understand neither the world, nor glory, nor love.
I am dead. How can one not be in despair?