Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Friday, 25 January 1878

Having gone to bed at about five o'clock, I rose this morning at a quarter to eight. But it is all the same to me. If Cassagnac were to be angry I would beg his pardon — out of cowardice, because I am not in the wrong... Or perhaps I am. He was embarrassed by my madness in front of the Boyds and feared they would think I am in lo-
ve with him and all manner of nonsense. Am I really mad then?
But what have I done?
If Cassagnac had not assumed his solemn air I would have behaved better.
In truth, I assure you I recall nothing — except something disagreeable, one cannot say quite what.
And then... do you know that Cassagnac is... intoxicating — he goes to one's head. Everyone knows it, besides.
Oh, how mad and absurd I was yesterday. And it is always so. I always spoil something.
But what did I do?
I do not know — but I feel a little ashamed.
The great Cassagnac kept saying: cracked, cracked, I tell you — she was born that way and she will die that way. I threw his Swedish matches on the floor saying they were a disgusting thing. His Hungarian wife is Swedish.
He was embarrassed for me in front of the Boyds.
When he put us in the carriage — hatless, in his evening coat and white cravat — people were beginning to gather in the street. Le Tintamarre would only need to print a witticism.
He was in fact perfectly polite and beginning to be charming when I went mad — and during my attack he tried to mitigate my nonsense. You know that Popaul is a serious man and that he is somebody... at any rate. Only since he is not dry, nor pedantic, nor grumbling, he is taken for a fool, and the stiff-starched imbeciles mock him when they dare. I am doing my competition and disguises in the same week — and Popaul is congratulated by all the right-wing deputies in the full Chamber, M. Rouher whom he had so ill-treated that summer himself applauding. And on that very same day he replies to the five women.
If we had not been such fools, we might have amused ourselves so greatly yesterday.
Thanks to that miserable mulatto, I was icy with my partners yesterday. That was wrong — it is how one repels people.
I return to Popaul, whom I shocked yesterday... I must observe myself a little — at least in front of women. Without that one gains nothing and lets pass unnoticed Popaul going to fetch hot water from the kitchen, Popaul handing a face towel, Popaul helping me climb the furniture... The poor man must think I am genuinely cracked — and I know it, I fear it.
It appears that after washing my face in front of Cassagnac and the others, I told him to wash his as well. It is Dina who assures me of this. You know that with just a few passes he cured her migraine.
Berthe says her English arm does not want to take her to the Opéra. Very well — I know now that she is going there with him. I know my Boyds.
Cassagnac has a bedroom in red figured velvet, lit by four lamps fixed to the walls, and a Christ at the head of the bed that for a moment I had taken for a portrait.
The ceiling represents a... allegory. A Cupid abandoning several pretty women and making his way toward the Eagle. I am sure — recalling various things — that we spoiled several effects for the great man. The... the only thing that vexes me is that we should have left him a bad impression.
This way of looking at women as little things that amuse one revolts me — I am even annoyed to say it; if no one remarked such people, Cassagnac would pose in vain; one ought to pretend not to notice his Balsamo airs! If he has them, surely something gave them to him?...
I do not want Cassagnac to become my occupation — in the bad sense of the word — and he will not, because if he looks at women as an old man looks at amusing children... occasionally taking part in those amusements while the children swoon with joy — I, on the other hand, regard men and women — or rather do not regard them — except as a mass that is necessary given the way the world is organized: necessary... in order to have an audience before which to be something. I am nothing.
How fine it is at Cassagnac's! But I detest him because I am envious of his adventures, his successes, his follies. I should like to be someone — a man — with manners like Cassagnac's... in a word, everything that is charming in a man is displeasing in a woman.
Just imagine if a woman, opening a drawer, were to pull out a tortoiseshell boot-sole and measure it against that of the gentleman calling upon her! That a man should have a wardrobe full of gloves, handkerchiefs, locks of hair, women — that is all very well; but that a woman should show you the
keepsakes of the men she has loved — why, it would be almost disgusting if one had the slightest illusion about the nymph.
Cassagnac measured the sole against my foot. But I hasten to add that he did not even hint at the existence of the handkerchiefs, locks of hair, gloves, etc., which I cited as the first example that came to hand.
I was vexed because he kissed the hand of Dina and of Berthe — with the latter it was the arm rather than the hand — but always with that dignified, paternal air that seems to say: oh, Madame, be reassured.