Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Tuesday, 29 January 1878

— I tell you I am not the Colonelle.
— But yes, but yes — you are the Colonelle to me; come — and he led me gently aside, letting the others go first. Well, here are several nothings that prove that execution is almost everything. Let us not seek grand compositions for our pictures; let us represent anything at all, the least of things — but let it be true, and it will succeed.
I suspect our Paul of having said as much to the others.
— As for your name, I am going to whisper it in your ear.
— Say it.
— But you must give me your word of honour to say yes if I guess correctly.
— Yes.
— Marie.
[Written in the margin: Here is what I have just found in Balzac: Love is not merely a feeling — it is also an art. A simple word, a precaution, a trifle reveals to a woman the great and sublime artist who wishes to touch her heart without withering it. This resembles what I have written here. April 1878]
I began to laugh.
— I shall give you no other.
As he was asked at table to make three wishes, he said that above all he wished to be in love — not as he had been, but truly... whereupon Mme Yorke remarked that he was said to be in love with a young Russian girl.
— With a Hungarian woman! I cried.
— With a Swedish woman, cried Dina.
It was stupid and malicious enough to be Mme Yorke's doing. But you cannot guess the conclusion.
We arrange to meet at the next Bal de l'Opéra, and I promise to sup with him and join him in his box. Which I seriously intended to do. Do not shudder — Cassagnac inspires in me a confidence so absolute and so amusing that I would go anywhere with him.
We were all on the salon divan, and Popaul seated at our feet — at mine, which were kissed several times... and I have
no shame??!
— You, he says to de Daillens — with you there is only one thing to be done: here is my hand.
— I agree, said she — with rather good spirit for a republican.
— You, the Colonelle — you are good: good at home, good everywhere, gentle, calm, and indifferent. None of this matters much to you.
— You... Georges — you have what you need; you are replete, you have found your man; you are sceptical, satisfied, mocking, and witty.
— Do you not know, great Paul, I said, that women who are in love and satisfied become witty, mocking, and sceptical?
— Indeed I do — and look at her: she is content, she is digesting her love; nothing to be done with you, Georges — you have found your man.
— As for you, the novice — you are entirely innocent, or else you have reached the furthest extreme of perversity, which much resembles it... candour, or hardened vice.
— And you — you are the only one with whom there would be something to be done; I am rarely mistaken... well, with you we shall try living together. She is the only one who is free, my dear five women, is she not? Look at the Colonelle — see those arms; well, if I were a wholly material man, her arms and that fine figure might disturb me — but for my part I prefer a pair of feet to twelve thousand naked women; believe me, my women, there is nothing more tedious for a man than...
— Being loved...
— Precisely — and for my own part I have had enough of those loves where one... arrives...
I could tell you so much! That is not the best of what I am recounting here.
— Guess quickly who I am, said Berthe — I am very hot. Cassagnac approached her, still on his knees, and she was so enraptured that the madwoman, the fool, the idiot removed her mask.
I confess I did not expect so vicious a piece of stupidity. To be recognised with some doubt — very well; but to unmask!! It was like a cold douche. I rise and go to sit at a distance; Mme de Daillens proposes to leave; the other three imbeciles unmask entirely. Poor Paul thought, I believe, that all these women were about to come to blows — he went from one to the other kissing hands and consoling everyone.
The escapade had entirely changed its character... To unmask! I approach the writing-desk and write these words, which Cassa-
gnac takes and reads: this is what comes of choosing stupid women for companions. — There is one, he says, indicating me seated apart from the others in an armchair — there is one who is not pleased.
— Go to the devil!
— Oh! that is her favourite phrase. Well then, he added, as if to console me in a low voice — was I not right to say that you were the most gentille of the five!
[Written in the margin: merely gentille now]
— Oh! right, right, I said.
— No doubt right, he resumed, in the most fraternally tender of voices, kissing my hand with that ingenuous and caressing air that is so agreeable.
This man would lead me to the ends of the earth — and I am seriously tempted to try living together... More than a brother and less than a lover. It would be amusing.
To whom should I send the number of your box?
— To no one.
— Whatever do you expect me to do with it!
— But... I thought you would find some arrangement...
— What number?
— 38.
He is so conceited that he will never think ill of it, believing — with reason — that one does it for him alone.
I arrived home and delivered terrible speeches on the stupidity of women — before Blanc, who knows we were in disguise but does not know for whom.
Then I undressed entirely, lay down on a mattress on the salon floor, and did not wake until seven in the morning. We stayed nearly two and a half hours at our Paul's. I gave myself the satisfaction of studying his face at leisure — which is impossible in a drawing room. He is not more handsome than... anything you please — but there are not two faces as remarkable and proud, nor two bearing as rakish, as easy, as solemn, and as... distinguished — that is not the word as one habitually employs it.
That wretched Popaul — I told him he would wear out his lips with all this kissing of hands and feet. It would be a pity, on the honour of an honest woman.
All the same I had an excellent time and I am not displeased with myself.
The competition will be judged tomorrow... I am so afraid of being ranked poorly.
I was so frightened of the competition that it took poor Rosalie superhuman efforts to get me out of bed. I expected either to receive the medal or to be ranked among the very last. Neither one nor the other. I have remained at the same place as two months ago — which means it is a failure... If I have not risen, it is Cassagnac's fault. I shall make him pay for it — with his Colonelle!
He was so rakish and so amusing while showing his portrait in his Zouave uniform — the Colonelle admiring the Zouave like a connoisseur.
I went to visit Breslau, who is still unwell. I promised Cassagnac an ivory foot-sole — but he would put it into... the common grave. I shall have my feet painted with all their imperfections.

Notes

Collage: 1870s Parisian slang for an informal liaison or cohabitation outside marriage. ↩
Gentille in French is faint praise — "nice" or "pleasant" rather than truly attractive. Marie's marginal note registers the sting: she has been damned with the mildest of compliments. ↩