Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Thursday, 7 March 1878

This morning on my way to the atelier I stopped at the Figaro to have published a two-hundred-franc reward for whoever finds Pincio. The first days I did not take it in, and now I cannot see a dog without a tightening of the heart.
^7^ [Undated] [To M. F. de Marcuard] Someone has just stolen my white dog, Pincio — the one you saw at our house. It is horrible. I believe he has been taken out of Paris; I write on all sides in case these wretches should be caught by the charitable souls to whom I appeal.
Do you know of any action more shameful than stealing a dog? It is cowardly, simply. What! — one takes a creature attached to its masters, sometimes possessed of an intelligence far superior to that of certain bipeds, but incapable of defending itself — there is the sublime of pettiness and malice.
You are fortunate — you have no dog, and no one has stolen one from you. Well!
What can one do — I have posted a reward of 200 francs and it has served no purpose. Is it not an indignity of the entire human race?
Console me by speaking of Italy.
[Marie]
The Spanish students are giving a ball this evening at M. Tarbé's, editor of the Gaulois.
There are sixty-five or seventy of these students; they have come to spend 60,000 francs in Paris amusing themselves. They are feted everywhere; they have sung and played guitars, mandolins, etc. at the Elysée, in the embassies, and at ministers' houses.
As this week I do not go to the atelier in the afternoon, I took Dina, and at one o'clock we went to the Boyds' where I collected Yorke and Berthe, and then we went to the Figaro to obtain information about this ball; they sent us to the Gaulois, where I gave the name of the princess Eristoff.
By three o'clock we had received the invitation. Very well — but one had to know whether it was a respectable ball. Whom to ask? The party contented itself with going to the Vaudeville, and I to the atelier. A pity. But bah — neither the first nor the last vexation.
Tomorrow we are organizing a party to go see Les cloches de Corneville — an operetta that is causing a sensation and is at its 290th performance, I believe. Escorts have been invited, and I pushed Mme Yorke to invite Paul de Cassagnac, who will not come but will find her very foolish and ill-bred. He has not even left a card at her house (nor at la Fayet's either).
But I detest her, as I do Berthe — that is to say, I do not detest them, but I am devilishly angry with them for the unmasking that spoiled everything.
Besides — Monsieur frequents the Faubourg Saint-Germain; the Orléanists reproach him for it, and he replies with an article saying that one can be a man of the world and still have convictions, and that
[Extraits du journal de Marie Bashkirtseff, Ed. Fasquelle, 1892, pp. 91-92]
...besides, he is not in the habit of leaving his opinions in the antechamber.
There are people who are fortunate. I envy him deeply; I grow impatient and play the guitar, wretched creature that I am, or the mandolin — but it only brings back Italy and moves me to tenderness with all its touching airs and all its beautiful songs.
[Words blacked out: At moments a more foolish and above all more fortunate woman would take this for a kind of love.]
[Four lines cancelled: which is the only means of escaping envy, which is a disagreeable feeling]
And truly, to rid oneself of this atrocious envy it would be so convenient! To become one with the creature, to love him at last — and then envy transforms into pride. Yes, that is the way to escape this disagreeable feeling and transform it into something charming; unfortunately it is too difficult and complicated — good Lord! if it were not, everyone would do it, and I would not complain of envying him. [Written across the page: of envying Cassagnac]
Naturally I should very much like to make myself admired [Words blacked out: if not loved] by this gentleman — above all; and that is why I rage more than ever at my more than ever insupportable isolation. Do you think I should not like to go to the Faubourg Saint-Germain, to go into society at last, and to enjoy all the amusements proper to my age, my education, my vanity?
Art is great — but I have not the strength! I weep, and I am miserable.
And to think that no merit can help me. Nothing but my complexion — nothing but the caprice of a man!
And time passes, passes, passes — sinister, inexorable, atrocious! My mothers are only too glad that I amuse myself at the atelier. "Everyone is quieter that way."
But understand, wretched creatures — one lives but once! You who have lived should understand! You are burying me — you are stealing my share of joy, of light, of life!
Ah! Very well. Go hang, my girl. Oh! What fine phrases — light, life — come now!
There is nothing more to say to them on this subject that has not already been said.
I have nothing to do, then, but to sink into a false indifference — to be crushed and deeply despairing.
People admire my application — they find it admirable that I never go to the Bois, or to the theatre. I do not want a theatre where one pays for one's own seat!!
At the atelier they find it admirable to have left society for work!!!
I do not mean that I would not work if I lived decently; on the contrary, I should work better, not being torn and tormented and pulled in every direction.
I resign myself to being crushed — but do what I will, it wears me out, makes me ugly... And time passes, passes, passes.