Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Friday, 15 March 1878

At moments I am still very much afraid to see Cassagnac again. And now! I went to the costumer of the Théâtre-Français with Cigale. On that note — good evening to you, Bonapartists and Republicans: when you read me, the Prince Imperial will be dead — on the throne or elsewhere — and there will perhaps be neither Empire nor Republic. Who knows what there will be.
Charitable souls, remember Popaul, and in his honor perform a little spiritualism. Call me up and let me speak — I who love life and the living so dearly. Do not take it laughing; I adjure you to do what I say, and I beseech you. It is likely I shall have written so much and have nothing to tell — but do it for me.
Breslau asked me for advice on her figure study.
Etienne's portrait irritates me to the highest degree.
I hope a time will come when people will pay attention to me — they do now, but I am speaking of the newspapers and the general public. For I am a little vexed at paying attention to others while being nothing myself — not even a woman people pay attention to. It is true that for nearly five months now I have been seen by not a living soul, apart from the few wretched dot-hunters who come to our house. I absolutely except Blanc; as for the other, there is no point even mentioning it. Let us console ourselves... In Rome, despite many things, it was not bad; in Naples Larderei had annihilated me — I saw nothing and no one. Since then I have lived hidden, and in my retreat there may be... but that is not interesting. I am so afraid of being taken for a woman who is easy game. It is true that I have never had occasion to make a brilliant marriage, but as for attracting — I believe I attract enough in general. Come now, my dear — in the name of your dignity as a woman, do not excuse yourself.
While we were at dinner, M. Georges crossed the room to go to his father's. He might have chosen another moment. At first I was seized with surprise — then, furious, I went to lock the door, intending to reopen it — but they thought I was "imprisoning the wretched old man," and not wishing to let that supposition pass in vain, I kept the key. They opened another door, which settled everything — but Madame my mother began to scream and to make a scene in which I of course played the most monstrous role, since I was sequestering a dying man and refusing to let his dinner be served. In short, I was overwhelmed with the most odious abuse, to which I replied in a horribly cold and insolent tone: another woman would already be dead for what you say, but you
are my mother and I owe you respect. I am glad there is someone to see what you say to me on account of Georges — and how you seek to create a quarrel between us; you seek to have me insult you so as to distort the affair.
Then I am told that everyone already knows me as a wretch, a brigand, a horror, and that it is for this reason that [Words blacked out: one cannot] introduce me into society.
I am above all struck with wonder when a mother screams such slanders against her daughter before people who are almost strangers. I truly cannot believe she wishes to defame and destroy me — it is a fury, a madness, some kind of illness that carries her away.
I am almost glad to be so miserable in this, because it authorizes me to pray to God to have pity on me for the rest.
You know what M. Georges screamed the other night — heard by the doctor, by Blanc, by everyone:
— Your daughter is a girl who drags herself through every disreputable place in Paris.
And as his mouth was being stopped:
— Yes, she... etc. etc. And then he said:
— Very well, send for the police — the commissioner will establish that you (Maman and my aunt) want me for your husband.
But between the way I render it and the way he said it there is an abyss — it was so hideous that I cannot remember it, and even if I could remember I would not soil my pen — to say nothing of my lips — with such horrible atrocities.
Yorke and Berthe in the evening.