Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Saturday, 18 May 1878

I could quite turn communarde just to blow up
every house — every family interior!..
One ought to love one's home — and there is nothing sweeter than resting there, dreaming of other things one has done, of people one has seen... but to rest eternally! To see nothing but this wretched harem — Marie, Dina, Maman, my aunt — in the midst of whom strolls, drags herself, the favourite sultana with her lutes, her trombones, her God knows what!
The day from eight to six passes somehow by working — but the evenings!!
I will sculpt in the evenings... so as not to think that I am young, that time is passing, that I am bored, that I am in revolt, that it is dreadful!
How curious it is, though — people who have no luck, either in love or in affairs.
In love it was my fault — I worked myself into a passion over some, abandoned others... but in affairs.......... If only I had had
the luck — we could have had a most interesting salon with Paul de Cassagnac, my independence, my originality. Women lead him? Mlle Acard — Mlle Acard leads him! A French girl, a Mlle Acard, a Claire or a Mathilde... a Suzanne perhaps!
If I were someone else I would lead him, and we would have a pack of Bonapartist dogs; and if that other had my wit... (if you knew how my wit batters and exasperates me!) she would become a centre, a sort of celebrity... But it is I. I am charming, well-made, witty, educated — but... It is I, and all of that counts for nothing.
It is true that to realise this dream one would need a different position, a different style of household... then the Gascon Cassagnac would behave quite differently, and would not object to presiding over a proper salon — to playing M. Thiers at the Princesse Troubetzkoy's.
Is it that, or is it something else — what does it matter, since the result is pitiful and atrocious.
I shall go now and weep and pray to God to arrange this matter for me... It is very original to converse with the good Lord, but it does not make him any kinder to me. If God were to do everything one asks of him!... But others do not know how to ask... I have faith, I implore...
No doubt I do not deserve it.
I believe I shall die soon.
Mme Yorke, then Franceschi and Goldsmid.
Franceschi — Corsican, as you know — converted to Republicanism since his son was appointed prefect.
From eleven until twenty minutes to two we talked politics with the men. With our women one must not think of it. It is the first time I have spoken up rather boldly — but with great caution so as not to commit myself, while practising my hand.
Here is a letter from Jeanne.
Halfweg, 14 May 1878. My dear Marie,
I was so pleased to receive your news, and above all to know that you had not yet forgotten me. Here I am, married for nearly a year, and Maman must have told you that I am joyfully expecting a fine fat baby who should arrive in a few weeks.
Truly, Marie, I shall be so happy when you write to me with news of your marriage — I can only recommend it, always, if you find a good young husband and you love each other as much as my Louis and I. He is only 24, I am 19, but he has already seen and done a great deal. He was a naval officer and served in the Aceh War; but as I did not want a husband who would always be at sea instead of near me, he left the navy and is now a steward. We live in a little village between Haarlem and Amsterdam; the train fortunately stops here, so I can reach either city in a quarter of an hour, which I have made good use of this winter.
You write to me that you are occupied with painting, and in a previous letter you told me that the study of all sorts of languages took up almost all your time — but! Do you mean to become a bluestocking? And why do you not go into society?! You do not think yourself too old yet, surely? How are your Maman and Dina? Will you give them my warmest regards? And Paul? Where is he? Does he still have his beard? Oh! I nearly forgot to thank you for your portrait — you have not changed at all, and I am so glad to have your face here. Maman still has some of my photographs; I will ask her for one to send you. My dear Marie, accept the regards of my husband and the warmest kisses of your friend.
Jeanne Suermondt