Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Saturday, 22 June 1878

Here is the letter that I revised and drafted until nightfall.
You must receive such a shower of anonymous letters that I warn you above all that this is not one of them. Read it to the end, whatever you may find — otherwise do not read a single word; that is my will. I come to you directly; listen to me with respect, out of respect for yourself — then you may make of it what you can. Time presses and the interest is too serious to be checked by commonplace susceptibilities. Perhaps this supreme and perfectly considered step will prove to be merely inopportune — but at least one will have nothing to reproach oneself with before oneself. One believes you are making a mistake; one may be making a mistake oneself — that will be all. The woman who has despised everyone and has had nothing but mockery on her lips is going to speak to you with an open heart, judging the matter worth the trouble and proving to you thereby that she honours you as her equal — which is, whatever people may say, the greatest distinction
[Ibid. p. 361–364]
one can confer upon one's equal. I fear you will not read me, afraid of being distracted from the fine act you have resolved to commit. You are so entangled that you believe yourself perhaps in love — and naturally, not feeling the sacred fire, you console yourself by thinking that these are pure feelings and by inventing exquisite graces where there is nothing but a great ease acquired by long practice. I have no wish to run anyone down — you know more about that than I do. But arranged affairs do not suit you. What is it you want then — money? You can have three times as much. This dull alliance will have a dull influence even on your political career. You think you are making a serious marriage; it is found to be petty and farcical; they even say you are resigning yourself to this sad end in order to drown your disappointments. But these are follies. Leave this disgrace — there is still time; and know that a younger, richer, more suitable woman asks only to sacrifice everything to you and come and lie at your feet, submissive and devoted as a dog, whatever your situation, whatever your future. Your family would be happier with a worthier, more advantageous match; you yourself will not be happy with a mediocre woman, not even young, to whom you are delivered by some outrageous miracle. It is madness to speak to you of this so late — but who could have believed in such folly on your part, a signal folly that one cannot let pass without crying out... and besides, one did not know it would cause so much pain!.. there is still time. Take advantage of the compassionate chance that has suspended this horrible folly. Leave this vulgar, unworthy, bourgeois bargain that debases your character. Let them stop outraging you by saying you could not aspire to anything better, and that this type of shop-girl is all you deserve. For no one believes in love in this miserable affair. One will console oneself with difficulty, no doubt — for one does not find as many husbands as one wishes with these charms rising only ordinarily above the ordinary, and this wit cultivated in churches and Opera balls. Young, intelligent, full of a future (whatever you may think) — it would be a sad, mad ending. Have pity on yourself and a little on others. Things can be arranged — there is still time, and it is only just time! Your family, despite present circumstances, will ask nothing better than to see your well-being ensured, your intimate happiness, your future greatness facilitated. What I advise may be wrong — but I sincerely believe you are going astray; and besides, were one an angel, in these matters one is a devil of an egoist. Do not then be afraid to confess that you are yielding to the entreaties of your family, the priests, the good women. You still can! Think that your whole life is at stake — and another's. It would still be easy — a delay, a journey... What in God's name would one have to say to persuade you — to restore you to yourself!
Lift your head — see into what bourgeois mud you are plunging! But you are violent and wilful only on the outside! Is it worth being what you are to end like this? A modest exterior is no guarantee — remember all the plain women you have led astray from the right path, perhaps to lead them to a better one — no, I have no desire to laugh. You are too practical to let yourself be taken in by the tenderly
domestic and stay-at-home airs that every girl affects when she wants to marry. Such girls, once they have got what they want, are sometimes worse than the others — especially if they have waited long. What seduces you is the pot-au-feu, the useful, which is not very cheerful — but do you really think that a woman who loves, and a woman of heart, is not capable of being whatever one wishes? This one loves you, you say — but she would love any husband! Take a woman pretty enough to do you honour, and good enough, and elevated enough of soul to be above the pitiful routine concerns of housewives who do their own marketing — who then have it done by their husbands. A woman who would sacrifice all her pride to you, who would see only you instead of her own little hidden ambition. Know that to make a good husband, just as a truly good mother of a family, an ideal wife — there is only one truly superior being who can alone have the charms of virtue and goodness without their pettiness and tedium. Although you have often broken your word (you will keep this one!), I ask your word never to boast in the monstrous case that you might care, and loyally to forget (if a being so brutified as this would have any notion of that feeling) this loyal rescue attempt dictated by a deep and sincere friendship for you. But in giving so flagrant a proof of so dreadful a taste you would deserve the deepest contempt and the most wretched fate. You who talk of feet, beauty, distinction, breeding — let us speak of it! Come — a generous impulse; after all I think there must be something, and especially that after you one will find some old naval officer who will do perfectly well. No — it is not yet too late; it is never too late since you do not love her! Beware of false generosity — they have you by that. Be truly generous and do not let a sable drown to save a rat that is not even in danger. One will find consolation there — you will have served as an advertisement; one will never find consolation here — and one will be right to say so. Appeal to your reason, to your heart... One will console oneself nonetheless if you persist in rolling in the dust — for you will show thereby that you have no more than you deserve.
SUZANNE AU MASQUE. June 1878. Paris.
During the day I was scolded by Robert-Fleury; then I went to the Gavinis, and then M. de Morgan came in the evening. I am making use of the lessons Maman gives me — I am becoming tender, compassionate, etc.
Just think — Multedo came during the day and presented a petition to Maman on behalf of many people, all of whom find that I have nothing but wit, that this firework display is tiring, that it is a pity I have no heart... So I am cruel, cold, and mocking — what happiness! I suspected as much, but I did not dare believe it. What luck!
It is charming. We complain of the marriage of
Cassagnac — if I had ever had in my head the possibility of making something of him, I would have acted differently and I would have succeeded. He asks only for a good wife and a good dowry. And would I want him at that price? Yes — and if he came to say one word to me I would go with him as Berthe went with Lancaster. With him there would be freedom, the possibility of doing something, and to compensate for wealth there would be something else. Maman believes I am desperate. Not at all. But at moments I have such moral weaknesses that they nearly make me faint — which is why I resolved to send this letter; at least I shall have nothing to reproach myself with if later I am visited by pain and regret. But this Multedo and these other brave people! Adorable!
The letter is almost in my own handwriting, and the envelope entirely so. You wonder if I am mad... not at all. Everything is weighed. All my family knows what I am writing — except certain expressions. In the meantime all this amuses me; I laugh at my inventions and imagine what must result from them.
Little aunt Marie says with the greatest conviction that if I had a heart I would be a phenomenon. I wore one in emerald this evening.
Provided he reads this letter.