Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Sunday, 23 March 1879

With my customary wisdom I set to painting at half past five. I had thirty minutes of daylight left — enough to sketch myself on a size-four canvas, standing, turned violently upon myself, the long train wrapping around me and defining my shape — dressed as Robespierre, as a revolutionary, head high, with an air of defying the universe. The left arm is hidden, the right falls straight — but the body is so arched by the movement that there is a space between the waist and the arm. I had begun with two or three sketches in the album before the mirror. Tomorrow I shall arrange it without finishing it — it amuses me greatly, and besides it will immortalize my habitual costume: black bodice and a batiste chemisette with cuffs and a gathered-ruffle jabot. And then — I have almost republican tendencies, thanks to young Arnaud's pink tickets.
Arnaud, Alexandre, Alexandre Dumas, Antonelli, Audiffret, Auguste Hohenlohe, Alfred Multedo... Antoine Blanc. When a name begins with an A, there are always chances that he will take an interest in me, or that I shall take an interest in him — that he will do me harm or good — whether through love or otherwise.