Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Tuesday, 27 July 1880

Courtes is getting married; I send him a telegram of congratulations. He is marrying the daughter of a former stockbroker, Dubois; there must be money. So much the better. The poor devil desired it so naively that one can only rejoice at the end of his troubles.
Maman writes me letters in French in which she speaks of my bad sentiments and finds that I am wrong to complain. I ought, it seems, to remember that I have always mistreated and driven away Count Multedo, who nevertheless has for a wife a Frenchwoman of good family...
What can one reply to such things? I took all that gibberish with its ridiculous spelling and sent it back to its author.
I try to paint landscape, but it ends with a kick to the canvas, and then a little girl of four was there beside me watching me work, and instead of looking at my landscape I was looking at the child, who will pose for me starting tomorrow. How can one prefer anything to the figure?
The Moreaus bore me, and to crown it all, the Moreau son, whom his mother thinks ravishing, is about to arrive.
I have such pain between my neck and my left ear, all inside, that it is enough to drive one mad. I do not mention it; it would make my aunt pester me, and I know it is connected to my sore throat.
For more than twenty-four hours I have been suffering enough to scream; impossible to sleep or to do anything; even reading is interrupted every moment. It is this pain that makes me see life so darkly, I believe. Misery of miseries!
When shall I have done with it altogether, forever!