Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Thursday, 19 August 1880

I am worth nothing this morning, eyes and head tired. And to think that I do not leave until Saturday! Today I have not time; tomorrow is Friday, and if I left on Friday, I would think that the annoyances that always befall me happened because of that.
I do not believe Prince Napoleon will come; besides, I am too tired of this place to stay any longer. And the regimen I follow is not meant to keep me in good humor and health.
On Friday we are to go riding, but longer than yesterday, leaving at nine o'clock, lunching at the devil-knows-where over there, and returning. It is the lunch that repels me, for the ride itself is not too demanding, and through these mountains one walks single file and need not converse at all.
I have a fever, my arms are dropping, my hair will not curl. I was cold; now I am burning.
This morning I walked and I finished my painting. With the outdoor sessions for the abandoned painting and all the trouble I caused them, it came to 100 francs. That is dear.
I am sickened after reading Le Figaro and Le Gaulois. Le Figaro has become not very gay, and with that it takes on more and more the dull and stupid tones of Legitimism. As for Le Gaulois, it publishes front-page pieces on Trouville or Dieppe where one finds sentences like this: "Outside a few groups move away along the beach and disappear into the darkness. What are they going to do at such an hour? From time to time the moon, emerging from a cloud, illuminates white dresses that seem from afar like fantastic apparitions, and on the shimmering water shadows suddenly appear strangely entwined" or else: "The boardwalk and the Casino will take on a grave air (after the races), and in the evening Mme Durifflard of Caen will be able to walk her family on the sand without being exposed to hearing swooning, whispering voices and seeing the red or white flash of a woman's hat dancing strangely in the shadow."
Is that pretty? And it is the same Gaulois that demands prosecution of newspapers that indulge in literature for the use of old men... burnt out.
These things only pass with talent. But an imbecile who attempts them produces disgustations stupid enough to make one weep.
Here is a pamphlet by Rochefort. The old Lanterne that I did not know. But all this saddens me.
The little what's-his-name, that filth Antonelli, said to me in Rome: "When I see all the parties that divide Italy, I become sad to the point of weeping."
As for me, until now I have no country that is more my homeland than France. But I do not love this country; I would like to exploit it, make use of it, but that is all.
As for Russia, which is my blood and my flesh, I prefer to keep myself away from it. If I meddled in its affairs, I would become too passionate, and the result? To be deported or imprisoned with fallen women. One could avoid that, but there is nihilism, which is the disgrace of the Russian liberal party. One would only have to be confused with those sinister idiots, and the government, if it saw you gaining any influence, would not fail to do so.
All that, these are reasons that prove I have no vocation for useless devotion... perhaps even useful but lost in the crowd.
What I would like is just enough danger for it to be colorful.