Tuesday, 28 September 1880

A good day, begun in the night. I dreamed of Cassagnac. He was plain and unwell — but that does not matter. I understand now that one does not love for beauty. We were talking like two friends, as before; as we would talk again if we met! I asked only one thing: that our friendship remain within the permitted limits, so as to last. [Two lines crossed out]
That was my dream in waking life too. In short, I have never been so happy as last night.
Saint-Amand arrives for lunch, full of enthusiasm over my letter, which was written like this:
Facsimile of Marie's note whose lines wind in a spiral towards the centre, where the initials M.B. stand
Letter to the Baron de Saint-Amand written in a spiral, «Cher baron, nous allons ce soir au cirque…», signed M.B. Mon Journal, t. 13, p. 352
Copied letterLettre de Marie Bashkirtseff au baron de Saint-Amand, 28 septembre 1880, écrite en spirale
Dear Baron, we are going to the circus this evening with M. Gavini. I know the horror that place and the hams it harbours inspire in you, but I am counting on your selflessness to join our party. Bring your young subordinate too, if he has not left. M.B.
This buffoonery earns me an avalanche of compliments — I am this and that, and this winter an élite circle will form around me; he will bring me celebrities, all the somebodies, and so on and so on! I did not even need any of that. I woke up laughing and it did not stop. Besides — see the madness of the evening. Towards half past six the bell rings: it is Saint-Amand again and Gabriel, coming to propose something mad, for the fun of it.
Gabriel’s father is giving a dinner this evening for a few solemn Algerians, to talk over Tunisian business — they have properties there.
Old Gavini is one of the party, and Saint-Amand too, and Gabriel had the idea of announcing two colleagues from the ministry to his father — and bringing my aunt and me instead.
Imagine our arrival — old Géry suspected nothing. In short, it was delightful.
There is Monsieur le comte de Sancy, Allégro, and a someone-or-other, an Arab; the latter was superb. He is an engineer, I believe, and on that account wished to talk to me of Latin, Greek, Horace, Livy, and so on!
“You may safely venture among your three fathers,” said Gabriel — old Gavini, old Saint-Amand and old Géry — “for my father is your father too.” He refers to me as his father’s daughter.
That rascal Gabriel has such intonations, such words... for instance, I don’t know how he contrived to say to me:
“If you wish to be adored even more than you already are by my father, tell him he has beautiful paintings.”
It was charming. Saint-Amand is launching Gabriel — he told my aunt that if Gabriel listens to him he will have him sleeping with the most beautiful women in Paris.
How disgusting men are! It is not prudishness — but still...
To love without love! And is it nothing that we women are chaste... at least in body.
Where is the merit of being chaste in body when one is also chaste in soul?? I have thought foolish things since childhood — but also, if I loved someone, it would be true. [Top of the page torn] It is not even counted to our credit.
Gabriel brings back what I sent to Brussels — all of it preserved, along with the scrap of paper with the address of a pastry-shop that I gave him at the Opera. And my photograph is framed in a ravishing frame; he brings it for me to see, along with the penknife he gave me as a gift at the Opera. We are children. But Saint-Amand is not foolish, and lets us go out on the balcony alone, busying himself with little glasses of liqueur and covering for us. It seems he can never marry, so he busies himself with other people’s affairs... It is insane. You know those lists — parlour confessions — where one writes what one most values in one’s friends, one’s favourite authors, how one would wish to die, and so on.
I fill in Gabriel’s list with purities, sanctities, pieties, etc. Which allows him to venture some silly remarks that I pretend not to hear.
As for the Algerians, they adopt me — I am their daughter. Géry has already promised me an unforgettable journey in the East if we go to Algeria, and all three renew their invitations and promises.
I tell myself we shall have great fun, if Algeria does not turn into another Biarritz. Mr What’s-his-name — I do not know his name — was unbelievable when he said goodbye: he began by declaring that he would be a father to me in Algeria, I would be his seventh daughter. “Yes, you shall command like a queen — we shall have lions, tigers, and for transport camels, and if there are none, I shall be too happy to serve as your camel, radiant to carry on my neck so ravishing a little cocotte — I mean poulette.” Monsieur de Sancy fled so as not to burst out laughing; I thanked him with a straight face.
Saint-Amand says to us: “The Crayfish” — and in the commotion... what commotion? What a style I have! No — so I cut my finger and display the bright red blood with satisfaction; Gabriel hurries to wipe it with his handkerchief, and as it continued to bleed, he took my finger and drank the blood. But on the balcony we stayed barely a minute — our flirtations might have been noticed, in spite of Saint-Amand.
It is funny — Gabriel and I laugh into each other’s eyes, but I take care to keep it all in the air; I don’t want to look as if I mean anything by it, and I chatter away nonstop, threading everything through with innocent glances and laughing the whole time.
Gabriel told me on the balcony that it was kind of me to have come, in a serious tone. And it sounded quite odd.
He picks up the rose petals I throw... a heap of childishness... He is sweet. In any case what is always true is that I laughed heartily — oh, so heartily — and that in spite of it I had a superb complexion the whole time, white, white and pink, with no sign of fatigue or flushing. It is good to laugh. Now I shall probably have to pay for this day with tears.
I wore a dress of black canvas and black satin shoes, my hair done like a Louis XV goddess.
No — but there it is: it is natural that Gabriel should leave. It must never be more than a sketch. I wish nothing from him; I do not even want him to be in love with me.
Ah! How many nuances there are in these things! We shall not speak of my dream — that is the drama; let us leave it. But in these light flirtations, vaporous and graceful as drawings of clouds on the sky... Things must remain thus; I cannot even imagine them otherwise.
crossed out[Two lines crossed out]
In short it was great fun — I was drunk with laughter, and when I got home and undressed I was still laughing and singing snatches of songs to my dogs, who listened.
It is two o’clock in the morning; it is all past and yet I still want to dance... and the song from yesterday.
And then:
Who’s pulling a long face? It’s the poisoned young man, it’s the poisoned young man.
Dumas fils says that young girls do not love — they merely prefer — because they do not know what love is. But where the devil does Monsieur Dumas place love?
And first of all, one always knows approximately enough to know... And then what Monsieur Dumas calls love is nothing but the consequence and natural complement of love — not at all a separate, isolated, and complete thing in itself, at least for people with some decency. “An inevitable consequence often, and without which no love is possible,” says the same Dumas — and he also calls it the ultimate expression of love. That I can accept — but to say that a girl cannot love: that is madness. I, for my part, know nothing of it — yet I feel clearly that there is something repellent in it with a disagreeable person, and that it is the ultimate expression of love when one loves.
Now there are also the mad ideas that pass through one’s mind sometimes — but one knows well what they are... when the man is not repellent, when he is even agreeable as Gabriel is — but that has nothing to do with Love. As for me, what would horrify me most would be to kiss an indifferent person on the lips. I believe I could never do it — I would sooner endure... the rest — but the lips, never.
But when one loves. Ah! It is so different. Last night, for instance, in my dream, I loved — it has happened to me also when awake — well, it is so pure, so tender, so beautiful. Love is a grandiose and pure feeling; everything in it is chaste even... Monsieur Dumas’s Love, which is not the end but only a consequence of what one feels — merely a means of loving more, of loving better what one loves.
Monsieur Dumas takes the woman because he has... love. I take love because I love the woman. I amuse myself reasoning about this to see what I shall think of it afterwards. It is a great curiosity.

Notes

In French in the original: confidences de salon, the parlour game in which friends write their answers to a set of personal questions. ↩
Left in the original (the slip is the joke): cocotte, “little hen” in nursery speech but also slang for a kept woman, hastily corrected to poulette, “chick”, a harmless endearment. ↩