Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Tuesday, 18 April 1882

False start; we were meant to leave, and the evening before we went to Monaco, and as Maman and my aunt are on speaking terms with Hamsley I said good-day to her as well; she and Étienne got into our compartment — I was very vexed, but to make a scene... For that would be making a scene and tarnishing Maman's conduct... And then I even tried to be agreeable, without succeeding, so false and sad did this woman's position appear to me. And this evening she came to the station to say farewell — as did Étienne — truly she cannot understand what she is doing. It was Étienne who brought her, emboldened by my conduct of yesterday. God, how sad all this is, and what Maman and my aunt... Every time I lift my nose from my palette I am assailed by tiresome things, and these ladies, accustomed to such outrages, take offense when I speak harshly to them... It is truly intolerable — they go to Monaco every day; there are people there one ought barely to acknowledge, yet through force of seeing one another daily, of playing at the same table... one loses all sense of things... And the people who remember having seen these ladies with that ignoble brother speaking to his mistress, and all the slanders that drove us away — and now... Maman and my aunt, whose conduct is irreproachable, place themselves on a level with God knows whom, and when I cry out against it, that is to be disrespectful.
These are my dark sorrows — sorrows fit to weep over and be ashamed of. These ladies were very badly regarded here; such rumors had arisen against them in this ignoble Nice society that one could not bear to witness it. Now it is forgotten; it is known that in Paris we move in tolerable circles — and to come and plunge back into that mud! Étienne and this woman are one of a thousand irregularities... And what revolts me above all is the insufficiently respectful tone in which one speaks to them, while Maman notices nothing and lavishes her unvarying friendships, smiles, amiabilities, gracieusestes...
And when I say so, I am accused of making scenes or of having a compulsive need to rage and trouble everyone... In any case... We have left Mise-Brun and are spending the night at our villa, which makes me sad. This disorder, these scattered residences...
In short, they always deceive me; I was foolish enough to lose my temper over several unpaid bills and other things, and now everything is hidden from me — they continue to behave like Bulgarians, like Asiatics, and they lie to me at every turn.
So as not to anger Marie, so as to have peace, they lie about everything, they promise, they say it is done; I always end by learning the truth only after a thousand impatiences, delays, and wranglings.
What a horrible system. It is so simple to say what is — yet to hide things from me, to fear my reproaches; would it not be simpler to avoid them by acting reasonably?
Those who know me little and who hear my family talk treat me as a madwoman...
Alas, one does become one at moments, I swear to you, in the face of this inertia, this idiotic obstinacy.
Ah!... I prefer not to speak of it... It is mortally sad... And this villa, the dark cypresses, the frogs singing in the pool, the sea. And on the other side the château; the eucalyptus has grown in six years and one can no longer see the tower — I may no longer even hear the clock... and the château has been purchased by the Comte d'Aspremont... And that blue room stripped of its furniture for the little Paris drawing room; nothing remains but the draperies.
Ah, how these people spoil my life — and yet I cannot think without dread of the possibility of their deaths. And the money matters: I should like to arrange everything, everything — but how... no, I must try never to scold at all... I have tried, and there have always been lies 'for the best' — to gain time, to avoid five minutes of trouble, one creates ten troubles of five months' duration... My God, what a beautiful life this would be, with all its sorrows, freed from these paltry miseries.
For example: the architect was to be seen about indispensable repairs. Oh yes, to be sure; he will be seen, yes — but 'this evening let us just go a little to Monaco, the last evening.'
And good-bye to everything. And with all that, the deep, unshakeable conviction that I am a sick baby and that everything must be hidden from me so that I do not make a fuss.
God, how beautiful life would be without these miseries. For everything is bearable except these flat, petty meannesses. Separations, deaths, thwarted loves — all that is in the order of things, but all that is great, acceptable. Perfidy, falsehood, cowardice — all of that — but not these domestic vexations, not this stupid, obstinate, brainless entourage which regards you as a sick, capricious child, while sometimes admitting 'she is right, she is the only wise one, we must listen to her'... then it all begins again.
This departure again: a sleeping car had to be reserved, but things were let drift while saying, yes, one must reserve it — then at the moment of departure it is too late; seeing me furious at having to travel in an ordinary compartment, they propose to stay until tomorrow noon. Étienne supports this — no doubt let us stay another day. For why make her leave? We are here, let us stay here; if I said nothing they would remain there a year, two years, in this unfurnished villa, without seeing a soul, I all alone, they at Monaco. I tell you it is appalling, and my temperament as a civilized European revolts at every moment before this Slavic carelessness... Merely to reread what I write here is irritating; imagine then what a torment it is to live with all that. O the Slavic character... insouciance, good nature, openness with the first stranger one meets, and at the same time a little falseness in everything. As for what one calls in France honor, duty, society... go whistle. And liars, these Slavs, and braggarts and troublemakers and inert at the same time, stubborn, quarrelsome and not always brave... Brave by braggadocio, but genuinely brave in the way France understands it — no. Dina comes to interrupt me; she brings me sheets of paper with bouts rimés of mine and the Astonishing Émile — she discovered them in a wardrobe, along with bonbon dishes from Rome...