Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Saturday, 13 January 1883

First thing in the morning I sent for the architect to arrange the studio, but instead we ended up talking about Gambetta — being from Lorraine, you can imagine how seized he was by the subject. It was he who arranged the veil at the Palais Bourbon.

Des le matin j'ai envoye chercher l'architecte pour arranger l'atelier, mais au lieu de cela nous avons cause de Gambetta, en sa qualite de lorrain vous jugez s'il a ete empoigne. C'est lui qui a arrange le voile du Palais Bourbon.

Well, this evening is our ball. Coquelin and Reichenberg are performing at the Porte, and then a little operetta which they sing. Everything goes very well — a large crowd, young men in abundance, and very chic ladies. The Duchesse de Fitz-James, the general and Mme de Charette, Mlle de Charette, Mme Johnston (a friend of the Charettes) and her daughter, then the Gavinis, Comtesse Duros, Princess Bonaparte, and so on. A grand evening altogether, a beautiful cotillon. But it is all so empty for me — there was not a soul who could hold my interest. I had intended to be very agreeable to everyone, and then I sprain myself on something just before the ball; I am obliged to move as little as possible. At three o'clock we go up to supper in the studio, and I take a table on the platform with Saint-Amand, Alexis, Dusautoy, Emile Bastien. There were more than two hundred people, despite cancellation letters sent at the last moment by some malicious idiot or other. Soutzo was suspected — Alexis at least thinks so. I believe it is more likely Bojidar, who has quarrelled with my aunt. In any case it did not do enormous harm, fortunately. We stay on towards five o'clock as a family, with Michka and Emile Bastien, who is truly the best of beings.

Enfin c'est ce soir notre bal, Coquelin et Reinchemberg jouent a la Porte...

And today, Soutzo's tragic entrance — green, white, pale, tears in his eyes. He had no idea there even was a reception yesterday; never, never could he have been capable of such an infamy as those letters, etc. etc.

Et aujourd'hui entree tragique de Soutzo, vert, blanc, pale, les larmes aux yeux.

[Written across the page: I am neither pretty nor well-dressed. It seems done on purpose. Mme Kanchine, who had abandoned us, asked to be invited and came with her daughter and other Russian ladies known at Mme Engelhardt's, who also came.]

[En travers: je ne suis ni jolie ni bien habillee. C'est comme expres. Mme Kanchine qui nous avait lachees a demande a etre invitee et est venue avec sa fille et d'autres dames russes connues chez Mme Engelhardt qui vient la egalement.]

In the end he wept, and then nearly lost consciousness. In any case it is all dreadful enough — provided that my composure of the moment does not afterward dissolve into fits of despair, as happened at the death of the great, the noble, the slandered, the brilliant Gambetta.

Enfin il a pleure et puis lorsque presque d'inconscience.

Well then... Let them say I am eccentric — I have been; let them say I am cracked, that I throw myself into the arts too much, that I smoke, that I drink, that I draw from the nude — all of this hangs together in certain people's minds — that I was in love with Cassagnac, that Mlle Acard was preferred over me, that in Rome the Antonelli family opposed a marriage, that... In short, all these things more or less true, which I feared people would say and which seemed to me lies and atrocities so humiliating — and which I am now prepared to believe true by comparison with what is being said now. But that, and about me!! There are young women who go out, who flirt, who see young men constantly, in society and outside it, and who are talked about, who are even given assignations, and then there are the stories... But I, shut up in this studio — in short, I have nothing to tell you; you have followed my life...

Enfin... Qu'on dise que je suis excentrique... je l'ai ete...

I no longer know what to say, what to believe, how to be — and before every fool I shall tremble like a guilty person before a judge.

Je ne sais plus que dire, que croire, comment etre, et devant chaque imbecile je vais trembler comme une coupable devant un juge.

And this world was created by God, and this takes place with his authorization, and he is everywhere...

Et ce monde a ete cree par Dieu, et ceci se passe avec son autorisation, et il est partout...

He does not exist! Or else... Or else he is the Supreme Being who is not a being, who is the supreme essence — whose practical utility is not apparent to me.

Il n'existe pas ! Ou bien... Ou bien c'est l'Etre supreme, qui n'est pas un Etre, qui est la supreme essence dont l'utilite pratique ne m'apparait pas.

And Julian — he believed it like the rest of them, on the basis of other people's tales, a heap of infamies. Just the other day he was telling us with a smile that he often spoke of me with someone who brought me up at Dumas's, and that I am evidently much talked about, and that thanks to what this person says, Dumas occupies himself with this strange, interesting creature... This fat peasant whom I thought so perceptive and so warm speaks of me in a way that one cannot... One only grasps the nuances in passing — when someone tells you something, it is no longer quite right; you must catch it on the fly... You know that often Julian and I talk very intimately, I in complete confidence as with someone who knows me by heart and before whom one makes a show of worldly shrewdness — I boasted of being strong, sceptical, of speaking freely about everything, of laughing at it all. So the other day we were led to speak of my heart, and he said to me:

Et Julian, il a cru comme les autres et d'apres les autres un tas d'infamies.

— We can say anything to one another?

— Nous pouvons tout nous dire ?

— I should think so — go on then.

— Je crois bien, allez-donc.

— You will take it as it must be taken... You know how men talk among themselves.

— Vous le prendrez comme cela doit etre pris... Vous savez, les hommes entre eux.

— Go on then.

— Mais allez donc.

— Well, the other day I ran into one of my friends who had seen you and heard talk of you, and he said to me: who is this Mademoiselle Such-and-such that you know — has she had... adventures? You understand what I mean. Well, I answered him: my dear fellow, there is only this (pointing to the head) — the rest doesn't exist.

— Eh bien je rencontre l'autre jour un de mes amis qui vous avait vu et entendu parler de vous...

So he was not indignant — he did not say: but you're mad, don't you know who she is, etc.? He simply gave his opinion: that I lived only through my head, and that the heart and the... rest did not exist for me. There is nothing to add... Nor shall I add anything. I am crushed. All of this is irreparable.

Ainsi il n'a pas ete indigne...

But what revenge would be needed merely to console oneself for so much injustice, so much atrocity, so much unhappiness... And since there is no God, I have no hope.

Mais quelle revanche il faudrait pour seulement se consoler de tant d'injustice...

One must not suppose that poor, naive Soutzo permitted himself to say this without my having pressed him with irrefutable insistence, while Maman was in the next room.

Il ne faut pas croire que ce pauvre et naif Soutzo se soit permis de dire cela sans que je l'y ai pousse...

And so I, who thought myself so proud, so pure, and who in order to astonish often let it be understood that I am very knowing about the world... This did not astonish anyone — it seemed entirely natural... So when I say that I adore Saint-Marceaux and someone repeats it to him, he sees in it not at all the enthusiasm of a young girl, an artist's child, a spoiled child — he sees perhaps provocations, invitations... in search of adventures... But that would be horrible! That would be enough to make one weep for a thousand years! But where is God?!!!

Ainsi moi qui me croyais si fiere, si pure, et qui pour etonner laissais souvent entendre que je suis tres rouee...

And when, out of love for theatrical and romantic things, I shall have said this to Julian or to Bastien-Lepage — naturally engaging them — and they believe me sincere, and they are indignant on my behalf — and then what? It will change nothing. We will be two or three of us indignant, and that is all.

Et quand par amour de choses theatrales et romanesques, quand j'aurai dit cela a Julian ou a Bastien-Lepage...

My God, I want to believe in you — not to believe would be... to die of despair in such circumstances. My God, make this be resolved — or rather, let me be reassured, let me deceive myself, let me be... consoled.

Mon Dieu, je veux croire en vous, ne pas croire serait... mourir de desespoir dans de telles circonstances...

For a moment I had the idea of seeing Cassagnac, or of writing to him.

J'ai eu un instant l'idee de voir Cassagnac ou de lui ecrire.

But what for? On what pretext? People are saying infamies about me — you know it is a lie — defend me.

Mais quoi a quel propos ? On dit des infamies de moi, vous savez que c'est un mensonge, defendez-moi.

He no longer knows whether I exist. If he has occupied my thoughts for five years, I do not exist for him — we have never exchanged ten sentences alone together in any serious way. He believes these infamies — why not? — for more than four years [blacked-out word: we] we have lost sight of one another, and when he saw me I was seventeen, romantic, wild, and encouraged by my own people — weak and stupid creatures with no civilization whatsoever.

Il ne sait plus si j'existe...