PREFACE
This text is a retrospective preface by Marie Bashkirtseff, written in May 1884, approximately five months before her death.
Mai 1884 | 53 sections
PREFACE
1884. May
What is the use of lying and posturing? Yes, it is obvious that I have the desire if not the hope of remaining on this earth, by whatever means. If I do not die young, I hope to endure as a great artist; but if I die young, I wish to have my journal published, which cannot be anything other than interesting. But since I speak of publication, this idea that I shall be read has perhaps spoiled — that is to say, destroyed — the only merit of such a book; well, no. First, I wrote for a very long time without dreaming of being read, and then it is precisely because I hope to be read that I am absolutely sincere. If this book is not the exact, the absolute, the strict truth, it has no reason for being. Not only do I say what I think at all times, but I have never dreamed for a single instant of concealing what might seem to me ridiculous or unflattering. Besides, I consider myself too admirable to censor myself. You may therefore rest assured, charitable readers, that I lay myself bare in these pages entirely. Myself as a subject of interest — perhaps that is slight for you; but do not think that it is I, think that it is a human being who recounts to you all her impressions since childhood. It is very interesting as a document humain. Ask Monsieur Zola, and even Monsieur de Goncourt, and even Maupassant.
My journal begins at twelve; it only becomes meaningful at fifteen or sixteen. So there is a gap to fill, and I am going to write a sort of preface that will allow one to understand this literary and human monument. Now then, suppose I am famous. We begin.
I was born on 11 November 18591 — It is dreadful just to write it. But I console myself by thinking that I shall certainly no longer have an age when you read me.
My father was himself the son of General Paul Grigorievitch Bashkirtseff. Of minor nobility, but brave, tenacious, hard, and even ferocious. He was promoted to the rank of general after the Crimean War, I believe. He married a young woman who was said to be the illegitimate daughter of a very great lord; she died at thirty-eight, leaving five children: my father and four sisters. Having left the service, General Bashkirtseff purchased a magnificent estate near Poltava. He bought it [Crossed out: very] cheaply from ruined people, mine owners. It appears that he even showed a great deal of avarice and very little generosity in the affair. It's human.
Maman married at twenty-two after having disdained very fine matches. Maman is a demoiselle Babanine. On the Babanine side, we are of old provincial nobility, and Grand-papa always boasted of being of Tatar origin from the first invasion. Baba-Nina are Tatar words — I couldn't care less. Grand-papa was a contemporary of Lermontov, Pushkin, and the rest. He was Byronic, a poet, a military man of letters. He had been to the Caucasus. He married very young Mademoiselle Julie Cornelius, aged fifteen, very sweet and pretty, who became enormous and shrill in old age, absolutely sacrificed, crushed by her husband's superiority — a fine despot, and one who boasted of it. They had nine children, if you please.
No. 1 — Georges; he requires a separate entry, for he has murdered us all. This abominable and wretched man gave himself over to every sort of madness from the age of nineteen. Considered a genius and adored by his own, he walked all over everyone, began with a few scandals, but on coming into contact with the police took fright and hid behind his mother's skirts — his mother, whom he beat. He was always getting drunk; but it would cease at moments, and then he became a charming gentleman, educated, witty, seductive, tall, handsome, drawing caricatures, writing burlesque verses delightfully — and then once more the brandy and the horrors. And everyone was there to serve him. He married at twenty a beautiful widow of thirty-six, mother of several children. Dina is his daughter.
Separated from his wife, of course. A wasted life. He had every instinct, that beast — the instinct for grandeur, for elegance, for financial scheming, and with all that... He and his other brothers amused themselves with a few charming follies in Poltava and elsewhere. They thrashed officials, played tricks on everyone in such a way as to antagonize the entire province. [Crossed out: The police got involved and from there affairs and proceedings that still continue. All his life, this man] The governor had to intervene (governor or prefect) — Grand-papa found this impertinent and set himself to rebelling against all successive governors of Poltava. In 1865, Georges was finally seized, packed up, and sent to Viatka between two gendarmes. Had he committed a specific crime? No. But a thousand petty troubles and a thousand little dirty tricks that vexed everyone.
There begins the stupid and terrible drama from which I have suffered so much by ricochet. They broke with all of society, and all the strength and all the intelligence of the entire family had no other aim than to save Georges. They went to the authorities, they wrote to ministers, they spent their lives between Georges and the police. Maman, young, ravishing, intelligent but naive about society, was deployed for Georges. She paid visits to governors who received this beautiful provincial woman and listened to her while paying her court. In 1862 she had made a journey to Petersburg with her sister and Georges. Georges had to flee Petersburg disguised as a woman, and Maman came back at death's door.
As for me, I was always with Grand-maman, who idolized me, in the countryside. Maman went to the sea baths in the Crimea; men courted her, but she was virtuous while compromising herself. The thing is, you people have no idea of these things. Maman, raised in the country, knew nothing of organized society. She never understood that one must maintain a certain standing — oh, never! And with that, very vain. Beyond the little society of Poltava, she knew nothing. Set loose in Petersburg or at the sea baths, her beauty caused a sensation; men courted her and she was content with that, without thinking of going into society. Besides, here, a respectable woman who does not go into society and who gets herself talked about is a déclassée; there, not at all — this beautiful woman, arrived from the depths of her province, was a common case and shocked no one. When you read further on, you will see that I do not defend Maman, and that I am guided only by the desire to say things truthfully.
With Grand-maman, there was also my aunt to adore me, when Maman did not take her along. My aunt, younger than Maman but not pretty, remaining sacrificed and sacrificing herself to everyone.
My father and my grandfather the general made a hundred attempts to get Maman back. Once when Paul and I had been taken to see our father, he kidnapped us and hid us in the country to force Maman to return. But when Maman and the brothers came running and took us back by force — I remember the scene in the yellow pavilion at Gavronzi perfectly. Paul and I were in one room, Grand-maman in another, and my father in a third, separated from the others by a corridor that cuts the pavilion in two. Grand-maman, furious, like a woman whose life was spent shouting at her servants, was hurling insults. And my father, intimidated, answered her without showing himself, and I even remember that he remained relatively respectful the whole time. Since then I have thought it was from an aversion to vulgar scenes, for my nature has much of his in it. So they brought us back to Grand-papa and Grand-maman and Maman. And the affairs of Georges continued on their course.
Around 1866 or 1867, Domenica, the wife of this wretch, obtained a change of exile city, and from Viatka they transported this dear treasure to Akhtyrka, a hole where there are relics and where people go on pilgrimage. There this monster ruled and commanded, and sometimes amused himself by coming to read horrible books to Madame Brenne, my French governess. I listened and understood, but without it suggesting anything to me personally.
It was there that they ensnared my uncle Romanoff, a very wealthy bachelor of forty. [Crossed out: Georges proposed to do it, this gentleman; he had already tried to get hold of the fortune of an aunt, the sister of] Grand-papa, Mademoiselle Vassilissa Babanine. But after many intrigues of which I am ignorant, he got only twelve or fifteen thousand rubles from it. This old maid came to die in a small room at my grandfather's. Aunt Vassilissa: beautiful, rich, young, elegant, charming, and witty. She never married. Having become eccentric and a little ridiculous, she adopted a little orphan girl, Mademoiselle Nadine Martinoff, who, once she reached fourteen, hastened to drop her protectress in order to come live at Grand-papa's in Tcherniakovka, where there were more amusements. Moreover, as the girl had some twenty thousand rubles, my uncle Alexandre, very practical (as was she), was grooming her. They married as soon as she turned fifteen and a half. This made an excessively rapacious, greedy, and happy couple. Grand-papa was furious, but nearly all his sons married without telling him.
All in all, he cared little, very selfish and living somewhat for appearances. He strolled about the countryside dressed like a French peasant — a grey canvas smock, velvet trousers, Panama hat on his head, and an enormous diamond on his index finger. And he pronounced the words blouse and panama in Russian with an affected French accent. A marked character, formidable and worthless. Having had the potential to be someone and yet being nothing, writing verses he did not even publish and dabbling in liberalism. All in all...
But I was speaking of Vassilissa. This elegant and distinguished woman died two or three years ago, abandoned by everyone. I remember when she came to visit Grand-papa's, they dressed up the house. Very spoiled by her father, she had once dominated everyone, and her brother still kept some respect and admiration for her. The whole time she stayed, the terrace was decorated with plants and a festive air reigned in the house. One time she came as usual; a few weeks later, they removed the plants from the terrace — she stayed always and stayed forever, always revered less and less, until Grand-papa's departure, after which her adopted daughter and Alexandre relegated her to a wretched room in an old pavilion, where she died.
So it was at Akhtyrka, where everyone settled — except Grand-papa — that they found Monsieur Romanoff. He had a sister whom he had not seen in twenty years and who was even richer than he. So they set about ensnaring him; it was Maman who was put forward, very coquettish. He fell in love with her. They went to Kharkoff — he too completely foreign to the ways of society and pushed along by Georges — and they led an inconceivable existence. Every evening Romanoff sent [tickets for] boxes where we preened, and at every intermission trays laden with fruit and bonbons were brought in. Georges became infatuated with an actress and had her received at the house. They went to the Crimea, to Yalta, to the sea baths. Here one must speak of an encounter Maman had.
The Emperor was to pass through a station a few versts from our home; Maman went there with me. The Emperor, seeing this pretty woman, spoke to her for a quarter of an hour, amused by this very enthusiastic subject; he made her promise that he would see her at Yalta. We went there, and Romanoff too. Maman was much courted, and the Emperor addressed her three or four times in public places, but soon he had enough of it, for she was always in his path. There was much talk of Romanoff; back in Odessa, we stayed at the same hotel. And one fine morning everyone agreed that the matter must be settled and that my aunt would never find so fine a match. Only the gentleman's consent was needed. But he was a big oaf accustomed to us all, and not in the least Maman's lover, whatever people said; it was easy. I myself deployed my eloquence at nine years old. They were married, and we returned to Tcherniakovka. [Five lines cancelled]
Three days after our arrival, Grand-maman died suddenly. And Romanoff fell ill with attacks of delirium and madness. [Two lines cancelled.] He was well cared for.
Then, free with this great fortune, they departed for abroad. The dream so long cherished by Georges — and Maman too. Maman, I firmly believe, was very virtuous; she had a nature that scattered herself in indiscretions and never went as far as... the deed.
In Vienna they stayed a month, intoxicating themselves with novelties, fine shops, theaters. Georges took up with a prostitute whom he brought along with him. Romanoff was getting better and no longer mad at all. Grand-papa was with us; he too was going to taste this Europe he knew from books.
They arrived in Baden-Baden in 1870, in the month of June, in the height of the season, in the height of luxury, in the heart of Paris. Here is how many we were: Grand-papa, Maman, Monsieur and Madame Romanoff, Dina, Paul, and I. And that angelic and incomparable Lucien Walitsky. Lucien Walitsky was Polish, Russian without exaggerated patriotism, a good nature, very affectionate, who spent himself on studio pranks, at Akhtyrka where he was district physician. He had been at university with Maman's brothers and was always part of the household, coming three or four times a year to the country. Each time it was a wild joy for everyone. He had a fraternal, admirable, and holy devotion for Maman, who treated him as a cherished child.
At the time of their departure for abroad, they needed a doctor for Romanoff, and even for Maman, who liked to make herself ill and who sometimes truly was. They took Walitsky along, promising him a salary as is customary in such cases. I believe he received almost nothing, too refined to ask, and contenting himself with a few pennies here and there to pay his tailor, to whom he owed a few hundred francs when he died. This admirable man was always, for each of us, a second self.
It was at Baden-Baden that I understood society and elegance and was tortured by vanity. Near the casino there were groups of children, separate groups. I immediately distinguished the fashionable set and had only one dream left: to belong to it.
These children, who aped the grown-ups, noticed us, and a little girl named Berthe came to speak to me. I was so happy that I said stupid things and the whole group mocked me outrageously. Berthe, twelve years old, was English and was called Miss Boyd. She had several elder sisters who were ravishing and held the highest ground at Baden-Baden. She was connected to all the children of the aristocratic families who knew her family. Mine knew no one and wallowed in roulette and trente-et-quarante1. Berthe had a suitor aged thirteen, named Rémy de Gonzalès Moreno. The elder Gonzalès fell in love with Maman, and Rémy stole a few moments from Berthe to make eyes at me. Maman, free in her manner, had inspired the confidence of the Argentine Gonzalès. Madame de Gonzalès was jealous. Here occurs an almost unbelievable instance of naivety. Maman struck up an acquaintance informally with Madame de Gonzalès, who was very — cold. But Maman redoubled her friendliness, thinking the wife could not be differently disposed than the husband, who was so charming to her. And when the Gonzalès family left, Maman went to the station; the lady told her with a very pinched manner — which I could see quite well — that she was embarrassed at depriving Maman of her promenade in such fine weather. And Maman replied that it gave her pleasure to see off such charming people.
When I think of it now, remembering the expressions and the intonations, it's astonishing. The elder Gonzalès was surprised and proud, for he credited himself with some successes. This man ended up, after rude shocks, by understanding Maman and becoming our friend.
The war drove us to Geneva.
But I have not spoken enough about Russia and about myself — that is the main thing. According to the custom of noble families living in the country, I had two governesses, one Russian who taught music and dance, and the other French. The first, the Russian, of whom I have a clear memory, was a Madame Melnikoff, a society woman, educated, romantic, and separated from her husband, having become a governess on a whim after reading numerous novels. She became a friend to the household; she was treated as an equal. All the men courted her, and one fine morning she fled after I know not what romantic adventures. They are very romantic in Russia. She could have said goodbye and left naturally, but the Slavic character, grafted with French civilization and novels, is a strange machine. As an unhappy woman, this lady immediately adored the little girl entrusted to her care. I returned her adoration out of affectation — already. And my family, gullible and affected, believed that this departure would make me ill; they regarded me that day with compassion, and I even believe that Grand-maman had a broth prepared specially — an invalid's broth.
I felt myself turning quite pale before this display of sensitivity. I was, moreover, rather sickly, thin, and not pretty, which did not prevent everyone from regarding me as a being who was destined — fatally, absolutely — to become the most beautiful, the most brilliant, and the most magnificent thing there is. Maman went to a Jew who told fortunes:
— You have two children, he told her; the son will be like everyone else, but the daughter will be a star.
One evening at the theater, a gentleman said to me, laughing: "Show your hands, Mademoiselle — oh! from the way she is gloved, there can be no doubt, she will be terribly coquettish." I remained quite proud of it.
For as long as I can think, since the age of three (I nursed until three and a half), my poor head has been filled with aspirations toward I know not what greatness. My dolls were always queens or kings. Everything I thought and everything that was said around Maman always seemed to relate to this greatness that was infallibly to come.
At five, I dressed myself in Maman's lace, with flowers in my hair, and went to dance in the drawing room. I was the great ballerina Petipa, and the whole household was there to watch me. Paul was almost nothing, and Dina did not overshadow me, though she was the daughter of the beloved Georges.
Another story. When Dina came into the world, Grand-maman went and took her without ceremony from her mother, and kept her always. This was four or five years before my own birth. Maman adored Dina, and since her real mother was not too attached to her, Dina remained with us. Madame Georges was a practical woman, very gay, they say; though she adored Georges — who had abandoned her — she nevertheless afforded herself a few diversions. By Georges she had two more children: a daughter, Lola, and a son, Etienne. The daughter is married. The son died at sixteen — you shall see how.
After Madame Melnikoff, I had for my governess Mademoiselle Sophie Dolgikoff, aged sixteen — Holy Russia! — and another Frenchwoman whom they called Madame Brenne, who wore a Restoration-era hairstyle, had pale blue eyes, and seemed very sad with her fifty years and her consumption. I loved her very much; she had me draw. I did a drawing with her, a little church in outline. Besides, I drew often; while the grown-ups played their card games, I would come and draw on the green baize. Madame Brenne died in 1868 in the Crimea. The little Russian, treated as a child of the household, was on the point of marrying a young man whom Walitsky had brought and who was known for his failed engagements. This time everything seemed to be going splendidly when one evening, entering her room, I see Mademoiselle Sophie crying desperately, her face buried in her cushions. Everyone came running. What? What has happened?
At last, after many tears and sobs, the poor child ended by groaning that she never could, no, never. And more weeping. But why? Everyone was there with affectionate exhortations. Because... Because I cannot get used to his face! The fiancé heard all of this from the drawing room. An hour later he was buckling his trunk, watering it with tears, and leaving. It was his seventeenth failed engagement.
I remember so well that "I cannot get used to his face!" It came so much from the heart that I understood, even then, very well that it would be truly horrible to marry a man whose face one cannot get used to.
All of this brings us to Baden-Baden in 1870. The war having been declared, we fled to Geneva. I, with my heart filled with bitterness and plans for revenge. Every evening before going to bed, I recited very quietly this supplementary prayer: "Dear God, grant that I may be friends with Berthe and that I may have suitors who will court me." The whole prayer was conceived thus: first the Pater, the Ave, etc., then this:
— Dear God, grant that I may never have the smallpox, that I may be pretty, that I may have a beautiful voice, that I may be happy in marriage, and that Maman may live a long time.
I was still affected by the death of Grand-maman, whom I loved very much, very much, and who spent hours telling me I was divine and calling me the most tender and the most extravagant names.
Poor Grand-maman — if she had only had me. But there was that scoundrel Georges, whom she always obstinately regarded as an "unfortunate child" and whom she bequeathed to Maman, who from then on believed she was obeying her dying mother's wishes by sacrificing her reputation, her life, and her children to the monstrosities of this vile creature. They were very devoted at home when it came to Georges — the other brothers dropped everything and sometimes traveled four or five hundred leagues by post-chaise for Georges; his sisters went to the prisons, to the police stations for Georges; they clinked glasses and ate with gendarmes so that they might be gentler with him... Ugh...
In Geneva, we stayed at the Hôtel de la Couronne on the lakeside. It was charming.
They gave me a drawing teacher who brought models to copy. Little chalets where the windows were drawn like tree trunks and bore no resemblance to the real windows of real chalets. So I would have none of them, not understanding how a window could be made that way. Then the old fellow told me to copy the view from the window, quite simply, from nature. At that time we had left the Hôtel de la Couronne to stay in a family boarding house, Pension Huberkoller, and Mont Blanc was before us. So I scrupulously copied what I could see of Geneva and the lake, and that was as far as it went — I no longer know why.
At Baden-Baden they had had time to have our portraits made from photographs, and these portraits struck me as ugly and overworked in their effort to be pretty.
Maman encountered a Monsieur Bachmakoff, who had come to place young Chtcherbine in a famous boarding school in Geneva, that of Doctor Hactius. The little boy was the son of his close friend, who had married him as soon as her widowhood began. They met at church, and Monsieur Bachmakoff, with a courtier's grace, was very kind, remembering Maman as a young girl in Poltava, where he had been vice-governor.
2 February 1876
I am bored; I should like to write endlessly, to comment on my whole journal, to correct it, for I know there are thousands of errors, and they do not come from my ignorance but from my laziness of thought, from my too-great haste. I never know what I am going to write, and so much the better — there is nothing uglier than a studied journal, primped to perfection, especially when one is not a great writer. But I still prefer my letters to those of Madame de Sévigné! O she-ass! you exclaim; I let you exclaim, and that only because I cannot do otherwise. Her style is so affected, so wrought beneath its apparent simplicity, that it sickens me, whereas my own style has no style — I make errors, but at least I do not paint my writings.
It is with the intimate conviction that I shall never be read, and with the still more intimate hope of the contrary, that I write my journal.
6 April 1876
[...] if I become famous and if my journal becomes the property of the public after my death, [...] I ask and, if need be, I command that my journal not be printed with commentaries, but simply as it is. Everything is in order and very clear; one will only need to translate what is not in French and correct the spelling.
19 April 1876
Whatever I become, I bequeath my journal to the public. All the books one reads are inventions; the situations are contrived, the characters false — whereas this is the photograph of an entire life. Ah! you will say to me, but this photograph is boring, whereas inventions are entertaining! If you say that, you give me a very small idea of your intelligence. I offer you here what has never yet been seen.
Notes
Marie was born at the Gavrontsi estate near Poltava, in the Poltava Governorate of the Russian Empire (present-day Ukraine), to a wealthy noble family. Her actual birth date is disputed: she writes "11 novembre 1859" here, but she was almost certainly born on November 12 (Old Style) / November 24 (New Style), 1858. The discrepancy in days reflects the Julian-Gregorian calendar difference (Russia used the Julian calendar until 1918), while the year discrepancy reflects Marie's lifelong habit of claiming to be younger than she was. Her mother later pushed the date even further, to 1860, in the published edition of the diary. The original manuscript, rediscovered at the Bibliothèque nationale de France, confirmed 1858 as the true year. ↩
Trente-et-quarante ("thirty-and-forty"), also called rouge et noir ("red and black") — a card game that, alongside roulette, was the principal gambling game of nineteenth-century European casinos, including Baden-Baden's. The dealer deals two rows of cards, "black" and "red"; the row whose point total comes closer to thirty wins. ↩