Friday, 11 September 1874

I had fittings at Wolmershausen's; the dress is pretty but there are changes to be made. Before going out they bring me the grey coat and the hat from Brown's. Such a quantity of felt hats please me that, already having two, I want to buy still more. From two to five we stroll, and at six go home. Foster comes and takes us to Bill George's. I have chosen a mastiff, but Foster promises me a bigger one tomorrow at ten. I cannot buy a dog now, but from Paris I shall write to Foster, send him the sum, and he will send me the dog. He is very kind and polite; we shall have occasion, I hope, to return this kindness to his sister in Nice. After dinner the riding habit from Paole's is brought up. It is good, but there is the eternal defect: he made a placement for the bust too low, and at the same time fortunately made the top wide enough to contain mine. But the annoyance is this sort of two oranges standing stiff and empty. Why not place them where they could be full? We find ourselves two pounds richer than we thought. What a misery! I slept last night with my aunt, and in the morning we discussed our future furniture. Today someone reminded me of a man I had forgotten and in whom I took some interest for a while. It is Blackprince. This was apropos of dogs and rich people. Maman always wants to prove to me there are no rich people; my aunt says there are, but not for me. I said I should very much like to walk with dogs like Wittgenstein's; I hope to have three -- a mastiff and two Newfoundlands. I forgot to say we met Mr Allen and spoke to him. Tomorrow at twenty past four we leave this land peopled with dukes and lords, stop at Canterbury, and then proceed to the land of cup-and-ball toys, of cads and good-for-nothings. Everything ends, and our stay in this paradise too. Our conversations with my aunt are always the same: she says that in Russia there is the same wealth and the same nobility, and I say no -- there is not even any comparison. Our riches are less and our nobility is a trifle compared with the nobility here. And it is the pure truth. I was very fortunately born just noble enough to dare aspire to great nobility. Say what you will, I am all the same a noble and my father is a marshal of the nobility. It is not enormous, but enough to give me the right to enter any rank of the nobility without shame. My grandfather (and my mother consequently) is of a very ancient family -- more ancient than many Russian princes. His wife was also of good family; her grandmother was the granddaughter of the great Hetman Poloubotok, whose son fled to Holland because of events in Ukraine, where he deposited millions of which we are the heirs. But since neither the exact date nor the sum deposited is known, the Bank of Holland does not release these millions, which have grown in a fabulous manner. [Across the page: It is Balzac's theory that all gentlemen are equal.] On all sides -- except my grandmother Bashkirtseff, who was an illegitimate daughter of a great lord, however -- on all sides, I was saying, it is all right!¹ [Crossed out: to tell the truth] My father is of a much less good family than my mother, but fortunately he is noble just to the right degree. I consider myself, then, of sufficiently good stock to become whatever one wishes. Not to mention that I was born quite different from others, and that even had I been born a peasant, I should no longer be one upon reaching the age of reason. Only I have become very ugly, and I have dizziness and nausea, palpitations and great weakness. My God, heal me!