Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Sunday, 30 January 1876

I forgot the principal event of yesterday. Léonie and Fortuné have arrived. And today we go out with the little Black boy on the box, very smartly turned out in dark-and-white livery. Thanks to him, the general attention spares me a little. I am stared at in Rome as never in my life — people stop quite simply and look. I had put on dark dresses and it was much the same. I believe it has to do with the character and customs of the Romans.
We take Domenica and Lola to visit Saint Peter's. On the second visit I am dumbfounded — this immensity of detail strikes, annihilates, dazes. I am not yet recovered from it: the pen of Saint Luke, which appears a natural size and is two metres long! I shall not speak of other marvels and immensities — it is overwhelming.
One cannot form any idea of it without seeing it.
At half past three we go to the Villa Borghese, where I find everyone: the ravishing Princess Marguerite, who was particularly gracious; the white Doria, who turned around to look at me; the young puppy who followed us the other day and who is not Soroka at all; the Greek minister, who greeted me and turned back like the damned in Dante; and finally Soroka — whom I glimpsed for a moment, of whom I saw only the back, and who did not see me. He was with the deputy of the Chamber who has fine horses. After one circuit of the villa we make two of the Pincio. This double hedge of men confounds me — I am obliged to pose as a marble statue.
Maman stays at home and Dina takes her place. I come out bewildered and — wait! Now I notice another omission: yesterday the Chevalier Rossi called on us; Maman was ill and I received him. Monseigneur enquires after our health; Monseigneur sends word that he wishes to introduce us to the Countess of something-or-other. Monseigneur is ill, but will endeavour to come if Maman cannot climb the stairs at the Palazzo Ruspoli.
— You were, the other evening, the Chevalier says, the admiration of the whole house.
— Oh, you are too kind. You mean the performance of Dolores? It was very fine.
— Yes, was it not — there was quite a crowd, and you saw some persons of Roman society?
— No, Monsieur, I know absolutely no one. But what astonished me was that on our side, from our box to the proscenium box, there was not a single lady — all those boxes were occupied by gentlemen. What boxes are those?
— Ah yes, the first three belong to the King's household, the others to the hunting committee — all these gentlemen are there together.
— But tell me — are they gens comme il faut?
— Oh yes, indeed — the Cardinal Antonelli's nephew is among them, Prince Ruspoli, and many others.
Good — Soroka is not a hairdresser. That is all I wanted to know.
Let me not forget to record a remark of Dina's which strikes me as exact: Saint Peter's is so large, she said, that it appears small.
But let me resume — where was I? I was going out with Dina, Lola and their mother — yes, and I came out very confounded and dumbfounded, because on the stairs Maman broke open a letter from Walitsky and read me the following lines:
— This is where the letters written to Olga by Marie lead!
— The aunt encountered Audiffret and he did not greet her — just as if he had never known her.
Yet Marie has wit — she ought to understand that it is wrong. And why do it, why make enemies? "There are quite enough already."
I do not understand which letters to Olga — but I am no less killed, as one says in Russian. Even Domenica cannot make me speak; I come home half furious, half desolate. Mad again! A hundred times mad! Have I not proved to myself that it is not my letters that are the cause, but the old story of Nice, where we are too slandered and despised for people not to turn from us? Have I not verified the dates and the facts? Yes — it is true; I know it is not the letters. All the same.
It appears that the adorable Georges — whom all the maligni demones strangle — it appears that this monster, by way of news—
To earn his mistress's forgiveness he has published an article stating that he has no connection whatever with Mme Domenica de Babanine; and he is going to publish another to say that he was never married to her and that her daughters are not legitimate. And society tolerates this monster! And he is not expelled from France! God!
Domenica was a widow with two daughters. Etienne Babanine married her daughter Marie, and Georges Babanine (may the devil choke him) married Domenica herself. For ten or fourteen years the matter was left to sleep, but three years ago it came to judgment — it appears that both marriages were invalid.
And one of them was annulled — Georges's, which preceded Etienne's by ten years. Etienne worked the matter with the judges. But everyone knows that this execrable and infamous man was married, to the misfortune of his wife, and that his children are quite genuine Babanines.
Now he is going to publish this abomination in the newspapers — it is worse than killing his daughters! But he has preserved no feeling for anything; he was always like this.
And when, under the impression of Walitsky's letter, Maman told of his exploits, my hair stood on end.
It would take an entire book of shudders and cries of disgust to tell how he beat and slapped his mother — his own mother — until she was black and blue. It is he who causes all the trouble; it is he who has caused all the misfortunes. Only I do not know by what enchantment he has always been regarded as an unfortunate, honest, good, loyal, loving man — whereas he is the greatest coward, the greatest scoundrel, the most dreadful man on earth.
He beat his mother; he insulted authorities and private individuals; he never spoke a true word; he made debts that his sisters were obliged to pay; he blackened and slandered his whole family; he forged documents; he signed in his father's name [words blacked out — the authorisation to marry] Anna. One thing he has not done: murder.
But to be a murderer one needs a certain greatness of soul — and he has no soul.
Now he asks his father for money to go away with Anna; if his father gives it to him, he will come to Rome and do worse than murder us. He is not at peace so long as he has not dragged his unhappy sisters into the mire; everywhere he has caused nothing but scandals.
It is too long — I say it would take a book to recount all his cowardly horrors.
And such a monster lives! And the thunderbolt does not fall on his head!
Were it not a sin before God, I would kill this intolerable and shameful creature with my own hand — and my hand would not tremble.
To give a small notion of this gentleman: when Maman went to San Remo to see Dr Botkin, and Dina went with her, devoting herself and nursing her like an angel from heaven, her father — M. Georges de Babanine, as he styles himself — told our kitchen staff Adam and Trifon, and anyone in town who cared to listen, that his daughter Dina was going to San Remo to be delivered.
I add nothing to this — judge this rara avis for yourselves.
As for what Walitsky says about Audiffret — I have understood nothing, and I have asked him for explanations.
I was very distressed, but now I am calmer. Only you must agree with me that all of this is desolating and sad. Enemies everywhere, filth everywhere — all of it due to Georges.
It is that accursed Belle-de-jour who brings me bad luck every time I dream of him. Last night again I saw very distinctly his visiting card:

M. Georges Bergerault Directeur de Notre-Dame
I ask you what this can mean?
It is dreadful to have nothing but disillusions. Everything turns its back on me.
Fie — how dirty the human race is!
I used to mock Byron; now I understand him.
And why should I groan for others When none will sigh for me?
Only I still preserve some hope; I still believe in certain things; I wish to be wrong. And often I groan for others. It is dreadful to know how cowardly and wicked the world is — it makes one dark and unhappy, and dry and hard toward others.

Notes

A child servant in livery seated on the coachman's box — a fashionable domestic arrangement among wealthy European households of the period. ↩
The penna di San Luca (Saint Luke's quill): a large decorative feather displayed in the basilica, much remarked upon by visitors for its seemingly natural proportions at a distance. ↩
Princess Margherita of Savoy (1851–1926), Crown Princess of Italy, wife of Crown Prince Umberto; later Queen of Italy (1878–1900). ↩
An allusion to Dante's Inferno, where the damned are condemned to walk with their necks twisted backwards. ↩
Gens comme il faut: "people of quality"; the socially respectable upper classes. ↩
Cardinal Giacomo Antonelli (1806–1876), long-serving Secretary of State of the Holy See; died in November 1876. ↩
Maligni demones: "Evil demons" — Latin. Marie invokes them as a curse on Georges Babanine. ↩
Dr Sergei Petrovich Botkin (1832–1889): eminent Russian physician and court physician to Alexander II; practised medicine on the Riviera during the winters. ↩
Rara avis: "rare bird" — a Latin expression for a remarkable specimen; used here with heavy irony. ↩
In English in the original. From Byron, "And Wilt Thou Weep When I Am Low?" (1808). ↩
In English in the original; Byron ibid. ↩