Tuesday, 1 February 1876

Monseigneur sent word this morning to say he was feeling a little better and would like to see Maman. We go to see him — he becomes more and more charming. He wanted to see us in order to introduce us to his kinswoman, the Comtesse de Reculât, who sings like la Patti and moves very much in the world.
— I have told her, says de Falloux, that I was going to bring her two charming Russian ladies and that she must amuse them, take them everywhere — in a word, I want her to tell me she was enchanted by you. She receives at six o'clock and will be delighted to see you.
But there arrives a very thin monseigneur, then a very stout monseigneur, and we leave the three monseigneurs together.
Lola and her mother will go to the Pope — I as well; at present I have a ravishing black dress, and I shall show myself a little to the cardinals, who examine women like true Sorokas.
But oh! — on the Piazza di Spagna we encounter M. and Mme Teplakoff. Embraces and joy.
To the Pincio. I cannot manage to see Soroka by day. You know that Soroka is handsome, as far as I have been able to see.
There is an officer who has magnificent horses and whom we call Prince Ruspoli because he resembles a portrait of that prince I saw at Suscipi's.
Perhaps it is the real Ruspoli. No matter — it is only to say that we find him very handsome, very handsome, very handsome. So handsome that Lola swears by him alone, and I am going to order a little jacket in grey-blue cloth like the officers'.
At dinner a letter is brought with this singular address:
— To His Excellency the Ambassador of His Majesty the Emperor of All the Russias, with request to deliver to Mme Marie de Bashkirtseff.
It is M. Georges de Babanine writing to my mother — a beggar's letter; fortunately our address is hidden from him.
From his letter one may suppose he wishes to come to Rome to sweeten our existence.
This cowardly, humble, and swaggering letter recalls to me at once all the wrong this man has done me; were I as stout as Ruspoli I should have had an apoplectic fit, but I am not so stout, and I have only a violent palpitation of the heart, and all my blood rushes to my head, and I go to my room to conceal my nervous trembling, and my teeth chatter, and I cannot help detesting this vile phantom who poisons my life.
— Do not forget, he writes, that our poor mother entrusted me to your care!
Cowardly comedian. Every time he needed money he would come to Dina and speak to her of "poor little Etienne who is dead" — but one day she said to him:
— Go away — I know what you want: poor little Etienne is dead, give me twenty francs! (Etienne was Dina's brother.)
He asks forgiveness; he promises to mend his ways; he wants to live honestly far from Nice. Wretch, villain!
Oh! do not accuse me of hardness — believe me it costs me to be hard and not to pity him.
But I know him — he will act like Milady's son with Athos, who held out his hand to save him. His humble prayers, his grovelling phrases — all of it is calculation, villainy, baseness!
You should have seen what he wrote to Maman when he wanted her to buy him a villa.
She did not sleep at night, and wept over the unhappy fate of her poor brother.
Now two villas have been bought for him — which he wishes to resell.
Paul will be a second Georges, I fear. But he will not destroy my children, nor me.
I shall disown him before everyone; I shall protect myself against his vileness.
Now that he is far away he seems better to me — but I know very well I am deceiving myself; I know well that he is and will be a wretch. I care little for him; since he has been away I almost never think of him, except sometimes to say to myself: oh yes, my brother! I have entirely forgotten him.
It is a cowardice on my mother's part to have let him do it (him, Georges) — to count her daughter, me, as nothing.
God, is it possible that I am in this world only to suffer? Will my life truly be nothing but a chain of misfortunes, greater or smaller?
My God, have pity on me! I should like someone to tell my sadness to — a priest, a Jesuit, a scoundrel, anyone at all, provided he console me!
I need kind words — they would make me weep, and then I would pray.
Holy Virgin Mary, protect me!
I had Domenica tell my fortune — ostensibly for Soroka, in reality for le Surprenant. She tells me he is occupied with a lady he sees a great deal, but that he thinks of making a journey to find a fair-haired girl he would like to marry if she is rich. But for the moment he is very occupied with his own affairs. The fair-haired girl is far from him, the other is very close, and he speaks with others of going to find the blonde and even of asking her hand — if she is rich.
How far I am from him — that is accurate enough; when... besides, I do not believe in cards.
I am so weak this evening that I think of Audiffret and rage at his disdain. When I am overwrought I no longer know myself.
My God!
I have replied to Georges on my mother's behalf:
— The Russian Embassy has been informed to no longer receive letters in the name of Mme Bashkirtseff; all those from whom she wishes to receive letters have her address.
From your letter I have seen that you might come to Rome, and today everything will be packed and tomorrow we are going to another city in Italy. We have had enough of your scandals in Nice and I was obliged to leave on account of your filth.
It is useless to explain yourself further: "M. Georges Stepanovich de Babanine gives notice that Mme D. Kandibine, who styles herself Mme Babanine, has no right to bear that name, as he was never married to her."
No signature — it is more a notice than a letter. I only wanted to tell him how his humilities have been understood. Provided only that Maman writes nothing behind my back.
I have written to my aunt a letter of eight pages that I have watered with my tears of impotent rage. They pity Georges — and me, and me!
Nobody will understand me — they make me dresses! Boots, hats — and they let me be dragged through the mud and assassinate me every day.
MY GOD!

Notes

Monseigneur: the Bishop (de Falloux), who has been assisting Marie and her mother to make social connections in Rome.
Adelina Patti (1843–1919): the most celebrated soprano of the age; comparison to her was the highest possible musical compliment.
An allusion to Alexandre Dumas's Vingt ans après (1845), sequel to The Three Musketeers: Mordaunt (Milady's son) stabs Athos who had tried to save him.