Thursday, 6 April 1876

The day after tomorrow I shall see Pietro! One would think I loved him, to judge by my impatience.
Considerable emotion was produced this morning by the receipt of the following letter. [The letter is missing from this manuscript.]
I do not take the trouble to translate it — for if I become famous and if my journal becomes the property of the public after my death, of course, translators and editors will be found. In that case I beg and, if necessary, order that my journal not be printed with commentaries, but quite simply. Everything is in order and perfectly clear; one will need only to translate what is not in French and to correct the spelling. But all this takes me far from my subject — the letter.
Certainly he need not say what he says — but he speaks mortally truly, and I am astonished to see that a man I barely know has the same opinions and the same way of looking at things as I. He has touched all my extra-sensitive strings so accurately that I have nothing more to say here. Read this letter and you will know everything. He perhaps expected an impertinent reply from Marie Bashkirtseff — offended and wounded by his family — but I do not wish to quarrel with him; I am going to Russia and it is necessary for me to be on good terms with him:
"I thank you very much, dear Father, for your kind letter. I know very well that everything you say is for my good, but I am anxious to bring you round on certain points — on the false ideas you have formed of my position and my life.
My position is certainly not what it ought to be — but it is far from being what you think. First and foremost, I wish you to know that I do not live in anyone else's house. I live in my own home, or in my mother's, which is perfectly the same thing. As for my mother, she is independent and in her own home. That is the main point explained. Now for the trifles. What can one do! I am trivial — and I do not wish to leave the smallest thing in a state of doubt.
Your remarks about the friends from the table d'hôte would wound me if I did not attribute them to your perfect ignorance of my person, our way of life, and our circle of acquaintances. It is perhaps beneath me to explain this — but "I aspire to descend" for the moment. No one is a greater enemy of chance acquaintances than I; no one is stricter on these matters — it strikes me as strange to have to say so, so evident does it seem to me that I am known. Truly, it is impossible to be as ignorant of me as you are.
Let us leave it at that.
It is not for me to judge anyone — but I am going to judge you in one respect: why try to say so many wounding things in so short a letter? I am not angry; I am making my observations, that is all. If there are wrongs, if there are bitter things to be said, I am not the one who will say them. I am anxious to preserve a certain friendship between us and I wish to show the best character in the world.
Enough of explanations — I detest them while admitting their necessity.
We are thinking of going to Russia. If Maman's state of health should prevent her from coming, I shall come alone. And since it will give you pleasure, I shall come to see you — you and Paul.
Is it true that he has changed? Of character, I mean. I had almost cursed him for his conduct. When does the season begin in Poltava? I am eager to see that city in all its splendour. Goodbye — love me and think of me.
Your devoted daughter, all the same."
I believe I have said nothing in excess.
Maman wrote what I could not write and what absolutely had to be written.
My journal relieves my poor heart!
It is the Feast of the Annunciation today, and we were at mass in the morning; afterwards we received this letter; then I rested, and we went to raise dust at Borghese, the Pincio, the Corso. I saw Torlonia in Madame Leghait's carriage. We passed each other so quickly that I did not see whether he bowed to me. I did not turn round — I might have seen. But I did not turn round, and I was left miserable for the rest of the day. And I have come to my journal, praying it to relieve my heart. Empty heart, sad, wasted, envious, unhappy!
Another winter lost. In Rome as in Nice I have made myself known by sight — like a red dog. And in Rome as elsewhere, they ask:
— Who is that?
— A Russian.
— She is not seen in society.

Notes

"J'aspire à descendre" — ironic reversal: "I aspire to descend" (to lower myself to explain).
"Comme un chien rouge" — a colloquial expression meaning something conspicuous and hard to miss, like a red dog.