Thursday, 6 April 1876

The day after tomorrow I shall see Pietro! One would think I loved him, to judge by my impatience.
The following letter, received this morning, caused considerable agitation. [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? In 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.
Yes — they are not in society.
Yes, there is the great word! And I, with all my inclinations, with all my immense desires, with my fever for life, am always and everywhere pulled up short by that great word, as a horse is pulled up by the bit. It foams, it rages, it rears — but it is pulled up.
To the devil with comparisons, descriptions, eloquence! To the devil. One must have a lightning poison; I remember that Leclerc once spoke to me of yellow prussiate — I have some among my chemistry things; I have only to take it. Do you see these blots? That is ink mixed with my tears. Am I destined always to suffer? To poison myself! It is a guilty thought, but what would you have me do when I am dying of spite and humiliation! I cannot go on, I cannot go on, I cannot go on!
Forgive me, my God, but I cannot go on! Month after month, year after year go by and nothing changes; I resign myself to waiting for “next winter”, and next winter passes like last winter. And I stay here praying, weeping, tearing myself to pieces, and God has no pity on me but, on the contrary, sends me fresh torments every day!
In the eyes of most people it would be ridiculous to weep for celebrity, for brilliance, for something extraordinary — and I am not weeping for that. But do understand my position! Dresses, nothing but dresses!
written across the page
People may not believe my notes about Antonelli; to that I shall simply ask whether I have ever denied anything else? Never. Because it is all true, and if I no longer feel it in the same way, at least I did feel it — whereas I never meant the tender things I said about that man.
Outside everything, alone, wretched, on the promenade as at the theatre!
A stranger to everyone, rejected by society — oh! I am ashamed, ashamed, ashamed to drag my pretty face and my elegance about everywhere, exposed to the scrutinising, haughty looks of the women and to the wounding advances of the men!
I do not ask for noise, for a wild, worldly life — only an ordinary one, like everybody else’s! Peasants keep company with one another, artisans with artisans, the bourgeois with the bourgeois, nobles with nobles.
And we — where are we? Nowhere!
NOWHERE!
I seethe, I weep, I wring my hands at not being able to express myself. The strongest expressions are worn out, and if as many again were at my service, they would be worn out just the same. For my own particular use I should need more of them than all the Hebrews groaning in their captivity in Egypt.
I wept, then I sang, and I feel better. I sang the prayer to the Madonna from Mignon.
The music of that divine opera is the consolation of every afflicted soul, whatever its sorrow.
My deplorable state of mind makes me think that Pietro will never come back, that he does not love me and never has, and that I have been duped like the silliest fool on earth. He was to come out of the so-called convent on Friday or Saturday — that is, tomorrow or the day after.
Torlonia has diminished Antonelli atrociously. And to think the cards foretold me nothing but laurels and roses in the Torlonia affair!
Paul writes me a charming little letter and calls me “dear Countess”.
— I am not a countess, I replied, and never shall be, seeing that I mean to be a duchess at the very least and an empress at the very most.
What a double creature I am! Tell everyone who knows me that I weep, that I despair, that I am melancholy, sad, unhappy — and they will laugh in your face.
I show myself as a carefree child — gay, happy, teasing, mischievous, spiteful, heartless. And I have no trouble appearing so. It seems to me shameful to show one’s sorrows to the public.
Everyone went to see the Colosseum by moonlight; left alone, I looked at myself in the mirror, I sang, and now I am consoled and full of confidence in the future.
Let us go to Russia — into the very bosom of my torments.

Notes

The Orthodox feast of the Annunciation, 25 March in the Julian calendar still used in Russia, which in 1876 fell on 6 April of the Western calendar. ↩
“Comme un chien rouge” — a colloquial expression meaning something conspicuous and hard to miss, like a red dog. ↩