Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Friday, 7 April 1876

While I was taking my painting lesson, I heard in Walitsky's room — which is next to the studio — a man's voice speaking Russian. I knocked at the door.
— One cannot come in, said Walitsky — I am undressed; it is Monsieur Issaïevitch who has arrived.
I was not in the least surprised, for my aunt had written to us that he was in Nice and would come to Rome. Who is Issaïevitch? Paul Issaïevitch is Domenica's nephew — that is to say, her brother's son. Eight years ago in Kharkov he was a student, came to our house every day as a relative, and was teased by Walitsky, who did nothing but arrange scenes between him and another young man — the son of my mother's singing teacher, who, being Italian, was received everywhere. Paul was excessively plain: broad nose, unremarkable complexion, short of stature — but was the delight of the young ladies, especially of Oga Joukowsky, the elder sister of Marie, with whom my brother was in love.
At present Issaïevitch is attached for special commissions to the chancellery of the Governor-General of Vilna. He is twenty-seven years old.
— Well then, I said to Walitsky, open the door.
— No, I cannot — I shall send him to you.
— Very well.
I received him without rising, in the manner of a queen receiving her habitual courtiers — a benevolent and unaffected queen.
— I need not introduce myself, he said — you recognise me?
— Oh! yes, I recognise you — it is I who can no longer be recognised.
— I am told you work marvels in painting, in singing, in everything.
— Thanks to Monsieur Katorbinsky I am making great progress, yes.
[Written across the page: I really did believe I was making paintings.]
— I shall not detain you any further.
— It is nothing — or rather, go now; we shall see each other again.
When Maman and Dina had returned from church, they came again to my studio and we fell to talking of Nice, of Yourkoff, and of Nina.
Issaïevitch wears a beard; he is what they call in Russia a raisonneur — a man of great expectations, or at least of the appearance of great expectations for his future. Dressed in the latest fashion, his boots creak (Russian elegance) and his shirt is white and stiff. In fact he is a man of wit, and with age he has become considerably less plain. Besides, he is a relation — we shall go riding with him.
After several circuits at the Pincio, on turning into the Corso I saw Torlonia, on foot with another man. As I was seated at the front I might have seen him the whole time, for he was walking in the same direction as we. But in my very effort to watch for him, I only bowed when he had already replaced his hat on his head.
That is three times now that I appear to be looking away. Listen! I do not know whether I love this man — I only know that when I think of him for two consecutive minutes, or when I see him, I become as if mad; I want to smash everything and flee to the ends of the earth! It is the same effect the other duke had upon me.
All of this makes me go to dinner in a preoccupied state, and I end up amusing our corner of the table by recounting — at the very moment the broad beans were served — that Pythagoras maintained they had souls; and by saying several other things that provoke laughter.
But at bottom I am tormented by Torlonia. Oh! how apt the Russian expression: to have a cat in one's heart. I have a cat in my heart. I always find it incredibly difficult to persuade myself that a man I love may not love me.
— L... let us not speak of it! I should like to thrash Torlonia. What madness — that business with the horses! I was not expecting a formal introduction. I spoke of his horses in order to give him the idea of being introduced to me, absurd woman! As if a man needed such prompting if he were interested, or if I pleased him!
In short, I am very wise in theory, and commit many errors in practice. I did not expect Torlonia to be introduced so quickly — on the instant.
[Written across the page: I hope you take what I say about Torlonia as I wrote it — that is, laughing. I was being childish as I wrote, without thinking that anyone might believe it to be true.]
I did not ask to be introduced to him — I merely wished for it. Besides, I have written so much here about it, you can judge for yourself.
But what can one do with a man who is simply not attracted to me!
I say this in answer to a thousand protests, complaints, and doubts that are stifling themselves and trying to overflow onto the page.
Each time I look at myself in the mirror I become incredulous, agitated, vexed! For I say to myself: do what you will — be ten times prettier — it will make no difference. Since you do not please him! If you were meant to please him it would already be done.
O infuriating truth!
O abominable conviction!
It is the resistance that irritates me! It is the impossible that makes me seethe, rage, and fling myself on the floor in the grip of... a heap of bitter reflections!
Now that I have described my vexations I feel better.
It is this evening that Pietro is expected. This evening or tomorrow. I prefer this evening — I shall wait for him so as to be disappointed.
Madame de Senarclens (the stout baroness) is at our house — it is nine o'clock, I am going to dress.
At ten o'clock, as that lady was leaving, Plowden entered, then Paul and Walitsky. We had a general conversation about the requirements for admission to the Russian court, about the institutes for young noblewomen, and various other things of the same kind.
Pietro has not come — it is only this evening that he leaves the convent. I saw his disgusting cleric of a brother — that hypocrite Paul Antonelli, there is a creature to be crushed! Small, swarthy, sallow, sharp, hypocritical, and Jesuitical!
If the convent affair is true, he must know of it; and how he must laugh about it with that closed little air of his — how he must recount it to his friends! Pietro and Paul cannot abide each other. It seems to me that my Antonelli is being oppressed, that his so-very-religious brothers are doing him harm with the old count.
Pietro still has until tomorrow evening at the latest. Maman made a wager with him that he would not be back on Saturday. We shall see who wins.
Issaïevitch spent the day with us and we went together to Vespers.
The death of the unfortunate, good Yourkoff provokes in everyone only a cold "so much the better," and a pious "it is better so for the Mademoiselles Sapogenikoff."
There are charitable souls who come to console her, to say such things to Nina. My aunt is outraged. And these are depraved scoundrels like the Boutowsky woman who keeps the journalist Chaussade because no one else will have him! I am far from approving Nina, but I shall say as Bihovetz says: "Since this arrangement is accepted by the husband, we have nothing to say."
My aunt urges me to return. "Is it possible," she writes, "that Marie no longer wishes to see Soroka, who has lost everything — even his trousers and his coachman Hélène!" If she does not return now, she continues, she will see him no more, for the tower flag no longer flies, the château is open to visitors, and Soroka rides about in a hired cab, as wretched as can be.
Am I not a prophetess? Remember the prediction of Cassandra and the lament of Giroflé.
Poor Audiffret — he will rot away.
I have made an anagram of Pietro Antonelli — I found, letter for letter: Il étonne l'apôtre. Wretched Pietro! What have they done with him! Those accursed Jesuits have poisoned him, or smothered him, or drowned him in the Tiber.
I shall have patience until tomorrow evening, after which I abandon myself to despair.
No, listen! Pietro — wherever you may be, in this world or the next — hear me. I wish to make you feel, by sheer force of will, that I am thinking of you, that I miss you, and that I detest those who persecute you! My dear friend, my finest memory of Rome.

Notes

«raisonneur» — a Russian social type: the argumentative intellectual who has opinions on everything and argues at length. Literally "one who reasons." ↩
«avoir un chat dans le cœur» — Russian idiom, used here in French translation: иметь кошку на сердце — to feel a cat scratching at one's heart; a sensation of gnawing anxiety and unease. ↩
Giroflé — a character from the comic opera Giroflé-Girofla (1874) by Charles Lecocq, known for her plaintive laments. Marie invokes her alongside Cassandra as a comic self-comparison. ↩
«Il étonne l'apôtre» — "He astonishes the apostle" — a perfect anagram of Pietro Antonelli. The reference to the apostle is a wry allusion to Saint Peter (Pietro), patron of Rome. ↩