Sunday, 20 August 1876 (8 August)

Gradually, by the third course, a political discussion engulfed Hamsley and me. It lasted until half past two.
In any case it had been agreed we would sit up until three, the appointed hour of my departure.
As Alexandre has not replied to my telegram, I prefer to go and find him rather than wait indefinitely.
The whole “court” (one says court here to mean all the servants of a house) saw us off to the carriage. The neighbours departed at the same time as I, with Étienne accompanied by a calèche containing Paul, Amélie, Chocolat up on the box, two carts with the luggage, and preceded by Michel Hamsley mounted on a racing droshky (a plank set on four wheels) with a little coachman and a rustic lantern. He had taken it upon himself to clear the road ahead of us.
It was very dark and at every turn we encountered wagons laden with grain blocking the road.
Midway along the road I took Hamsley into my carriage.
Stiopa fell asleep and Hamsley was dropping with exhaustion, yet I pelted him with questions which he answered with superhuman effort.
We had to wait an hour at the station in the chill of dawn.
in the margin
The distance to the station is twenty versts.
I depart accompanied by Paul, who serves me admirably.
At Kharkoff we waited two hours. Alexandre was there. Despite my telegrams, he was practically stupefied to see me; I detected embarrassment in his manner but held myself well. He has no idea what I am or why I have come — he flatters me, he bows. He is a thorough scoundrel, and if I have trouble ahead it will be with him. He told me how very anxious my father had been, terribly worried that I would not come to him. My father had come to beg Alexandre not to accompany me, so that Paul could be sent to bring me to Gavronzi; he kept asking for the telegrams I sent my uncle, to know how far I had got on my journey. In a word, the greatest eagerness to have me, if not out of love then at least out of pride. Alexandre took a few digs at him, but my policy is to remain neutral.
On Monday he will be in Poltava and we shall talk. He arranged for me to have a private compartment by introducing me to Colonel Menzenkanoff of the gendarmerie, who gave up his own to me. I feel myself at home here — everything and everyone knows me, or knows my family; there is nothing ambiguous in one’s position and one walks and breathes freely. But I should not wish to live here, oh no!
This morning at six we arrive at Poltava. No one at the station.
On arriving at the hotel I wrote the following letter — bluntness often succeeds:
I arrive in Poltava and cannot even find a carriage. A hired cab! Come at once — I shall expect you at noon. Truly, this is not a fitting reception.
Marie Bashkirtseff.
The letter had scarcely gone when my father came rushing into the room, and I threw myself into his arms with a noble slowness.
He was visibly satisfied with my appearance, for his first concern was to examine my person with a kind of eagerness.
— How tall you are! I did not expect that. And pretty — yes, yes, good, very good, indeed.
— Is this how I am received — not even a carriage! Did you receive my letter?
— No, but I have just received the telegram and came running — I had hoped to arrive in time for the train, I am covered in dust — to come more quickly I took young Eristoff’s troika.
— And I have written you a pretty letter.
— Like the last telegram?
— Almost.
— Very good... yes, very good.
— That is my way — people serve me.
— Like me! But you see I am as capricious as the devil.
— And I as two.
— You are accustomed to people chasing after you like little dogs.
— And they must chase after me — without that, it cannot work.
— Ah! No, that will not do with me.
— Take it or leave it.
— But why treat me as “my father.” I am a bon vivant, a young man — that is all!
— Perfect, and all the better.
— I am not alone — I am with Michel Eristoff and Paul Gorpintchenko (the son of his sainted sister).
— Show them in.
Eristoff is a perfect little dandy — execrably entertaining, stupid, ridiculous, bowing low, swallowed up in trousers three times the natural width and a collar reaching his ears.
The other one goes by Pacha — his family name is too difficult. He is a strong and sturdy lad, light chestnut hair, clean-shaven, Russian in appearance, square-set, candid, serious, agreeable but taciturn — or perhaps preoccupied, I cannot yet tell. I knew him about ten years ago when I used to be brought to visit my father.
Prince Eristoff, a buffoon and a brute but rich, was induced — the devil knows how — to marry, some seven or eight years ago, Nathalie, my father’s second sister, hunchbacked, ugly but kind. He died after six months, leaving his princess two sons and a daughter from his first marriage. Prince Constantin is my aunt Tutcheff’s lover, and Prince Michel is an eighteen-year-old scoundrel who sponges off Papa and relates his brother’s amorous adventures.
I established myself at once as a relation and a welcome acquaintance. But I arrive after the fair. The town is deserted — it is tiresome. I was awaited with immense curiosity. [Three lines crossed out]
— But Papa, said Paul, who then sent that telegram that Marie received in Petersburg, signed with my name? For it was not I.
My father was somewhat flustered.
— Well, he said, I must confess — it was I; you see I am found out at once, but... it makes no matter, what does it prove? Only that I desired... well, it proves... good — yes, very good.
— Yes, very good, and all the better, I said.
I set about dressing and let him come in so that he might see my linen and everything. My figure enchants him — the vain man is proud to show off. We were ready, but he wished to wait for the servants and luggage so that the procession might be more imposing. A four-horse carriage, a calèche, and a hooded droshky drawn by the little prince’s madcap troika.
My begetter watched me with satisfaction and was restraining himself with the greatest effort in order to appear calm, even indifferent.
It is, besides, in his character to show nothing of his feelings.
Halfway I climbed into the droshky to fly like the wind. The little horror makes me laugh. After twenty-five minutes we had covered ten versts. Two versts still remained to Gavronzi and I rejoined my father’s carriage so as to give him the satisfaction of an imposing entry.
The hunchbacked princess met us on the front steps.
— Eh! said my father — how tall she is... and interesting, is it not so? Eh?
He must have been pleased with me to risk such an effusion before one of the sisters.
A steward and others came to congratulate me on my happy arrival.
The estate is picturesquely situated — hills, a river, trees, a handsome house and several smaller ones. All the buildings perfectly maintained, the garden well tended; moreover the house was almost entirely refitted and refurnished this past winter. One displays great style while affecting simplicity and an air of: “it is always like this.”
Fine bronzes, Sèvres and Saxon porcelain, objets d’art. In truth I had not expected all this here. But a touch of bad taste. Champagne at lunch, naturally. An affectation of both aristocracy and simplicity that borders on stiffness. Ancestral portraits, proofs of ancient lineage — which I find entirely agreeable.
My father poses as a wretch abandoned by his wife — he who asked only to be the model of husbands. A large portrait of Maman painted in her absence, tokens of respect for the memory of lost happiness, and surges of hatred against Grand-papa and the Babanines who destroyed that happiness.
Enormous pains taken to make me feel that my arrival changes nothing in the inhabitants’ daily habits.
A game of cards, during which I worked at my needlepoint and, from time to time, said something which was listened to with curiosity.
Papa rose from the card table and sat beside me, leaving the cards to Pacha and Michel. I talked while embroidering and he listened with great attention.
Then he proposed a walk in the country. I walked first on his arm, then on Paul’s and the little prince’s. We stopped in at my wet nurse’s cottage — she pretended to wipe away a tear. She nursed me for only three days. My real nurse is at Tchernakovka.
This imbecile, this little dandy reduced to caricature, was courting me in a ridiculous and humiliating manner which reminded me of Antonelli — I cannot think why.
They took me a long way.
— It is to give you an appetite, my father would say.
I complained of tiredness and spoke of my fear of the grass on account of serpents and other “ferocious creatures.”
Father is reserved; daughter likewise. Were it not for the hunchbacked one, Michel, and the other, it would be a thousand times more fitting. He has me sit beside him to watch Michel’s acrobatic feats and gymnastics — Michel having learned the “trade” in a circus he followed all the way to the Caucasus on account of a little circus rider.
At dinner there were nothing but tragicomic quarrels between Michel and Pacha — the latter naturally mocking and despising the former, who thrashes about, writhes, shouts softly, plays the buffoon, and every other moment repeats the word “gommeux.”
— Maman, what does that mean? he asks the princess.
— I do not know, my dear.
— I shall tell you, since it is I who so named you. Gommeux comes from gomme — gum.
— Gum! Ah! Charming... charming, yes — gommeux.
And all repeat the new word with delight, for except my father no one knew it and none of them understands its true meaning.
— So I am a gommeux.
— Positively, my dear.
— But what does it mean?
— It means a fine-looking man, said my father, laughing.
— Then yes, charming, char... simpered the little fellow — but why did you name me so?
— Because I see straight through you.
— What?
— You are transparent. my dear.
The serious young man burst out laughing.
— What? Transparent? drawled the little fellow.
— Yes.
— But that is not good.
— It is a quality greatly prized in painting.
I do not know what I am writing, because the moment I was alone I recalled a phrase of my father’s spoken at random or with intent, and magnifying it in my imagination, I sat down in a corner and wept for a long time without moving, without blinking, my eyes fixed on a flower in the wallpaper — shattered, troubled, and above all desperate to the point of indifference.
Here is what happened. There was talk of Antonelli and I was asked all manner of things; contrary to my habit, I answered with reserve and did not dwell on the subject of my conquests, leaving them to guess or suppose — and then among other things my father said this with great indifference:
— I have heard it said that an Antonelli married three months ago.
And once alone, I did not reason — I recalled that phrase, I lay down on the floor and remained there stupefied and wretched, as I had been in Rome before Naples.
I looked at his letter. “I have need of the consolation of a word from you” turned my heart upside down and I nearly began to accuse myself — me!
Paul is treated according to his merits, but with a certain respect owed to the son of Bashkirtseff — the sole and last scion of the line. He must feel the difference in his heart, but outwardly he is the more fortunate: he is the only son, the heir.
written across the page
The line is neither ancient nor illustrious.
And I am in Russia, at the back of beyond! I weep with rage because he is not here and because I cannot go to him — I dare not. Ah! if I were to see him again and he were to say to me in that voice of his...
— “Every evening I looked at your portrait, I thought of you as I fell asleep.”
It seems to me... it seems to me... nothing!
There are no excuses and if I ever meet him again I shall not forgive him — but here, but at this moment I would throw myself at his feet.
And then... oh! What horror to believe oneself in love and to find one cannot be! For I cannot love a man like him — a near-ignoramus, a weak, dependent creature! Fie! I do not even have love — I have nothing but ennui.
I have been given a green bedroom and a blue salon! Is it not strange enough, when one thinks of my wanderings since this winter! And since I have been in Russia, how many times have I changed guides, lodgings, countries. Now with Étienne, now at Nina’s, then in the country, then at Poltava, finally at my father’s. No change astonishes me; I change lodgings, relations, acquaintances, without the least surprise — given that strange feeling I used to have before. All these indifferent beings, protectors, instruments of luxury or utility, merge together and leave me calm and cold.
How shall I contrive to bring my father to Rome?
By Jove, by Jove, by Jove!

Notes

A verst is a Russian unit of distance equivalent to approximately 1.067 kilometres (roughly two-thirds of a mile). Twenty versts is about 21 kilometres. ↩
In Latin in the original: genitor — “begetter, father”. ↩
In French in the original: Bigre, bigre, bigre ! ↩