Thursday, 24 August 1876 (12 August) — Emotional Crisis

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 — to the devil with it! 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?
Confound it, confound it, confound it!