Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Saturday, 16 September 1876 (4 September) — Deception and Honor

I have perjured myself — I gave my word of honour while lying — but I got myself out of an unpleasant scrape.
In the letter Maman wrote to me she says: serre-la à Gritsa Miloradovitch — which means: shake hands with Gritz Miloradovitch.
Given my father's suspicions, our conversation of yesterday, and the rumours circulating in town, when I handed him the letter to read I blotted those lines with ink — but he managed to decipher and guess their content. Those words would have passed unnoticed, but blotted out they assumed a ridiculous importance; not knowing what else to do, I smiled and told my father he was a poor guesser.
— You want, my dear, to argue the false in order to learn the true!
— What — you deny it? he cried, dumbfounded.
— Yes, I deny it.
— Your word of honour?
— My word of honour! Would you dare doubt it, Papa?
— Oh! he said, is it possible — I am thunderstruck by such audacity.
— If I did not take your words for a stratagem to make me confess the truth, I would take offence; but I merely laugh.
— You give your word of honour?
— Yes, and I swear before God!
How dreadful.
My father was not at all convinced, and I had lied for nothing — shamefully so. It is always shameful to lie, and once one has violated one's given word, there is no longer any barrier between lies and conscience.
I went alone to church and prayed with all my soul — there was no one to be observed by, no one to be seen by. There was no one but myself, the priest, and the deacon.
My father took me for a walk, and we had barely sat down to table when he said:
— Ah! Marie, your diplomacy is poor!
Then, to prove my innocence and above all my naivety, I recounted the whole affair, arguing in particular the pointlessness of blotting out something so simple and then denying it with a lie.
I did not know how to get out of it — my father had clearly seen Gritz's name, and after so much discussion I could no longer confess.
— Ah, how clever Papa is! I cried, casting about for a fresh lie.
He argues the false in order to get me to tell him the true. I grant it — you are clever, you see through me, you know that I cannot keep a secret, and you employ just the right means to make me tell you everything. Ah! But no — this time I shall not say it. I forbid myself to say it!
I racked my brains and grew desperate.
My father continued his disbelief — and he was perfectly right.
— Look here, I said, I am going to fetch that famous letter and you shall all decipher it! What extraordinary people you are here, good Lord! What harm is there in greeting Gritz Miloradovitch? And why would I hide it?
Paul ran after me; I tore out the piece, burnt it, gave the letter to Paul and ordered him to say he had picked it up from the floor before me.
— That is exactly what I needed, said my father, pointing to the torn letter and smiling:
— Well then, since that is how things stand, I shall yield to your stratagems and tell the Princess everything! Come, my aunt.
I had found my solution. Gritz and Count (Grof) resemble each other in Russian as in French; Miloradovitch and Merjeewsky likewise, especially in Russian — in the letter's meaning the ending is Miloradovitchou, just as it would be Merjeeskomou.
— You see, Princess, I began with an air of great mystery and prodigious naturalness. You see — you have heard talk, two years ago, of a certain Count Merjeevsky?
— Yes, yes.
— Well then, you also know that I was fifteen at the time and detested him?
— Yes.
— And on top of everything he was not rich, you understand.
— Very well.
— Well, here is the story: this gentleman has just inherited a vast fortune. My mother informed me of this in a previous letter — the one I did not give my father, the one I took to my room and locked away — you remember?
— Yes, yes — and then?
— Then, my mother... you know what a mother is...
Well, you know, a mother always strives, always seeks what she calls her daughter's good — well, my mother speaks to me of renewing acquaintance with the count who is currently in Kharkoff, but I have done nothing about it, I detest — you know what that means in my case. And in this letter, in the famous one, she tells me: give my regards to Count Merjeevsky — as a piece of advice, a reminder. You see the resemblance?
— Ah! Ha! I understand!
— You see, only, please do not repeat this; it is very simple, but there are certain things which, once repeated, become difficult to... well, it is very delicate — a mother's solicitude can be turned into ridicule or into something mercenary and ugly... so, Natalia Pavlovna, I am counting on you, are I not?... and...
— Oh! Mousse, be easy — I shall say nothing. [Crossed out: I have understood.]
All this is to say that I might have been put to better use than deceiving a hunchbacked aunt and a short-sighted father.
Triumphant henceforth, I returned to the table. My father will know everything this evening or tomorrow.
[In the margin, crosswise: I am an idiot.]
It is wicked but well contrived. One must have audacity! Throughout the entire day I was not troubled for a single instant, and to all the teasing and smiles of disbelief I responded with smiles full of assurance and perfect composure. And having found my story, I told it as something that had been tormenting my tongue for a long time and that I was at last forced to say — driven to it by my father's manoeuvres.
[In the margin, crosswise: I am an idiot.]
On the other hand I continue to be pleased — the Governor's and his wife's flatteries have increased Monsieur Constantin's esteem for me; the effect I produce flatters him; and for my part I am not displeased to know that people say: "You know, the Bashkirtseff daughter — a great beauty."
The poor fools — have they seen nothing then?