Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Monday, 25 September 1876 (13 September) — Family Confrontation and Peasant Wedding

"Et lacryma et riou"
My father had woken me as usual, and I came downstairs for luncheon... I had not been at table half an hour when conversation turned to a certain young lady from... Kharkov, whom I saw seven years ago at the Kharkov theatre embracing a certain M. Potechine — a writer and actor, but above all an odious man, the brother of the excellent Potechine of Rome.
— I saw it myself, I said, speaking of the scene at the theatre.
— You did not see it, cried my father — it was Georges who told you, the great Georges, the noble Georges!
— Let us leave Georges out of it.
— But [blacked out: I did not see] that Mlle Ikornikoff embraced Potechine; I saw for myself when that same Potechine kissed my aunt, Mme Romanoff — though it is true he was her fiancé at the time...
The tone of it, the impertinence — and before that wretched Michel... I felt a tightening in my throat and the tears rose to my eyes, but [blacked out: I nevertheless had] the strength to say:
— I know you say nothing but impertinences — and I left the room and ran to my own to conceal my fury and my tears. [Blacked out: I was] so outraged that those degrading tears halted, blurring my sight only. I had not locked the door — by design — and indeed within a minute my father... rushed into the room and threw himself into my arms begging forgiveness. The wretch, charmed by the effect he had produced, came to gather up my complaints and offer his excuses — satisfied with himself. I thrust him away with all my strength and flung myself onto the sofa, where I burst into sobs. I would have given a day of my life not to weep. He embraced me, accused himself, repented, explained that he had meant nothing by it, that Potechine had been her acknowledged fiancé at the time.
[In the margin, crosswise: When I think that this man has kissed me I am ashamed.]
— Before that wretched Michel, I said through my sobs — who will dare... he too, before...
— I shall tell Michel that I invented it, that it was...
— That would only make it worse... Oh! What heroism — to utter cowardly slanders before Eristoff and the servants! What a feat! Something to boast of. It is base, it is vile, it is cowardly, it is wicked — and it is stupid!
The more he excused himself the more I [blacked out: demanded].
— Do you imagine that I too am unaware of the filth in your family? Have I ever said a word? And I shall never say a word — for one does not avenge a baseness by committing another!
If I wished to [blacked out: show] all that a daughter may say to a father I should continue, but this is enough — let this sample suffice. He listened to everything, whether from genuine remorse or hypocrisy; he had seen me weep, and that was sufficient.
I softened at last — no one could have been more submissive, more apologetic, more willing to endure reproaches — reproaches is not the word, but a torrent of abuse delivered in perfectly proper terms, upon my honour. He deserved it, the coward, the wretch, who dared to tell me he was distressed by the whole affair but that he had been irritated and wounded — and besides, this scene proved I had an excellent heart.
He led me out onto the gallery to watch a peasant wedding party that had come to pay their respects to the master. They were married yesterday and today make their wedding visit.
The man wears the customary dress: black boots to the knee, dark and rather wide trousers, and a svita — a sort of overcoat gathered from the waist, in natural brown cloth woven by the village women. I nearly forgot the embroidered shirt, of which the collar and chest are visible, and a knot of coloured ribbons [blacked out: in place of] the buttonhole.
The woman wears a skirt and a jacket of the same cut as the man's, but in a softer fabric for the occasion. Her head, instead of being adorned with flowers and ribbons as a girl's would be, is wound about with a silk kerchief that hides the hair and nearly all the forehead, without covering the ears or the neck.
They entered the drawing room followed by the groomsmen, the bridesmaids, and those who had negotiated the marriage.
The husband and wife knelt three times before my father and then before me — [blacked out: which is the custom] — and presented us with a loaf of bread and a towel. [sic]
In return for which money had to be given. They then danced on the gallery, and as my horses were already waiting I got into the carriage — a char-à-bancs to drive oneself — not without having said to Michel, and in front of all who needed to hear it, that is to say in front of this [Crossed out: scoundrel who is my] father:
— You did wrong to run away as you say you did; you ought to have stayed and reflected upon the foolishness you had just heard. Know this, my dear: from the speeches of fools one always learns what one ought not to say.
One can well imagine that the rest of the day was awkward — the author of my unhappy days spoke little, and only to ask whether I was very angry.
— I am sorry to be so highly strung; I ought to have spat and walked away instead of giving you the pleasure of my tears.
[Blacked out: "I understand now perfectly why my mother could not live with you — your dreadful, childish, petty, and malicious character, and your family... one must feel in it as gnawed and tickled as in an anthill!"] Monsieur went to bed and we retired early. I fell to playing cards, then to laughing, and as Michel was beside me, brushing my hand or the fabric at my shoulder with his lips, I shaved a twenty-sou piece across his head as the Catholic priests do. One must live.
I had lost again at Paul [a card game]; my dressing-case was brought so I could take out the money, and it was Michel who carried it back when I went upstairs with Paul and the Princess.
I insist upon this detail because it gave rise to... a scene as bizarre as it was... bizarre. I thrashed Michel. And here is how. He was asking me for my photograph in monk's habit, which I absolutely refused to give him; it seems he was set upon having it, for he proposed in exchange to receive twelve strokes of the riding-whip wherever I chose to apply them. The proposition tempted me.
— Very well, I said, if you can take the blows.
He lay flat on his stomach and I dealt him one after another twelve remarkable strokes of my English riding-whip — supple and whistling.
The Prince Charming did not cry out, but he raised his head twice to say that I was striking his legs, which had not been agreed upon. I must do myself justice: I struck with all my strength, and laughing at the top of my lungs.
There is something rather original about a man who lets himself be thrashed to obtain my portrait.
He gave me his in return, and as he complained of the pain:
— You are really too demanding. What! I accept your portrait without supplementary blows, and still you are not satisfied! Write me a dedication on the back.
And I dictated the following:
— I, the undersigned, the most profligate of fops in the province of Poltava and of many other places whose very name, let alone geographical situation, is unknown to me, am the most humble and most devoted servant of my cousin Marie Bashkirtseff,
Prince Michel Andryevitch Eristoff of Aragva.
And as he wrote this he would stop to ask Paul's advice, or else:
— But if I write this, you will mock me — you will laugh!
— You may be quite sure of it. A document of this kind is not apt to provoke tears.

Notes

Corrupt Latin, likely et lacrimae et risus — both tears and laughter. ↩
A traditional Ukrainian peasant overcoat (svita), gathered at the waist. ↩