Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Friday, 6 October 1876 (24 September) — Journey to Tchernakowka and Childhood Memories

I left at one in the morning for Iskrowka — a half-station — counting on no carriage, not even hoping for a cart.
— But how shall we manage the seven or eight versts to Tchernakowka? Paul cried.
— In a peasant cart, and if we find none — on foot!
[Blacked out: Upon] which he cried out that nothing in the world would induce him to walk through the forest to be devoured by wolves.
Audaces fortuna juvat — at the station I found Zankovsky, M. and Mme Volkovitsky, and Gedanoff; the first offered me not only his carriage but:
— If I had no horses, he said, I should harness myself.
The other three were going to Kharkov, as they had told me that morning.
Bear in mind that I rose yesterday — Wednesday — at nine in the morning.
At Iskrowka we found one of Alexandre's troikas waiting for his solicitor — and Stepan returning without the letters I had asked for!!
By the pale light falling from the moon I vaguely recognised the road, the forest, and finally the gate, the magnificent courtyard masterfully planted with shrubs and flowers so as not to obstruct the view, and the house — one storey very long, with large windows, flanked by two towers. There was a frost; the grass looked powdered. All the watchmen (there are four on night duty) came running; I rang out at the top of my lungs; through the oak vestibule, the waiting room, the dining room, the ballroom, I turned right leaving the other drawing rooms to the left, and swept like a whirlwind into the bedroom — the old tea room — which Alexandre and his family occupy, not yet venturing to violate our own rooms, out of praiseworthy delicacy and a kind of old-fashioned respect.
They were not expecting me — but the sight of those two children, beautiful as angels sleeping close to their father, moved me; I kissed them while pulling the letters and documents from my pocket and resuming my reproaches aloud. Nadine woke and I went to embrace her behind her screen.
Whatever entreaties were made I refused to sleep; I took the letters I needed, I talked — but talking is useless with this man — I drank tea, and it was not yet day. When I think that formerly, to go from Poltava to the country, one needed a whole day's preparation, delays, horses!
At four o'clock the [blacked out: steam] threshing machine began to work and the house awoke entirely.
I saw the rooms; I rummaged in the wardrobes, in the chests of drawers, where everything is intact and kept with remarkable care; I saw the old servants, the old cook; Mayer the German gardener, who claims to be an illegitimate son of the present Kaiser Wilhelm of Prussia and who has been in our service for twenty-six years.
The Bashkirtseffs may do what they will — one will always feel that the man who built and embellished their house was a soldier, whereas here one feels a nobleman. It might perhaps have been [blacked out: better] to be a soldier and cudgel one's sons as the general cudgelled my father — the Babanine name would then be unsullied.
I entered grandmother's room, but as I did not enter alone I affected profound indifference and began to rummage in a trunk of Maman's that had been placed there.
I hasten to write — O vanity! I hasten to recount my exploits.
I want to recount all the reckless things one does at my age. Ah! No matter — this life makes my head spin.
From Wednesday at eight in the morning until Thursday at midnight I did not sleep. I stayed awake for forty hours, as fresh and vigorous as possible.
[In the margin, crosswise: At least I am aware of my frenzy.]
The "terrible thief" is at bottom an honest man — he only robs his father, and he takes very little from us, merely withholding the revenues for a month sometimes; but it is fair that he should have some reward for all he does. So it is only his character that I detest — if one is not there to ask for a thing one will not get it. I took everything I wanted: papers, documents, notes on everything. I dispatched twenty thousand francs to Nice.
[In the margin, crosswise: And to think that I, exalted and corrupted child, hoped to contend with this crafty fox!]
At seven in the evening I departed from our old nest, where every person, every object has a history for me. Now that I write, I have a great desire to weep.
[Blacked out: I] remember myself as a very small child in that house, and now there is already a new generation — a girl and a boy, like myself and Paul... and then...
They escorted us as far as Iskrowka.
Ah! I was forgetting — poor Vassilissa, grandfather's sister, a former millionairess, who having squandered everything without ever having allowed herself a single distraction or a lover, has come to live here. They call her mad because she is excessively proper.
The sight distressed me. She is relegated to the pavilion — alone, alone, always alone. I spoke to her from the depths of my soul; she was moved, I think — they say she is made of stone. I stayed a long time; I felt that conversing with a kind and friendly soul did her great good.
— She no longer has her dog, I said to Nadine on leaving — she is always alone!
— She has a cat, the exemplary woman replied.
The poor old woman followed us a few moments later. I dressed her hair with a white tulle — she was majestic and beautiful as Mme de Chevreuse in the Gallery of Versailles. (Mme de Chevreuse is portrayed in that picture with a black veil.)
At Iskrowka, the Volkovitskys and Gedanoff, returning from Kharkov, invited me into their carriage; I scarcely had time to board — Gedanoff threw himself to his knees and served me as a mounting-step.
Alexandre came with me. More things forgotten! I weighed myself at the station — I weigh 125 pounds!
And moreover — that is, earlier — on the road from the house to Iskrowka stands the cemetery, in the midst of which rises a marble rock surmounted by a cross. Grandmother's tomb.

Notes

A verst is a Russian unit of length, approximately 1.07 kilometres or two-thirds of a mile. ↩
Audaces fortuna iuvat — "Fortune favours the bold." Virgil, Aeneid X.284. ↩
Marie de Rohan, Duchess of Chevreuse (1600–1679), celebrated beauty and political intrigante at the court of Louis XIII and later the Fronde. Her portrait hangs in the Palace of Versailles. ↩