Thursday, 26 October 1876 (14 October)

Blessed be the railways! We are in Kharkoff, at the famous innkeeper Andrieux’s. We left old Tchernakowska at one o’clock, behind thirty-year-old horses — grandpapa’s horses. Both the departure and the journey were a real firework display of simple, honest gaiety. One breathes differently among people who wish you nothing but good and who are neither crooked nor hunchbacked.
Alexandre has singularly enlightened me, and I have only to remember to see that he is telling the truth. Indeed, nobody in Poltava society visits the Bashkirtseff sisters; men come to Gavronzi on a bachelor’s jaunt, but they bring neither their daughters nor their wives.
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That is not true. As long as my father wished it, he had all that rabble at his feet; every one of them, from the prefect down, came to the parties he gave for his mistresses when he took them up in Poltava. Since he has had an actress living with him, he has settled down.
The proof: the visits that were never returned to me.
People do not like going to houses where the master keeps an actress who sees his sisters, and where those sisters — the Princess, for instance — keep some Neapolitan or other. Since I am on the subject, I will say that the charming Princess has gone to rejoin her Pulcinella in Naples. Fine morals, upon my word! The beau spent a year at Gavronzi — last year.
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The Princess hired this Italian in Naples, and he lived at Gavronzi and sat down to table every day with the French actress and M. Bashkirtseff’s children, Mme Gorpintchenko, etc.! In short, it is most edifying.
But I am becoming a sensible woman: I have bought a pocketbook, I write down my expenses, I do my sums. Alas!
Straight from the station we went to Sadet’s. She tried to stand on ceremony, so I turned her shop upside down and gave her a Laferrière dress to copy. I need something warm for the journey
Wandering Jew, when will you stop!
Lola, Nadine, Étienne and I, leaving Marie and Alexandre behind (Nadine is not jealous), went to the theatre, where there was not a soul — literally! So we moved on to another theatre where, according to what my uncle had told me, Miloradovitch was to be. I wanted only to show myself, for in all conscience he does not amuse me. He saw me and was even very much astonished; he spoke in a low voice to his companion, and both of them eyed us through their glasses. We were in the large box with opposite the stage box, as he was.
My anger has passed and I am dreaming of Pietro again. That proves nothing; I have dreamt of everybody, even of the Emperor of Russia. I was not listening to the play; I was dreaming. It is unhealthy, but I am at the age when one dreams of anyone at all, so long as one dreams.
Should I go to Rome, or work in Paris so as to become an empress? Madwoman! Heh! heh.
It is deadly, Russia, as circumstances make it for me.
My father summons me by telegraph.
So I was not mistaken when I described the portrait of Grand Duke Nicholas. Lola, who has seen him and danced with him at the Institute, says that his profile has something of Antonelli, and Antonelli... is he thinking of me? We parted on 22 May... I believe... five months ago. That is a long time... bah! I remember him, and he remembers me too. As for the telegram, he pretends not to have received it. That is wise. But I curse him. I swore, and I do not regret it. What I say about it I say just like that; the pen writes well, and the holder I bought today amuses me. It is of ivory and contains a pencil, two penknife blades and a pen; what is more, it is marked off in centimetres and can measure anything you like.
We had supper together, and on the way back to my room with Nadine I stopped before a stranger’s door to pour a glass of water into his boots, which had been put out in front of it.
Why did I soil my lips! Without love and without pleasure! I hardly even wanted to, but I had pictured that scene a hundred times in four years, and I made the fancy real just like that.
I have just as much desire to kiss Pacha as Antonelli. If at least it were love, an irresistible passion — but to sully oneself for nothing! Fie!
I shall never forget it.