Monday, 30 October 1876 (18 October)

It was decided yesterday that a visit must be paid to Mme Miloradovitch. My father, after waiting three days for me, has left for Gavronzi; he must be called back, and to that end, with Alexandre’s consent, I am writing the following letter:
Copied letterLettre de Marie à son père (copie), 30 octobre 1876
Dear Papa, The same old business, the business you know of, is keeping me another day or two in Poltava. And [Bottom of page: one line torn] I would rather spend them with you than otherwise. I know you detest Poltava; I shall be all the more grateful to you. Your presence will be useful to me; people will mind their manners in front of you. Your loving daughter.
I do not love him at all.
Vassilissa Yégorovna sent for me to complain to me of all her misfortunes; she showed me shoes full of holes, and other miseries. She wept, and I felt a heavy unease; it hurt me to see this poor woman, once adored, rich, brilliant. She begged me very seriously to ask grandpapa to give her Tchernakowska.
— Let him do that, she said, and I shall ask for nothing more in the world.
I can well believe it, poor woman. I promised her everything; above all I told her to be patient, and that I had no doubt she would get satisfaction... She kissed me, blessed me, beside herself with joy.
That is her one point of madness. Apart from that, and a boundless credulity, she reasons soundly. I “lent” her some money and left her delighted and comparing me to Catherine the Great.
How sweet it is to be with one’s own people. Alexandre and Nadine seem to love me; if I believed them, I should love them very much.
The old great-aunt came to see us off, and as I left I urged little Étienne to be good to her and to do her a few small services.
God blesses little children who are kind to unhappy old people.
Having placed her under the protection of this angel, I leave a little easier in my mind about her well-being.
The child loves me, and he will remember my words.
We found Kousma at the station and, while the luggage was being seen to, we had tea. Marie Zankowsky and two other silly geese stared at me curiously through the windows of the waiting room, and one of them came in to greet Nadine.
Now we must work out the line of conduct we are to take. My father kept me shut away to prove to me that I had come to see him; he did it out of spite. Let us look as though we really had come to see a father. Since he takes it that way, let us give in, and we shall gain by it. Let us thrust the spite we feel somewhere far away and put a good face on it. Alexandre and his wife keep advising me “to take Bashkirtseff with me.” How I wish I could!
It seems that lately in Poltava there was very nearly a rupture with Michel. My father, exasperated by some gossip or other, said to him: You will drive me to smash your head in!
According to Kousma.
In all likelihood I shall never see Tchernakowka again.
For a long time I wandered from room to room, and it was truly very sweet to me. People laugh at those who find memories and sweetness in furniture and pictures, who say good morning and goodbye to them, who see something like friends in these bits of wood and cloth, which, from serving you and being before your eyes so long, take on a particle of your life and seem a part of your existence.
Laugh away! The subtlest feelings are the most easily ridiculed. And where mockery reigns, the supreme delicacy of feeling disappears.