Wednesday, 1 November 1876 (20 October)

After a walk with Nadine in my grey Sadet dress, which I had tried on in front of Michel and some others, I left Poltava.
I did not utter a word during the journey; I was dreaming, as always.
As for yesterday’s business, it cannot be true. A depraved man may have a few guilty thoughts, but only now and then. Otherwise it cannot be true. It would be too ugly.
Paul told me again that Gedanoff had told him that Count Elstonn-Soumarokoff had “filled his ears with Mademoiselle Bashkirtseff”! But all that is quite useless; Monsieur my father puts a stop to it by answering Gedanoff, who, speaking on behalf of those gentlemen of the Guard, had asked his permission to come to Gavronzi.
— You will give me greater pleasure by coming alone.
I went to dress as Beatrice or Agrippina, and waited impatiently for the gentleman to withdraw to his room, where I did not follow him. Little by little Paul went off to bed too, and I found myself alone with that honest and admirable being who goes by the name of Pacha, an execrable name which I shall change for him.
written across the page
M. Bashkirtseff had a plan to marry me to the honest green man! The presumption of it!
The lamp was set in the embrasure of a window so that the curtain softened its light; I stretched out on a sofa by that window, which is the corner one, and the green man placed himself in the opposite corner, “plunged in darkness”... I was dejected and on edge, as usual and more than usual. I began by smoking some twenty cigarettes, which hurt my throat horribly; then, pleased with this bit of wickedness, I let my head sink lower and began a conversation, halting but charming for us both.
— Paul told me that you like dark-haired women, slim and tall; he claims you confessed it to him, I said, in a tone half teasing, half coquettish, or mocking, or provoking, I do not quite know which.
— Paul always lies, answered the voice from the corner.
— It is you who are lying, I went on; so... I no longer please you? I am in despair.
— No... you are.
— Then I still please you?
— Still.
— And why?
— What do you mean, why?
— Yes, why.
— Ah! Mousse, how is one supposed to talk to you!
— But plainly. Why all this evasiveness? Why not be simple and frank — I won’t mock you; if I laugh, it’s nerves and nothing more. I am the most wretched creature alive and no one takes pity on me.
— You, wretched?
— I, wretched.
— Ha! ha! ha!
— Idiot.
— Thank you.
— So I no longer please you...
— You please me.
— Why?
— Ah! but for, for... I no longer know; one cannot account for such things.
— Oh yes, one can; come now, dear green man, let us not stand on ceremony; you know that I would speak to no one in the world as I speak to you... simply, from the bottom of my soul, as they say in Russia... well then, let us examine together what is most pleasing about me... If I do not... please you, you may say so; you are frank enough for that, and I am indifferent enough... come now, is it the nose? or the eyes...
— It is plain that you have never loved.
— Why?
— Because the moment one analyses the features, the moment the nose outranks the eyes or the eyes the mouth... it means one does not love.
— That is perfectly true; who told you so?
— No one.
— Ulysses?
— No... one does not know what it is that pleases... I will tell you frankly... it is your air, your manners, your character above all.
— Is it a good one?
— Yes, unless you are playing a part, which no one can do all the time.
— True again... and my face?
— There are beauties, what one calls classical ones...
— Yes, we know that; what next?
— What next? There are women one sees go by, one says they are pretty, and one thinks no more about them. Next... but there are faces which... are pretty and charming... and which leave a lasting impression, a pleasant feeling... charming...
— Perfect... and then?
— What a lot of questions you ask!
— I am taking the opportunity to find out a little of what people think of me; I shall not meet anyone else whom I can question like this without compromising myself or putting ideas into his head... And how did it come over you?
— I do not know.
— Did it come all at once or little by little?
— Little by little.
— Hm!
— It is better, it is more solid; what one... loves in a day one stops loving in a day, whereas...
— Finish the rhyme, then... that lasts for ever!
— Yes, for ever.
— Ah! how glad I am!
— There you go! You are not glad at all.
— But I am... I wish Michel were here.
— Why?
— He would have sat on the floor and I would gently pull his hair... kss, kss (the Russian way of calling cats) Kissou, my friend, come... here...
— You see, said Pacha while I stroked the cat, you see...
— Pacha, come here... I will pull your hair.
— I do not want to.
— Then you do not love me?
— I love you.
— And it does not give you pleasure when I touch you.
— No.
— Bah!
— Because you do it indifferently; whether it is Michel, Paul, Kissou or me, it is all the same to you.
— Yes... almost, I added under my breath, to myself.
— If you did it differently, it would... give me pleasure.
— Go away, Kissou (go away, you bore me.)
It went on for a long while yet, and I came to feel a considerable respect for this man whose love is as reverent as a religion, and who has never sullied it by a word or a glance... a profane one.
— Do you like talking about love? I asked suddenly.
— No.
— To talk of it with indifference is a profanation... and yet it amuses.
— Amuses!
— Ah! Pacha, life is a wretched business... have I ever been in love?
— Never.
— Why do you think so?
— Because of your character; you could only love out of caprice... today a man, tomorrow a dress, the day after a cat.
— I am delighted when people think that of me. And you, my dear brother, have you ever been in love?
— I have told you.
— No.
— But yes, I have told you, my brother repeated with a sort of reluctance; you know it.
— N... no, that is not what I mean, I said quickly, but before?
— Never.
— It is odd. At moments I think I am mistaken and have taken you for more than you are.
This led to questions and answers, when all at once I gave a stifled cry and hid my face in my hands. I had remembered Rome.
— Oh! Pacha, my friend, if you only knew! Have you ever had a great trouble, a great sorrow?
— No.
— Have you ever wept?
— Yes, not long ago, over an injustice of my father’s.
— Oh! how happy you are! Pacha...
— You promised to tell me that story... you know, that man... when will you tell me?
— Later. Oh! what need have you to know! Now you are becoming vulgar, inquisitive. What did you promise me?
— Everything.
— Well then, when the day comes... I, but killing is not punishing.
— Making him suffer, is that it?
— Oh! yes, ruin him, sully him, cover him with shame and see to it that he has not one moment of... or rather do something to him that will make him bite... his fingers with rage every time he thinks of it, and may he think of it often... Pacha, you promised me?
— What was done to you?
— Ah! you are questioning me!
— No, but I really must know why I am striking; only I cannot for the life of me imagine what anyone could do to you that is so very disagreeable.
— I was treated with disrespect.
— That is serious.
— Is it not?!
— Pacha, I went on, you will do it?
— Yes.
— You... Slap his face in public and spit in his face in front of everyone?
— Of course.
— But he will challenge you.
— Yes, if he is a man of honour, if it is worth the trouble to...
— A kind of honour... no doubt; it is worth the trouble, and he will challenge you.
— Well?
— Perhaps he will kill you.
— Perhaps; what does it matter?
— It matters... I said, what do you mean, what does it matter... why, he will cover himself with glory, he will win a celebrity that will cover up his shame... and besides, it would be wrong. Pacha... my dear friend, you will do this for me?
— I promised you, yes.
— Thank you, I sighed with all the force of my hatred, sinking back on the sofa.
We talked of indifferent things, and at three in the morning I went up to my room.
There is a man... no, let us not think him excellent; the disillusion would be too unpleasant.
He amuses me now, and has confessed to me that he would become a soldier.
— To win glory, I tell you frankly.
Well, that sentence, coming from the bottom of his heart, half timid, half bold, and as true as truth itself, gave me enormous pleasure. Perhaps I flatter myself, but it seems to me that ambition was unknown to him; I think I remember the strange effect my first words of ambition produced, and one day when I talked in that vein while painting, the green man suddenly got up and began pacing the room, murmuring:
— Something must be done! Something must be done.
You know, he does not believe... in God... we shall change that... he does not know himself what he is saying.