Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

That very evening we encountered a certain Marie Perlik, a spinster of forty, daughter of a roadside innkeeper — one of those country people who had travelled before the railways came. She was present at Maman's wedding and came from her refreshment counter at Vodianaga station to see me.

That very evening we encountered a certain Marie Perlik, a spinster of forty, daughter of a roadside innkeeper — one of those country people who had travelled before the railways came. She was present at Maman's wedding and came from her refreshment counter at Vodianaga station to see me.
She told me, among other things, that in the same train was a M. Novosselsky who, having known my mother long ago, would very much like to see me. I have heard the name from Maman; besides, it is a very well-known one, and there was a time when nothing was talked of but his colossal enterprises, his millions, and his ruins no less colossal than his enterprises.
At the next station Mlle Perlik (going to visit her brother an hour's distance away) brought me this gentleman. The introduction was... singular — but he knew who I was and I who he was, and it went off very well. Novosselsky, thanks to his varied fortunes, has been received everywhere — even at the courts of Russia and France — and is therefore a man of good manners and agreeable.
He rendered me every conceivable service, gave me his cushion, his travelling rugs, and was the soul of courtesy.
He is now mayor of the city of Odessa. A most enviable position — especially in Odessa.
The mayor in Russian is called Golova (head) and the town hall Douma (thought). Is that not curious?
The next day, Monday, passed without incident until the evening. We parted from Novosselsky and learned that by superior order the export of horses from the Russian Empire had been forbidden!
We leave them at Birzoula and continue our journey, hoping for some arrangement at the border, where we arrive Tuesday morning. Having a letter from the stationmaster at Birzoula — devoted to Novosselsky — we find the stationmaster at Voloczysk immediately at our disposal: a young Pole speaking French and with the air of a gentleman.
Thanks to him not a trunk, not a crate was opened, and we had to pay only for the cigarettes which I declared myself. Be reassured — they are presents for Nice.
As for the horses, we leave written instructions with Kousma and commend him to the stationmaster at Voloczysk as well as the previous ones. We had to wait until evening at Voloczysk for the next train, in the company of a bourgeois Russian family that made my heart sink.
This surplus of time did not prevent us from running late — all because of the cigarette case which no one could manage to nail shut, Chocolat having stuffed his muddy old boots inside it. But the stationmaster being obligingness itself, the train waited five minutes for us, as if we were in Poltava.
That night, from Tuesday to Wednesday, I slept very well in a proper bed, as in a hotel, my father having taken berths in the sleeping carriage — very comfortable, and scarcely more expensive than ordinary first class.
As it was not yet late and I was lying down, I fell to reading the famous Jeunesse du roi Henri. Ah, if only I had read it before, this excellent book! Nothing would have happened with Antonelli. The rogue was copying one of the most repulsive heroes — and copying him visibly. At every page I had little fits of indignation. How humiliated I am to have been taken in by a young dog — to have paid any attention to an improved specimen of Michel Eristoff! What are novels for? Well, you see, by God — for not being deceived about gentlemen who reproduce the heroes of MM. Ponson du Terrail and Xavier de Montépin. But such gentlemen bring nothing to it but the most idiotic depravity.
And as I now see, Pietro Antonelli, nephew of the illustrious Cardinal of the same name, took me for a bourgeoise of the sixteenth century.
Moral: one must read the worst books, inasmuch as those are the ones read by the majority of gentlemen one has the honour of rubbing shoulders with.
I am in Vienna.
Physically speaking, my journey has been perfect — I slept well, ate well, and am clean. That is the main thing, and possible only in Russia, where carriages are heated with wood and the wagons have dressing rooms.
My father was quite bearable — we played cards and mocked the other travellers. Only this evening he made a scene in his own particular style.
He took a box at the Opera but refused to accompany me unless I went in my travelling dress.
— You are taking advantage of my position, I said; but I will not allow anyone the luxury of tyrannising me. I shall not go — good night!
And so here I am in my room. My position? Yes — I haven't a penny. For I have only bills of exchange on Paris, which are no use to me before then. Having been forced to abandon the horses, I gave five hundred roubles to Kousma and am left with my fifty thousand francs — but only in drafts.
I told my father, who took offence and assumed his most noble attitude, crying that he cared nothing for expenses and that spending money on me cost him nothing, given all he had spent in his life.
Europe is in the air here. The tall, proud buildings raise my spirits almost as high as their topmost floors. Poltava's low dwellings crushed me.
What I miss is... yesterday's carriage lighting. Light coming from the ceiling has a particular charm. First, it does not cut the room in two; it forces the gaze to travel the full height of it, since the eyes naturally seek the light, and in this way the lines and harmony of the space are not destroyed, and the brightness falling from above seems to spread over you and over everything around you like a mysterious favour, full of majesty.
[In the margin: Pierre Antonelli. Pietro Antonelli. Pierre Antonelli. Cardinal Antonelli Cardinal.]
Through all of this — during and after the journey, standing or sitting or lying down — my thoughts always return to the same point: the Cardinal is dead. As none of the Mongruel's predictions have come to pass, I shall speak of her no more. In the matter of clairvoyants, there is only Alexis — but he does not predict the future, since he is no charlatan. But remember the card predictions of la Moreau. Let us not speak of those before we see them fulfilled. Let us speak of reality. The Cardinal is dead. Had he had the kindness to do so sooner... in fact, it would have come to the same thing.
Hah! What have I to do with this family of Italian rascals, charlatans, and makers of chalk statues! Via e al diavolo.
The Cardinal is dead. When Pacha put that dispatch before my eyes, I blushed and my fingers trembled for nearly an hour — which I concealed by arranging a hat.
He is dead, and I do not know why — I rejoice at it.
It seems to me that a great obstacle has fallen. But an obstacle to what? Chi lo sa?
Oh, what torment when I think of Rome.
I want to study and everything prevents me. My talents are being wasted, time is passing. I have neither progress in study nor worldly pleasures.
It is death.
"Est socia mortis homini vita ingloria."
I do not know which way to turn.
To Rome! No doubt to Rome — but so much time already lost. I shall make it up in summer. I have no more journeys to Russia to make. And who knows?
The Cardinal is dead.
I will give my fifty thousand francs to whoever would destroy Pietro Antonelli morally; there is no one for the moment, and afterwards I shall have no more money.
But let us be calm — nothing is lost, and the day will come when I shall have my revenge, that is to say, when God will avenge me. He is just.
I tried to reread last Friday, 13 October and truly could not. It is odious.

Thursday, 16 November 1876

Friday, 17 November 1876

Saturday, 18 November 1876

Last Thursday we were in Vienna until six o'clock. My father took me to Sacher's, the restaurateur, and briefly about the imperial city — desiring to be taken for my husband, which I feared with great repugnance.
When one travels with our train and scatters money, one is promptly served everywhere — even in the carriage. The attentiveness and repeated "Excellencies" please my father; as for me, I would be surprised only by the contrary, and the more honour I receive, the more natural and fitting it seems to be.
I have not ceased thinking of Antonelli, almost in spite of myself, and this compulsion to have him in my thoughts causes me a very strange feeling. I do not know what I ought to believe. Love, hatred, spite, indifference, horror? What is clear is that I despise him, and that this leaves me with infinite grief. My imagination was so active that the next day, Friday, at some station I no longer remember, it seemed to me that... that man came running, breathless, fell to his knees before me seizing my hands before I had time to feel indignant, and looked at me with that face... of then, and those crafty yet caressing eyes, anxiously amorous... Follies, follies that should have been worn out long since.
This morning, Saturday, at five o'clock we entered Paris.
Both from Vienna and as far as Vienna we had a salon carriage with beds etc. But whatever the case... the noise, the jolting have exhausted me. And above all the atrocious smoke.
We found a telegram from Maman at the Grand Hôtel.
We took apartments on the first floor; I took a bath and waited for Maman. But I am so despairing that nothing moves me anymore.
She arrived with Dina — Dina happy, calm, continuing her work as sister of charity, as guardian angel.
You can well imagine that I have never been more embarrassed: Papa and Maman. I did not know where to put myself.
[Written across the page: And generally I do not embarrass easily over trifles.]
The dissolute, cold, unfeeling man facing the sick, unhappy, indignant woman. She could not but reproach him; he would see in it only insults. And I between the two. There were several scenes but nothing too alarming.
We went out — my mother, my father, I, and Dina.
We dined together and went to see La Belle Hélène with Judic. I stayed in the darkest corner of the box, my eyes so heavy with sleep that I could barely see.

Notes

Golova (голова) — literally "head," meaning mayor. Douma (дума) — literally "thought" or "council." Marie delights in these etymological curiosities. ↩
The ban on exporting horses was connected to military mobilization in anticipation of the Russo-Turkish War, declared April 1877. Horses were strategic military assets. ↩
La Jeunesse du roi Henri — a sensational historical romance by Ponson du Terrail set during the French Wars of Religion. Marie recognises Antonelli's seduction tactics as lifted directly from the novel's villainy. ↩
Via e al diavolo — Italian: "Away and to the devil!" In Italian in the original. ↩
Chi lo sa? — Italian: "Who knows?" In Italian in the original. ↩
Latin: "An inglorious life is death's companion to man." Source uncertain; possibly from a classical anthology. In Latin in the original. ↩
Sacher's — the famous Viennese restaurant and hotel founded by Eduard Sacher in 1876, renowned for its Sachertorte. ↩
Judic — Anna Judic (1849–1911), the celebrated operetta star of the Parisian stage, famous for her performances of Offenbach. ↩