Sunday, 7 January 1877

Today I have something fine to tell.
Nothing special in the morning — Barnola and Broussais — and then I learn that Gambetta is in Nice, and without a moment’s hesitation I send him a letter worded as follows:
“Monsieur,
You will doubtless not be surprised to have inspired in an intelligent person the keenest desire to know you and to converse with you; I shall therefore expect you tomorrow, all day, at my home: Promenade des Anglais, 55 bis.
Please accept, Monsieur, the assurance of my profound esteem.
M. Bashkirtseff”
Esteem... that commits me to nothing — I esteem him at what he is worth, and that is all.
And then we go out; a little before we reach the rink we meet a Russian lady and a gentleman. This gentleman is the very one who gave this answer in Rome: the girl is well enough, but they have not a penny, they deceive everyone, they live on money that is not theirs, which they borrow from the first comer. Their tra-la-la is paid for by the wretched workmen whose money they spirit away, etc., etc. How do I know this? Here is how... Wolf greeted us one day while he was out walking with this gentleman. “What,” said the latter, “you know those people?” And he said — thus he spoke — adding that I was to marry young Antonelli but that he had written to the Cardinal himself — what has been set down above, and more. Wolf told M. Anitchkoff, and the latter, while speaking to Walitsky about Amalia, whom we had to dismiss on account of a heap of irregularities... M. Anitchkoff, then, said to Walitsky:
— Good heavens, how do you manage always to be in difficulties? I know perfectly well that you pay more than you need to, and yet —, and he repeated what M. Pierret had said to Wolf, but caught himself at once, for he hates tale-bearing, being himself a man of the strictest principles.
So here it is... this old news has added nothing to my torments: except the conviction that no one believes, or will ever believe, that I could scorn those who have asked for my hand. Count Bruschetti, a wealthy man, and Count Antonelli, nephew of the Cardinal. Indeed, for someone who does not know me and who hears about me from people like M. Pierret, these refusals are incredible.
And you, confounded readers, can judge better than anyone. For if I did not refuse Antonelli, I always intended to. I did not answer his letter. Is that nothing, then? And since I take offence at the slightest shadow, has he not the right to see in my silence contempt, at the very least? Now that is vulgar. Then my telegram from Paris settled the question and put an end to it. And then again, one thing astonishes me above all: how could I have behaved as I did, and so distort the feeling this boy had for me?
Besides, I have said it before. Antonelli has seen to my education, and without going through all I went through with him I should never have known how to conduct myself, for no advice, no warning is of any use to me. I must find things out for myself. Otherwise I should always think, “And if I had acted on my own idea, it might have been the same, or better.”
Well then, that matter is finished, explained, recounted. And let me say no more to myself about Antonelli. Enough.
But it suits me to see M. Pierret and to ask him something — what, you will see if I manage to see him.
I hurry to the Anitchkoffs’, climb their two flights of stairs; they are out. Besides, they would tell me nothing. So I go to Wolf’s (still with my aunt and Dina), on the third floor.
We find him in his dressing gown, but he is one of those men with whom one does not stand on ceremony over such trifles. While we were chatting about the — he asked me whether I had not had a fall.
— No, Monsieur, I said, but others fell today — poor M. Pierret, for instance, I believe.
— What, does M. Pierret skate?
— Why, I believe so; is he not a tall dark man [Three words crossed out] who lives at No. 1 Jardin Public? And surely he is from Nice, for as he fell he let slip such a tremendous Niçois oath that I should very much like to know who this gentleman is.
— He is not from Nice; he is a very well-bred man, and you astonish me. He studied at Karlsruhe, and he does indeed live where you say.
You can guess what I had in my heart when I came home. No rage this time, but a muffled despair — muffled, but by no means mute.
Immediately I powdered my hair and dressed in the style of Catherine II.
Having found myself superb, I went down to dinner with Pelikan, and towards evening Mme Zurmüllen arrived — a ravishing ash-blonde with eyebrows dyed black and a complexion white as milk.
We spent a very pleasant, quiet evening in ground floor the salons “with the superb furniture” and in my rooms.
— You carry us back two centuries, said Pelikan — you yourself and your apartment.
It is true; the others looked like blots.
And now they find that I resemble Catherine. It is the hairstyle and the grand air I know how to put on.
My dear family found me with my powder off and in my white monk’s habit, writing. They set about reassuring me; unfortunately all their best arguments ended with these words: “Ah! if you had said yes to Pierre Antonelli, if you had accepted him, he would go through fire for you. And if not, then you would have the right to complain — but as it is!”
Here is another letter, written like the first in my firmest and most flowing hand.
“Monsieur,
The importance of what I have to tell you entitles me, without having the honour of your acquaintance, to ask you to call on me tomorrow, Monday, between two and six o’clock, Promenade des Anglais 55 bis.
Please accept, Monsieur, my distinguished regards.
Marie Bashkirtseff
address: Place du Jardin Public, No. 1, M. Pierret.”

Notes

In Latin in the original: dixit. ↩