Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Tuesday, 9 January 1877

I do not know where to begin — I am broken, annihilated, worse than dead. Death would be a deliverance; I would not welcome it with joy — I would weep for myself... but it would be over at once, whereas in living I die every day.
Yesterday... let me see, yes — yesterday I waited for Gambetta and Pierret; neither came, but in their place the Polish count. I was so downcast that I said a heap of foolish things which delighted him, after which I invited him to dinner. It is Grand-papa’s name day, and the Anitchkoffs, Pelikan, Broussais and Mme Zurmüllen will be dining with us.
I went on saying outlandish things to the youngster, and then we talked about women and men. I maintained that the latter had all the real privileges, physical and moral, whereupon the Polish count spoke of the heights to which a woman’s soul can rise. I did not dispute it; I only replied that a woman could not be a minister. And that in general a woman could rise become, rise except through the m only through a man, whereas a man could get anywhere starting from nothing. They would not understand my meaning and set about proving that woman was destined for another life, etc., etc., etc. We were straying from the subject.
— And despite all that, I said in conclusion, woman will always be the coachman and man the horses.
— And the carriage! they cried on all sides.
— That is life. And is that not what I am saying? Man is strength, woman is intelligence.
Afterwards... I rendered some Chopin nocturnes, and then — what is the use?
Poor Merjeewsky. That is brief and clear. He missed all the trains and will have to spend the night in Nice...
I went up to my rooms, took everything off, and after weeping like the wretch I am, fell asleep on the floor.
This morning they gave me the following note.
Naturally, I await M. Pierret at three o’clock — not without trembling somewhat. I had put on my new fur pelisse to intimidate him.
At three o’clock M. Gustave Pierret entered the yellow drawing room where I was. A tall dark man, red-lidded, black-bearded, correctly dressed.
— Come in, Monsieur, I said, rising.
— Madame Bashkirtseff? he asked.
— No, Monsieur, her daughter; but as my mother is indisposed, I am taking her place.
I sat down, motioning him to a chair...
— You are no doubt... surprised, Monsieur, I began, in a trembling voice and with restless hands.
— Madame...
— Not knowing me...
— Indeed, I have not the honour of knowing you; this is the first time I have put a name to your face...
— What, Monsieur, you do not know me?
— Not at all.
— Nor my family?
— Nor your family.
— And you have never seen me?
— Yes... I believe I had the honour... once, at the theatre...
— Ah!
— But...
— That makes it all the more astonishing, as you will see presently.
— But Madame... Madame or Mademoiselle?
— Mademoiselle.
— I am rather embarrassed, Monsieur. Still... I am going to speak frankly, since that is why we are here. First I made inquiries as to who you were. I was told that M. Pierret was a well-bred man and a gentleman. It was then that my mother wrote to you. Does all this explain nothing to you? Wait.
— I am listening, Mademoiselle.
— So, Monsieur, once again you persist in saying that you know us neither by sight nor by name?
— Except for those two times, once at the theatre, the other on the Promenade — yes, Mademoiselle.
— Ah! very well, and that will make our explanation as easy as can be. Since you do not know me, you cannot have said what... you said.
— I said something? I? Whatever was it, Mademoiselle? I tell you again that I do not understand...
— You will understand presently. Here is the matter. You were out walking one day with someone who greeted us.
— “What!” you said, “you know those people?” “Yes,” you were told. “But,” you went on, “do you know what they are? They live on other people’s money, they have not a penny, they pay no one...”
— Oh! Mademoiselle.
— They cheat the poor workmen...
— Allow me...
— They have nothing but lawsuits.
— Pardon...
— Scandals...
— Mademoiselle...
— With the police...
— Oh! Mademoiselle, what! I said that? It is not possible. I am very sparing of words, and four years ago I had a paralysis of the tongue; there are moments when I cannot speak at all...
— It seems this was not at such a moment; but in any case I am as sure of the person who repeated this to me as I am of myself, so there can be no doubt on that point. The only question, then, is whether you are Monsieur Pierret.
— Yes, Mademoiselle.
— You live at No. 1 Jardin Public.
— I do.
— With your uncle and aunt?
— That is correct.
— You are a widower?
— Yes, Mademoiselle, I am a widower... yes, a widower.
— Then it is you.
— But I tell you I do not know you!
— That only adds to the oddity of the thing...
— I have never said anything about your family; as for you, Mademoiselle, I saw you one evening at the Opera in a costume much like this one, and I said that you looked like Velleda — that is absolutely all.
— You see how strange it is — and I was preparing to say to you: The voice of the people is the voice of God, but one must not confuse with that voice the voice of dismissed servants and of tradesmen who have padded their bills...
— But I have never had any dealings with servants...
— I believe you.
— My uncle and aunt came from Paris with three Parisian servants, and we have never had anything to do with the ones in Nice.
— Stranger and stranger that, denying it so positively, you should have said such... strange things... No doubt there is another Monsieur Pierret, and it is to him that I meant to say: how wrong and unworthy it is to speak ill of people without knowing them! Perhaps I am adorable, kind, gentle, divine, and so is all my family, and you, Monsieur, trusting infamous people, stoop so low as to repeat vile things. Ah! Monsieur, how unworthy that is of a gentleman and an honest man! So I thought that this Monsieur Pierret, seeing me speak so humanely and so honestly, would be sorry to have spread dreadful slanders about people who are very pleasant... perhaps, and who have never done him any harm.
— I only wonder, Mademoiselle, who can have told you this. I do not go into society; I know almost no one here. A Russian gentleman, General Wolf, with whom I sometimes walk, and then three Frenchmen. Who, then, told you these things, Mademoiselle?
— You will understand, Monsieur, that I prefer to keep the name to myself. All I can tell you is that I am as sure of... this person as I am of myself. And now, if you please, we shall pass on to a subject that concerns me in particular.
— You, Mademoiselle?
— Me, Monsieur. Do you know, or have you known, Cardinal Antonelli?
— Never!
— Nor his family, nor any of his friends? You have never written to him?
— Never, Mademoiselle. Never!
— Oh! how strange it is, then. Do you know what you said?
— I said?
— Yes, you said this: the girl is charming — do you hear, Monsieur?
He bowed, murmuring a heartfelt assent.
— But, you went on, she has not a penny, and her family... (you repeated the same thing as just now), and, you said further, I let the Cardinal know as much when he asked me for information, himself or through a third party.
— But never, Mademoiselle! Never in my life! This is the first time I have heard any of this!
— Now you must know, Monsieur, that last winter there was talk of a marriage between me and the Cardinal’s nephew, and that I took the whim — I have endless whims — to refuse this advantageous match. A refusal that a good many people persist in disbelieving. But that is beside the point, and I even think I am going into needless details; but since we are playing a sort of vaudeville at the moment, let us say the most extraordinary things.
— This is the first time I have heard anything of what you do me the honour of telling me.
— Ah! So much the better, Monsieur... I shrank from believing such villainy on the part of a gentleman. Sometimes, too, people will hound those they do not even know. How wrong that is — oh, very wrong! Well, Monsieur, since it was not you, it remains for me to ask your pardon for having disturbed you... but you see, I like to bring things to a clear conclusion, and I thought it better, at the cost of being thought extravagant, to ask you to come here and to speak to you openly, rather than to go gathering what is said in corners.
— Quite true, Mademoiselle; I too like to proceed openly.
— So, Monsieur, forgive me for having disturbed you; as for apologising for having suspected you, I shall do nothing of the kind, seeing that I had neither the right to suspect you nor any reason to be sure of you, not knowing you at all.
— Quite so, Mademoiselle; as for the disturbance, on the contrary, I am very happy, since it gives me the pleasure of speaking with you.
I fell silent. He rose.
— Mademoiselle...
— Monsieur...
It lasted a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes in all.
I went to give my family an account of the interview, and at once Walitsky began telling me what I ought to have said to M. Pierret. It is laughable.
My aunt was coming in just as M. Pierret was going out of the door.
— He looked as if he had just stepped out of a hot bath, she said.
We went out, and into the Skating, to prove that I am a subscriber.
In the evening they took me to see Kosiki, a new operetta by Lecocq. Sitting in the darkest corner of the box, I saw nothing, heard nothing.
The General came to see us and found me sad.
— People in Nice concern themselves too much with me, I told him; it annoys me — it is infamous!
Instead of reassuring me, he consoled me! Like Princess Souvoroff, he advised us to be seen with Tutcheff: “since all the infamies come out of her house, it is the only way to prove that they are slanders.”
In consoling me he brought me to the point where I would have hanged myself there and then, in the box, if I had only had a rope in my hand.
I am so desperate that I no longer know how to complain.