# Wednesday, 10 January 1877

Wednesday, 10 January 1877

“Monsieur,
It is with deep regret that I find myself obliged to return to a subject that seemed to have been cleared up.
After the explanations you were kind enough to give, which were conveyed to me last Tuesday, I telegraphed to Rome. You will surely have guessed that it was from Rome that your so-called words were reported to me. The person persists most strangely.
Confident of your good faith, Monsieur, I shall therefore ask you to settle the question by writing me a line or two stating what you said on Tuesday.
I trust you will see in this request nothing but what is perfectly natural, understanding the complete impossibility of bringing the parties face to face — which, being most difficult, would also be perfectly disagreeable.
Please accept, Monsieur, the expression of my distinguished consideration.
Marie Bashkirtseff”
It has not yet been sent, but it will be.
No one can imagine how gloomy my mood is. I may wear the monk’s costume, but I am far from accepting a monk’s lot.
It is infamous!
And I made the mistake of going to the Opera to hear Donizetti’s Poliuto.
My white gown, as usual, looked very much like a peasant blouse as far as the bodice went, and my hair was carelessly coiled and held behind the leaving the whole head uncovered but heaped on the nape of the neck [words crossed out] and then falling in two thick curls down my back; it was strikingly simple. Not a jewel, not a ribbon, except the one at my waist, which drew it in and fastened in front with a buckle of matt gold.
At any other time I should have thought myself admired; this evening every glance was an insult. The women’s above all. Oh, how I loved those who did not look at me!
M. Pierret was in the stalls.
Audiffret, exceedingly handsome, in his box.
Mme Harris, in the prefecture box, went so far as to point us out with her fan several times while speaking low to the prefect, M. Darcy. My aunt performed the same pantomime and levelled her lorgnette at the lady until she flushed and paled. Pelikan was with us. Galula came to see us; I told him about Pierret, putting Maman’s name in place of mine, and touched in a few words on our ruin, on our excursion to Rome and the gloom that reigns there because of the court mourning and, in the black salons, over the death of the Cardinal; we saw someone of his family who was most displeased, being disinherited. All this very much to the point, and not stupidly.
A thousand plans, a thousand illusions, a thousand desires obsess me. I am waiting for an answer from my father — the last. And I have been to Russia... and Nothing.
Doubt, illusion, deception, oppression.

Notes

Poliuto — opera by Gaetano Donizetti (composed 1838, premiered 1848); a work about a Christian martyr, its themes of sacrifice and isolation would have resonated darkly with Marie’s mood. ↩
In Latin in the original: Dubium, illusio, deceptio, oppressio. ↩