Tuesday, 28 August 1877

M. and Mme Batourine lunched with us. The wife is very talkative, which causes one to forgive her for offending the eyes with her old, toothless face. Monsieur is a decent enough, rather self-effacing fellow who has dreamed all his life of having princes for cousins, and who succeeded by marrying his wife.
You know no doubt that he was very much in love with Maman, and she with him — two very serious love affairs that came to nothing, Maman having married M. Bashkirtseff and Batourine having married Mlle Bachmakoff, three years later.
Batourine's name is Alexandre, which makes Maman smile pleasantly. These people have been friends of Madame my mother for more than twenty-five years; Batourine went to school with the Babanine brothers.
They stayed a very long time. I gave a set of fine linen that had caught Madame's attention; Maman gives her a bottle of Nice water. Before leaving Wiesbaden we go to bring it to her; Batourine goes out and has us let in. Then another hour with the children, etc., etc.
At last we leave, carrying Russian salted cucumbers and cherry preserves.
I am extinguished.
What is rather curious is that Madame my mother reproaches me for my detached manner toward the things of this world, and tells me I really ought to be like everyone else and enjoy life as others do. It is simply mad. Yet I am glad that they notice I am dead; perhaps it will make them do something.
They hold up to me as an example the Korsakoff, the Merenberg, etc., who have made their own way.
She-devils of forty to fifty who made their way through lovers! That is even madder than the rest. But one must excuse them; they are stupefied from seeing me like this.
I am silent most of the time and dream that the Russians have taken Plevna and that Alexandre is in love with me.
After Alexandre's explanation I could not but write to him what was suffocating me — but to his last note I should have replied with these words:
"You have gratuitously and stupidly insulted a defenceless woman, and to her justification — whatever it may be — provoked by you, you reply with another insult. [Crossed out: terribly.] You are a coward."
Am I not a pearl and a diamond of wit? It took me only four months to find this. Instead, I wrote:
"The grapes are so unripe they have gone rotten.
Your note is not impertinent — it is simply an infamy concocted for a hussy by a player. But I observe with pleasure that it was written from memory and without outside assistance, since it is even more full of spelling errors than of vileness."
Astonished posterity will not know upon which of these two replies to lavish all its admiration.
The first confirms him in the ideas he seems to have formed about me, by showing me as... as one might believe me to be on reading that note.
The second would have put him to shame, and left me esteemed and rehabilitated.
No matter — it took me only four months to find it.