Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Saturday, 12 January 1878

Walitsky died last night at two o'clock.
Yesterday evening when I came to see him he said to me, half joking and half sad, Addio Signorina — to recall Italy, Alexandre, and all that we used to laugh about together.
It was perhaps the first time in my life that I shed tears free of egoism and anger. There is something peculiarly heartbreaking in the death of a being entirely inoffensive, entirely good — like a poor dog that had never harmed anyone...
As toward one o'clock he had felt some relief, the ladies returned to their rooms — only my aunt remained — when he ran out of breath to the point that water had to be thrown in his face; somewhat recovered, he rose, for he was absolutely determined to go and bid farewell to Grand-papa, but scarcely in the corridor he had only time to cross himself three times and to cry out in Russian: farewell — in a voice so terrible and so loud that Maman and Dina awoke and came running, to see him fall into the arms of my aunt and Triphon. I cannot take it in. It seems to me impossible — it is so terrible.
Here is Cassagnac, sending the tickets.
Saturday, 12 January 1878 — Here are five tickets, Mademoiselle Despote!
The three purple ones are ladies' tickets. The others are gentlemen's tickets — in the sense that they are less well placed.
Are you not well enough served by your slave,
Paul de Cassagnac
Blanc, frigate captain after all, sent for at two in the morning, spent the night here and conducted himself as the best of friends. I brought him back at half past nine on my way to the atelier — for I did go — and what is even worse, I went to Versailles just the two of us with Paul, on the pretext of wishing him to see the Chamber and be a little distracted, for the poor boy, who is as nervous as a woman and who was very fond of Walitsky, did not know what he was doing.
I put on a black dress, a large turned-down collar and guipure cuffs, and a ravishing grey felt hat. I was rather drowsy before Cassagnac arrived; we greeted each other and from time to time he glanced my way — no doubt to keep me awake.
Poor Walitsky...
Not a single seat on the deputies' train — and in passing we encountered Cassagnac, who asked whether we had found a compartment; at my negative reply this magnificent Newfoundland stepped down from his coupé, said good night to his deputies, and stayed with us to await the next train. Is that not charming! He already knows of the death of our poor dear Walitsky, but we say only a few words about it — Cassagnac being a pagan and I a girl without a heart — and we change the subject. Alone with the two Pauls I felt a certain authority, and the right to talk nonsense without needing to pretend to fear Maman; on the contrary, I pretended to be a girl escaped from boarding school.
It is a sin, but I enjoyed myself. Paul is wild about Cassagnac who, extraordinarily, did not tilt his head back too far — that natural posture of his, which I am accustomed to seeing always in foreshortening, made him appear far more amiable, and even younger.
Ibid. p. 128
I asked him whether he still received many anonymous letters, and he told me that he had just received quite an amusing one but that he would not reply. Thereupon I said laughingly that I would play a trick on him by replying in his place, since he was telling me one must sign "Popaul" — and when he replied that there was yet another name required, I begged him for five minutes to tell me what it was — but in vain.
And to think that I write all these things, recount them, laugh about them — when Walitsky lies there in his death chamber.

Notes

In Italian in the original: "Farewell, Miss." ↩