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, “Farewell, Miss” — 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 selfishness 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 he had felt easier towards one o’clock, the ladies returned to their rooms — only my aunt remained — when he was so short of air 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 he had scarcely reached the corridor when he had only time to cross himself three times and 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 Despot!
The three purple ones are ladies’ tickets. The others are gentlemen’s tickets — in the sense that they are less well placed.
Are you served well enough by your slave,
Paul de Cassagnac
Blanc, frigate captain after all, sent for at two in the morning, spent the night here and behaved like 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 Paul and I, 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; when I said no, 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 throw his head back too far; this natural bearing — when I am used to seeing him always foreshortened — made him appear far more amiable, and even younger.
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.
For Monday we have tickets again.
On returning we find a bouquet from the Prince de Bourbon, the two cakes from Marcuard, a card from Caracciolo who has just arrived from Naples — the card.
Tomorrow is Russian New Year’s Day.
A heap of telegrams from Bihovetz, from the consul, from Lefèbvre, etc., etc., who had been told of the death of that poor fellow, over whom I wept all morning.
We were naturally obliged to turn away Mme de Fayet, the Bourbon, the Comte de Beaurepaire, the Baron d’Alt — all of whom called between nine and ten o’clock.
The Boyds, informed by Paul, wrote an excellent letter on the death of that poor man who cost no one anything, inconvenienced no one, and did good to everyone.
Madame Doubelt and the elder Baronne de Linsingen were received; we wept together.
But it was Grand-papa who wept! He who suffers so greatly himself. Just think: he has retained his entire intelligence intact, his sight as well, but he can neither speak nor write, so that one must run through fifty names before guessing, and he cries out and moans at being unable to make himself understood. He can say only yes and no. What is touching is that instead of turning ill-tempered he has become angelic — so that I often go to him to recount what is happening and to wait upon him.
Walitsky is dead. It is an irreparable loss — one will never accustom oneself to the idea that such a character can exist in real life. Devoted as a dog to our entire family — and platonically, oh, my God, yes, ten times over.
One sees such people in books.
Well then — may he hear my thoughts; I hope that God grants him the grace to feel what one thinks and says of him. May he hear me then, from wherever he now is — and if ever he had cause to complain of me, he will forgive me for my deep esteem, my sincere friendship, and my grief from the very depths of my soul.

Notes

In Italian in the original: Addio Signorina. ↩