Tuesday, 24 December 1878

Madame Gavini invites me to the Théâtre-Français, but Nadine is leaving this evening.
Tchernicheff — the old irresistible — comes, and it is in his presence that a note arrives in which Bashkirtseff asks whether Madame wishes to receive him. The irresistible one advises a polite answer, which in any case she was inclined to give.
So that on my return I find him here. He is in Paris with Kapitan — you remember that good fellow from Gavronzi? We dine en famille. Out of regard for Paul’s entreaties I am civil — only just. Without Paul I would not even greet this man. He talks conciliation to Maman; it is always the same thing, and then he spoils everything. You know, it is impossible to live with him unless one is an actress drawing a fixed salary “to amuse him”, like the woman who lives with him.
It is incredible how wicked and childish this man is — he was furious that Paul had fine furs from here; he could not sneer at our “generosity”. Paul never speaks ill of him, but yesterday, in a moment of exasperation, he admitted that it was the collar of his overcoat that had caused his anger; he knows him well, and his rages too. I believe him incapable of doing anything at all on the spur of the moment, but he murders people with pinpricks, which is all the more odious because he has wit and knows how to behave.
He is frightfully suspicious, and despotic to the point of making himself miserable, so long as he can thwart others. He has the air of an exasperated man, and if he had not always been like that, one would put this disposition down to romantic causes — to the love he claims to bear in his heart for my mother. All the same, I believe the relatives had a great deal to do with the separation. My mother would never have thought of it all by herself, I am convinced of that.
— You love your daughter so much, and she is my portrait; why do you hate me?
— I am ill, and too old for your temper. You are used to a young woman who indulges your every whim and gives in to all your fads. I have my whims, my fads, my habits; I am spoilt, I can no longer be submissive, accommodating, amusing. Besides...
Ah! yes, besides — if he had done anything at all for me, my mother would be the best of wives... But that is a familiar subject. He is bored, and he would like to have us out there in the country.
I, in Russia, in the country. O Gambetta!
The other day... I was imitating the heroes of Versailles at Julian’s.
You know that I have an admirer. A sort of Hungarian who has two rather fine horses and who looks at me and follows me everywhere. This evening he came across us at Klein’s, where I was buying some pocket-books. He asked all the shop assistants who I was and followed us to the cash desk, where I paid without asking for anything to be sent and without giving the address.
It reminds me of Italy.
After seeing Nadine off at the station we went to Siraudin’s, where I chose a bonbonnière for Mme Gavini. Then M. Bashkirtseff begged Maman to choose one for herself, and that incoherent woman stood there dumbfounded and chose some eleven-franc trifle.
— Oh! as for me, I said, I do not know how it happens, but the things I choose always turn out to be expensive things.
He gives me an embroidered white satin box costing 350 francs.
It is silly, but it is better than nothing. I would not take money, and what suitable present can one have for that price, except a fan or a bonbonnière? The bonbonnière is the most useless of objects; that is why I accept
Besides, I pretended not to know, and to believe it was for Maman.
Then Dina and I go to take a few little presents to the Mouzays. I visit those women only to chat, to deliver speeches; I have taken such pains that de Daillens has offered to paint me a large screen. She paints those little fan pictures very prettily. And this large screen will look well in front of the fireplace. It cost me a 20-franc glove box: I gave the box and went into raptures over her screen, the one she has just finished.
I come home and find my father here again. They had gone to the theatre together: my aunt, Paul, Maman, her spouse and Kapitan. The last-named plays the Buffoon; they call him “my prince”, which astounds the usherettes, the concierges, etc. etc.
I no longer remember what I had to tell you about Berthe or her husband, who dined here on Sunday. The three of us talked a great deal of nonsense... I forget, so it cannot be important.
Now I have a notebook in which I write the letters I should like to write, and ideas... things I do not think, in short... I do not know how to put it — things in the manner of my dissertations on the Antonellis, etc. What is annoying is that anyone reading it will not take it for variations but will believe it really happened. No, I swear to you, it is not because it is over, but I swear to you that I did not think what I was writing. They were simply... how shall I put it? A kind of novel I made up by exaggerating... his love had rubbed off on me, and then I rambled, letting myself go in spite of myself, working myself up — yes, that is the right word.
I was working myself up.
I want to see Alexandre.... Dumas.
I have sent a bouquet to Fio. Then she will write to me, and I shall answer. She will write again, and then I shall ask her for a letter to Mme de Lesseps. There I shall see the intelligent world. By that time we shall be settled in.
We have taken a magnificent entresol at 34 avenue de Montaigne, which we shall furnish. I am bored all on my own — I mean morally, my friends. I should like to set up a sort of inn at our house for people of wit. Just to think that I might see people who understand me, who amuse me, who talk about what interests and charms me... Ah! I am wild about the idea.
I have found what to do for my carnival!