Tuesday, 1 June 1880

I had the dream that always presages something disagreeable for me.
So it is reluctantly that I go to the mass the Prince is having said at Saint-Philippe du Roule for the repose of the soul of the little one who was killed.
Needless to say, the newspaper articles made me weep, and this death decidedly has a strange influence on me. All our Bonapartist friends at the exit. But my dream made me expect some horror at every moment.
Géry tells us that Gabriel will not be done until the end of this week. Poor boy. Anyway, I come home; Mme Larivière (née Lubomirska) comes to sit for me. I had thought those ladies would forget their charity portraits. And while I am having my harp lesson, a letter is brought to me. It gave me a jolt — the dream was still on my mind.
The letter is from Mme de Mouzay, who is mad, as you shall see. Smallpox is in her neighbourhood, and she begs us to take in her daughter for a few days.
So that she can bring us the disease, then! I knew perfectly well there was this epidemic, but in Paris one does not think of such things. But this direct, brutal notice, and this idea of risking a girl of twenty for a woman of thirty-four, fills me with terror.
My hands were trembling and my cheeks grew hot — they are burning still. How can anyone ask such favours and write such things? Imagination, fear alone can give one the disease, and for me it would be death.
I would kill myself. Anyway, she is coming to dinner this evening — yet another present to be made.
You see, atheists must be very unhappy when they are afraid. When I am afraid, I call upon God immediately, and all my doubts vanish out of selfishness. It is an ugly sentiment, but I do not care to adorn myself with virtues I do not have — I think it is already vain enough to display all one’s pettiness and vileness. In 1873 I went to the Vienna World Exhibition at the height of the cholera under the protection of these verses from Psalm X (I copy them exactly):
He shall cover thee with His feathers;
Under His wings shalt thou be safe;
Thou shalt not fear the terror of the night;
His truth shall be thy shield;
Nor the arrow that flieth by day;
Nor the pestilence that walketh in darkness,
Nor the destruction that wasteth at noonday;
A thousand shall fall at thy side;
And ten thousand at thy right hand;
But it shall not come nigh thee.
Yesterday I thought of these divine lines; I reread them with enthusiasm. I did not foresee that they would serve me today.
But the dream — is it not curious? It was vile, but I shall tell it to you so that it may lose its power.
Well, when I dream of filth, there you have it.
I have just made my will; it is contained in the envelope addressed thus: To M. Paul Bashkirtseff, Poltava. Into his own hands. Russia.
I shall come back and pull them by the feet when I am dead if they do not carry out my wishes.
Courtès, in Paris for twenty-four hours, arrives with Soutzo around nine o’clock. He is a good fellow; he told Soutzo all along the way that he was delighted to see us again. But the Mouzays are coming to dinner — what audacity! The epidemic is not in their neighbourhood, but there is a sick person in their building. Even better!
I am feverish with fright.
Courtès and Soutzo do me good. Courtès leaves at eleven o’clock; as for the other, I kept him, on the pretext that I was afraid to be left alone and could not sleep.
It is three o’clock; he has just left.
At first it was... a simple conversation in which I complained of dying. My aunt never leaves my side, but that bored Casimir, and me as well. I sat down at the piano, and before my aunt came in he had time to tell me something that chilled me. His sisters are marrying him off, but he does not love the woman.
“Then do not do it, believe me — it is madness.”
All the same, now I could not let him go before I knew... We play cards — “beasts”, the favourite game of Russian servants.
“Is it Mme de Bailleul you are marrying?” I write to him in an exercise book.
“No, she is even older,” he replies by the same means.
Then we fill six pages with phrases that would be amusing to keep.
In the end, he loves me, he adores me, and the phrases circle around the burning subject. I forbid him to joke, and he replies that it is I who mock him.
My aunt says from time to time that I am mad, that I must go to bed, and I reply that I have the disease and am going to die. After this singular correspondence I am not much further on — was it true, was it in jest? But this evening at least he gave me some very meaningful looks and pressed my hand on the pretext of seeing whether I had a fever.
“You do not make confessions easy for me!” he writes to me.
And I reply:
“I am throwing you a line all the time, imbecile!”
This last word is too much; I take it back.
In short, it leads to nothing.
I am greedy and would like to keep this fellow, not yet knowing what I shall do with him.
Here is an idea... I shall bring him to speak to me again of marriage and then tell him to ask Maman; that will gain time. Maman will refuse — another delay... and after that I have no idea... It is something already, not to know. If only they do not take him from me. Tomorrow he and Courtès are lunching here.