Saturday, 3 May 1873

Wind. Maman's name day; I gave her my bouquet. She is in her bed. I began to do my hair — I tried three styles, nothing. At last it is done, then to dress (blue silk dress — the whole was not bad).
I do not plan to go out, since we were told we would have company (bores) at dinner. But Mlle Collignon came to fetch me, and having in an instant changed dresses (Dina's dress, green hat — good, hair half-down). By cab. We drove about, then I said to go to the port, and said laughing:
— We are going to see some yachts!
I said it in jest, but the first thing I see is a sailing yacht with an English flag and a coronet something like this. Mademoiselle said:
— Ah! There is a yacht.
She has lost her voice; she seems broken; she is gentler and confused.
— It is a ducal flag.
— No, it is a baron's.
— Ducal, I know. But whose can it be, if it is...
At that moment Palajka comes in and tells me Egor Stepanovich has arrived.
At first I did not understand, and went full of astonishment to Maman, where I actually found him. I am very glad to see him.
Poor man! Yet another broken life!
I continue, then: could it be his? No — what would he come to do in Nice now? Perhaps he is not here, but the yacht was passing through.
I came back and changed dresses again — the violet dress with muslin. At dinner: we, the two Anitchkoffs, Lefèvre, Patton. During dinner Mme Anitchkoff behaved so badly! Like a peasant, like a brute — throwing balls, testing her strength, etc., etc.
I do not like people like that. It is nothing if one is not witty — one must at least know society's chatter; if your conversation offers nothing agreeable, at least be a fashionable doll with gowns, extravagances, etc. But when one is nothing — neither learned, nor worldly, nor a domestic type, nor vain, nor anything at all — that is the height of stupidity. After dinner, Markevitch and I talked; we sat in the small dark sitting room and analyzed the miserable company we had. She is quite nice, intelligent. Then we spoke of our tastes, etc. She went off with everyone; I do not know where I was.
Then on entering my room I saw Markevitch lying on Dina's bed; I sat near her and we talked. She asked if I really write my journal — Walitsky calls it in Russian nuitnal instead of journal, because I write it in the evenings. "It is very interesting," said she, "to write a diary; it is so charming to read it years and years afterwards. There are moments in life which one forgets, and if you write it, one day years and years after you may again live in the past and have all your life before you. You may see your opinions, feelings, change every year; you may compare what you have been and what you are!"
That is certainly true, but I cannot do it for a great reason, but which appears to everybody nothing. It is the want of time. I should like to write my impressions, my opinions on people, but I cannot. I can scarcely tell the things which are the nearest to me, and yet, en glissant...
[Torn page: ...think he will become a good man, had I him with me]
Je crois que je prends trop sur moi, but with God's help, and trusting in His goodness, an insect may accomplish a great deed.

Notes

In English in the original.