Monday, 29 September 1873

It is the feast day of my aunt, of Bete, of her daughter, and of little Vera Anitchkoff. I go out with Paul; we take a cab and meet Maman, Dina, and Walitsky at the fruit market. We made quite an impression on these poor Nicois. I ate very good grapes. From there we go to Samuels', and with Paul I buy a Valenciennes lace handkerchief for my aunt and sweets for the children. It was like a Jewish wedding -- one stopped, one went, one came back, one argued.
There is a drama at home... Palajka has been insolent and Walitsky punished her. She did not spend the night at home, and these past days she goes out without permission, is impertinent, and does nothing. This morning she came with a soldier to demand her belongings, but things are being arranged; they want to expose her for what she is. Adam is mixed up in it; they suspect some scheming by the baron. These last days we think of nothing else.
The wretched girl lies hideously -- she claims my aunt beat her. At those words my hair stood on end! What a horror! As if my aunt ever dreamed of such a thing!! The donkeys (the Anitchkoffs) arrive. I go into town with Bete (green dress, blue hat, good) -- this hat suits me very well, but people stare too much. It is too voluminous; I shall have only a black one. The streets have been watered; one might think it rained, and I like Nice in the rain -- that is when I can bear it. We walked from Lyons' all the way to Portallier's, where we went in to see the paintings and antique furniture. How I love beautiful things, and how I understand them! Portallier has the same Catherine who is in the country. Dinner is being prepared. I shudder at the thought of this dinner. Whom shall we have? H! Orgechko, Manotte, Lefevre, and Abrial!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Sacrediou (as the Nicois say) -- what company!
Maman is so good that she does everyone honour, but I... I am no angel, and I confess that the riffraff who dine at our table displease me supremely. Is it worthwhile preparing a dinner for such coarse mouths?! They should have ordered six dinners from Gala's, ten bottles of Medoc, and set a table in the kitchen -- there, that's good enough for them!
Ah! My God, for what sin am I lodged in a pigsty like Buffa! Every day I mourn our dear, beloved, adored Acqua Viva; tears come to my eyes. Ah! How I wish we could change apartments!!! At last the honourable scoundrels arrive. They do not even know how to eat. I keep my green dress on; I shall not dress up for peasants. Thank heaven I was seated between Bete and Papa. The lot of them shout, talk, chew, and gulp!
Impossible manners. I was ready to sob. Maman did not look at who was there but, following the laws of hospitality, she played the hostess as best she could. How fortunate she is to endure everything -- or rather, she is good and does not burden others with her sufferings, as does your humble servant. I am certain she felt as I did, but she dissembled -- first, so as not to cause a scandal, and second, for my sake. For me, in vain. I have no need of abettors. I see only too well, alas. Sometimes I wish I could deceive myself. Towards the end they smoke, they shout. Enough to drown oneself in the nearest stream. I did better: I drank wine and was a little dizzy. Bete drew a picture: when society comes to visit us, they will find Hamilton snoring and drunk on one sofa and your ladyship in the same state on the other.
An informal dinner is all very well, but with one's equals -- not with monkeys, rubbish, riffraff, nobodies, peasants!!! This Manotte is vulgar as a hundred and eighty oxen!
After this sumptuous repast, the distinguished guests ascended to the superb Baquis drawing room by the sublime black staircase covered with a divine carpet and celestial banisters. I kept to a corner -- not because I could be humiliated (for I elevate those to whom I grant the honour, I do not lower myself) -- but because I did not feel at ease. Among genuine peasants and country folk I am free and gay, but with these neutral beings I cannot. They asked me to play. I played the andante of the Mendelssohn concerto in A minor well; it did not please. Manotte played "La Fille de Mme Angot" and that pleased. They made me play another study, which I banged out any old how. What are pearls to swine! Lefevre sang a little ditty I had heard from Malesieux. Poor man, how ridiculous! At every verse they applauded frantically, the dogs barked, the cat mewed, the children banged and screamed, and the monkey in fright escaped onto the curtains. It was rather amusing.
[In the margin: It recalls the assemblies.]
My God, my God, deliver me from this villa and this company!!!!!!!!!!!!! What sin have I committed to be thus punished! Until this accursed year we lived comme il faut, but since this wretched Baquis we have been converted into bourgeois -- into Manottes, into horrors, into Daniloffs, into miserable bourgeois. Oh! For pity's sake, what wretchedness! Will this last long? God knows how I suffer!
I am ill from it. And I cannot say so, for fear of causing a scene! Oh! Mercy. We must change apartments. I shall die otherwise! Ah! Lord, have pity on me!
The staircase, the entrance, the small, wretched drawing room, the feeding cage for animals -- it is hideous, frightful. I shall never be able to depict my misery! Georges is of my opinion; a few minutes before going to bed I go down to the inn (read: dining room) and talked about it with Georges. He is in perfect agreement. Dina wanted to be splendid in her pink dress, which goes so well with Buffa, and her round, ugly, faded shoulders. She displays them and believes them beautiful. Blissful innocence!
She is quite ugly -- not even that, but graceless, common, and vulgar. She thinks herself fine by mixing bourgeois manners with those of French actresses.
My God, take me out of here, I beg Thee! But what eclipse darkened my mind when I allowed us to take this inn?
No, no more letting things slide. I tried not to meddle in anything -- well, we are living in a hole; there is the result! I must take back the reins of government and see that everything runs in its accustomed order.
Ah! When I think what we have become with Buffa and the summers in Nice!!
My God, my God, save me!

Notes

In English in the original.