Saturday, 15 November 1873

Maman, my aunt, Bete, Dina, and Walitsky go to Monte Carlo to dine with some French people Maman had known in Baden, with whom we lunched at the Chateau des Jesuites. I go with Hitchcock (brown dress, black hat, good); the petticoats are starched and in general everything seems stiff today. We go to the promenade; there are people, a great many even. But nothing but chestnuts and medlars. Never, it seems to me, have I been more miserable than today. I think only of that fat beast, that elephant; he is constantly before my eyes and in my head. I cannot dissemble, or rather I have no need to dissemble, and I have a discontented and capricious face. In vain we wait for the carriage; it does not come. I have tutors from four to six and this carriage that does not arrive -- it is half past three. A detestable day -- warm, half dark, calm.

^["Stiff" in English in the original.]
Everything is grating, and everything helps to make me miserable. At last the carriage comes; I get in, discontented. Solominka and Papa are there -- he too irritates me with his Renard. Half a turn on the promenade, an errand in town, and we go home, Hitchcock and I. I drag myself to my room and go straight to the mirror to see what face I pull when I am so sad. I found a white face, delicately pink, and calm -- nothing more.
I have my first lesson with M. Leclerc, the chemist.
The warm weather recalls everything most painful; I wish I could lie down somewhere far, far away and forget myself. We were walking with Hitchcock on the house side of the promenade, as last winter once with Maman; the sky was grey as then, it had rained the day before as then, the carriages were the same as then, and it seemed to me he was about to pass in his little one-horse carriage with bells, as then... and then everything, everything passed through my head again -- everything that has happened since I have lived. I recalled every time I had seen him, his brother Carlo -- there is a charming boy, the more charming because he is the brother of that other biped; from the shooting gallery, from everywhere, in short, where he was, where they spoke of him. I believe I have a fever; I am always very talkative, especially when I am grieved and weeping inwardly. No one would suspect it -- I sing, I laugh, I chatter, I jest, and the more miserable I am, the gayer I become. Today I am incapable of moving my tongue; I ate almost nothing in the morning and at dinner nothing at all. Everything seems bad, disgusting. There are, then, unhappy days! All last night I dreamed of Gioia's villa; they were refurnishing it, then as if we had lived there before and she were arranging it for herself. The whole house was covered in bark like Poustynka; there was a gallery whose walls they were papering with mats; there were bookcases. I ask the chambermaid for whom this room is, and she answered that it is for Lord Hamilton, who is coming back. One of the books in the case was by Hamilton -- his composition. What could he write about, I wondered -- horses? In the next room was everyone, and my aunt reproached me for having spoken aloud about Hamilton. I was in my chemise; we were passing through little streams near meadows full of water; I was getting my feet wet and sat down near a fountain like the one at the Vienna Exhibition, between the galleries and the Kunsthalle, wrapped in a sheet. Then in Gioia's room there were three beds that had been removed -- ordinary beds like mine at Acqua Viva. There was a basket full of fruit; I ate plums and grapes, but having thrown the pips on the floor, I began carefully to pick them up, for fear that she in walking shall see that somebody has been in the house. Then in that gallery with the mats I see a man coming -- it is Hamilton, and I am all overcome; but he comes nearer and I see a monstrously fat and tall man, with a different face from Hamilton's. A strange dream; I do not know how to tell it, but it was most extraordinary.

^[In English in the original.]
I suffer so much this evening. Brunet always grieves me by saying Paul does nothing, that he is stupid, incapable, unruly -- no doubt in more polite terms. That Paul often misses the lycee for no reason at all. Lemp told me this morning that he misses his lessons too.
My God, my God, how dreadful to hear such things! Paul is a bad boy and he will never become anything good. I do not grow angry with him, but I see it -- what use is it to dissemble before oneself? The naked truth must alone exist. He will never become anything; I say it with a heavy heart, but I say it, and unfortunately I am not mistaken -- I am unfortunately right. There are moments when I try to console myself, but they are only moments. Perhaps I shall find what I say of Paul now unjust, false, cruel, when he is pleasant and seems for a minute to be well.

^[In English in the original.]
But coolly considered, he is a vain, empty, ignorant boy, and I am afraid stupid -- no, rather distracted and unruly.
At this very moment I hesitate to state my cruel truths, and I doubt, I reproach myself for being so wicked, for accusing my brother, for being harsh -- but alas, it is the truth. It is a truth I wish to deny as I write it and that I deny having written, and for which I argue with myself.
My God, save this poor Paul.