Monday, 12 January 1874

At the Promenade, I was in the carriage with the family and saw Wittgenstein with Lambertye. The bella Zigouzin was riding in an invalid's carriage. Her husband beat her, we suppose. This Lambertye is an astonishing man; one moment you see him with one person, a minute later with another; today I saw him on the Promenade in the course of an hour with five different people: Wittgenstein, Galve, Princess Labanoff etc. etc. (blue dress, brown hat, good). I am beginning to have a slender and pretty figure -- come, no modesty! I have a very pretty waist, slender and well-made. Then I walk with Hitchcock; we were on the point of going home when Machenka appears opposite the Cercle de la Mediterranee; I send Hitchcock away and arm in arm we go up the Promenade once more as far as No. 25. The Galves are at the Strait of Flies with a woman I took in Vienna for a cocotte.
Sonia comes to our house with me; I show her the blue dress.
Everyone except Stiopa and Walitsky dines at home.
Maman suggests I go to Mme Warrodel's to watch her dress for the ball (they were both at our house today at two o'clock. They are charming) (how I wish I could replace that banal phrase!); Sonia is very glad to be out from under her mother's thumb. This evening we went out on foot, stopping a minute at the Teplakoffs'; Madame is very ill. At Escoffier's we buy a paskha and take it to Mme Warrodel, for the housewarming.
We find her alone, in a white dressing gown; she is getting ready for the floral ball this evening. She loves Maman so! For it was Maman who took her to the balls last winter and it was Maman who introduced her husband. She is rather nice. But it is strange -- I cannot understand, neither marriage nor death. She recounted all her impressions. M. Warrodel enters and we leave. I stay with everyone until half past ten, then I go up to my room; I put on a fresh chemise, remove my boots, let my hair flow loose, and throw the white Bedouin robe over my shoulders; in that attire, I lock myself in, I arrange the mirrors, and there I am at last.
For a long time I saw nothing, then little by little I began to make out a few small figures, but no larger than ten or twelve centimetres. I saw a multitude of heads only, coiffed in the most bizarre manner in the world -- toques, wigs, oversized bonnets -- all this turning, then I make out a woman who resembles me, in white, a fichu on her head, leaning with her elbows on a table and her chin on her hands but lightly, eyes raised. Then she dissolves. I see a church floor of black and white marble, and in the middle a costumed group; one of them was lying down, several sitting or standing -- I did not quite understand. I seemed to see on the left several men: Tormosoff, with his beard turning gradually red, Lambertye, and M. Vigier, but I do not think so.
In the middle, standing, wrapped in a long cloak, in a round hat and her head tilted (like Gioia in the photograph that Chilovski showed, the one where she is standing) was the Comtesse de Galve; I saw her more than the others.
Then I seemed to see as if through a fog a man in evening dress and a bride, but the faces were invisible.
In the centre again, a man whose face I could not see, for a rather large bottle was covering it, like this:
I saw Mme Vigier; what dominated were the coiffed heads, and then, I suppose, myself, the bust only, in all sorts of costumes that changed every instant, the poses and the necklines too. The scene was very brilliant.
At the very beginning the trimmings of the mirror reflected endlessly appeared to me for an instant like a coffin, but I noticed the error. One must know that I was a little agitated and I thought every minute that I would see something dreadful. But the coiffures restored my calm.
I rise, tired; perhaps I would have seen something more.
I go to Maman and tell her everything, but she was half asleep and it produced little effect. Tomorrow I shall tell everyone, for it is strange.
No doubt I would have seen better, but I moved the mirror and my eyes.
I met my new year gazing at these indefinably strange, fantastical, and diverse costumes and coiffures.
Long live the year 1874 in Russia!
Farewell 1873!
Long live 1874

Notes

In Italian in the original. "Beautiful Zigouzin."
A traditional Russian Easter dessert (pyramid-shaped cheese cake), here given as a housewarming gift.
In English in the original.