Monday, 2 February 1874

At last Maman told Miss Hitchcock she may leave, as we are going to travel.
I skipped an hour of piano and drawing; I had to write out lists or notices or I do not know what, that Maman is sending to all her acquaintances and even to those she does not know, to announce a collection at Notre-Dame. I sent them to my aunt Tutcheff and my very dear cousin Prince Eristoff.
Everyone is in Monaco; I go out with Dina. I am remarkably white and pink today (brown dress, good). At the moment of leaving, Georges arrives; we take him. I deliver to that wretched Devaux the chemistry list; then we go to the Promenade. Strong wind, a grey day but very pleasant, resembling the autumn I love. Unfortunately we must collect Papa; then he begins with Georges to shout, to laugh so loudly that the horses were neighing, and to say horrors.
We collect Paul from Wash's at four o'clock; I like to see many men, and although it was my grandfather, my brother, and my uncle, it made a good showing. Two women and three men (women? -- men?). But they carried on and shouted so much that I come home utterly miserable.
My God, have these people any feeling of humanity, reason, comprehension, instinct, at least?! To be dirty, stupid, and insensible blocks of wood! My God, nothing
revolts me like these natures devoid of all feeling of delicacy, of all principle, and of all respect for age -- I am only fifteen!
Stale remnants of what never existed! And with that, coarse and impertinent to the highest degree? My God, nothing exasperates me so! It drives me mad.
Georges, quite embarrassed, came in a hushed voice to ask advice on how he might better dress Anna for the ball in Monaco today. Maman gave her pearl grey satin dress -- it is generous, and I am touched.
These creatures make me pity them, and it seems to me that if I spoke to one of them, I would feel my own grandeur so keenly that I would weep. I do not go on foot; I had been out about three-quarters of an hour. I knew there would be no one.
I do not know what pleasure I find in saying something bad, or in hearing something said against the Beak. This evening Solominka said there is nothing about her -- neither figure, nor grace; she is not tall, she is not well made, she is not graceful; her waist is ugly, her nose [Crossed out: of a parrot, her mouth] is too long, she walks badly. That is what Solominka says, and what I approve. The only thing she has is her name and her title, and that gives her wit.
I add further that her nose is a parrot's and her mouth a Beak (amorous?) that stretches from one ear to the other.