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). Just as we are leaving, Georges arrives, and we take him along. I deliver the chemistry list to that wretched Devaux; then we go to the Promenade. Strong wind, a grey day but very pleasant, like the autumn I love. Unfortunately we have to pick up Papa, and then he and Georges begin to shout, to laugh so loudly that the horses were neighing at it, and to say dreadful things.
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 to ask in a low voice for advice on how he might dress Anna better for the ball in Monaco today. Maman gave her pearl grey satin dress -- it is generous, and I am touched.
I pity these creatures, 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 Le Bec. 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 figure is ugly, her nose 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 — a bec — (amorous?) that stretches from one ear to the other.
And people admire her!
Have mercy!
Must one be so stupid!
Maman bought me a few more books; what I read immediately is Louis XIV et son siècle. The book is open before me, I gaze at Buckingham -- he is so handsome. Only an Englishman can be so handsome. There is nothing like an English duke, Parisian; whenever I encounter one, no matter where, even in a book, I grow enthusiastic and adore him... I adore Buckingham. He was as stout as Hamilton -- I adore -- what is a thin man! I read the adventures of Buckingham; I devour them. Hamilton is a modern Buckingham! But the unfortunate man is bound by his honourable marriage to a peeress. Have mercy! An Englishwoman cannot be beautiful, not as I would like. As a woman, there is only myself; as a man, an English-Parisian duke -- but he must be stout, like... Ham... like Buckingham. Another whom I adore is Nero.
It is nearly midnight; I was reading. How one can tell that I am so young -- in a few years, a book will not keep me up but will make me yawn.
How wise I think I am! And how I shall mock my wisdom later.
I dreamed of Hamilton, but he did not have his face.

Notes

Written in Russian in the manuscript; French translation by the editor. ↩
In Latin in the original: Miserere ! — the opening word of Psalm 51 (Miserere mei, Deus), Marie’s habitual cry of woe. ↩
Title in French in the original; in English, “Louis XIV and His Century”. ↩