Monday, 16 February 1874

Since eight o’clock I have been dreaming -- without sleeping -- that I have six billion. Ah, how well I disposed of them!
I wait for the sun; a very faint ray appears; I rise -- it is nearly ten o’clock.
Auguste comes all in costume, and we set off. It rains a little, and I put on my black waterproof, which looked well enough; Dina is in white, Maman in blue, and Walitsky dressed simply, as on any day; Paul on the box. For a moment the rain stops, then begins again -- it is really tiresome; notwithstanding, “we shall not postpone the carnival,” and it takes place. The galleries are sparsely filled -- understandable when it rains -- but the carriages are numerous and elegant, the floats very numerous and very fine, the cavalcades, and the people on foot, too, are very original and pretty.
If the weather were fine, the carnival would be superb. There were five orchestras -- but anyway, I am not going to describe everything, it is impossible; I shall keep the newspaper that reports on it. I wanted to pelt Le Bec, the baron, and the count, and I did not succeed.
Le Bec and the baron were at the prefecture with all of society -- the Souvoroff, Galve, etc. -- and even André Nicolaïevitch, a good old man always with the Souvoroffs. It goes without saying that before this gallery the battle was the most furious; but as it rained I saw almost no one -- only Mlle de Galve, Choupinski, the Englishwoman, M. de Galve, and André Nicolaïevitch. They threw us many bouquets, especially this good old man, who must be very amusing, and M. de Galve. The latter pleases me infinitely; I should like him to be my friend -- he must be kind and merry. My aunt, Machenka, and Stiopa are in the gallery; they told us afterwards that in the gallery they fought among themselves, and very furiously -- more furiously than anywhere else, and it must have been ravishing. Souvoroff threw several bouquets to my aunt with little smiles.
Everyone was having fun and grew animated -- once a year it is permitted to go mad. I was the first to go mad; I amused myself greatly, though there were very few people I knew. I did not even see Lambertye; he was there, however, in a carriage without a mask, and Paul says he pelted him so mercilessly that the wretch begged for mercy.
Passing for the last time before the prefecture, I threw only bouquets; there was almost no one and it was raining hard. But as I had just thrown several flowers without seeing upon whom, the person lifts the mask -- itself transparent, of wire -- and I recognise Le Bec! What a fool. It was annoying, and I could not help it, it rained and it was about five, and under a mask through an iron mask I could not well see who it was. Never mind the better for her. I expressed aloud and repeatedly my regrets about the baron and the count. How foolish they are! They think they are teasing me about Lambertye, but they only make me laugh and amuse me.
When Maman is already in bed, I come to her room; we were talking of men, and Maman was praising Soria’s beauty. I told her I prefer even the Comte de Lambertye. Then she says that at my age she would rather I fall in love with someone like Soria -- one can then think or sing a romance or something, but there is nothing there; one cannot even think of boots, for neither he nor we have anything. Fie! Like Tormosoff.
I should like to know whether she truly thinks I am falling in love.
And after all, in truth, strictly speaking I prefer Lambertye to Soria. I would give a great deal to know why he looks at me; to tease me is absurd, since it is he who looks. Have mercy! Who will tell me why he looks at me, and my oxen, and the cows, and my white face and the black eyebrows. Maman often reproaches me for it -- that is, for the count. I am quite innocent.
As I was lying on Maman’s bed, someone mentioned Hamilton, and I stayed on. I can neither express nor explain to myself the joy his name produces gives me. I smile, I am happy, and I tremble only for the moment when they will cease to speak of him.
A strange thing: since I ha this name always produced an impression on me and seemed extraordinary, apart, congenial. I never tired of hearing the story of that Lady Hamilton, mistress of Peter the Great, which Papa told and tells so often and in so monotonous a manner. It was long ago. When I had not yet seen him, Hamilton always made my heart beat and seemed known to me, a relation. At the Baden races (inexhaustible source of memories), I remember when Rémy told me, “I have just been speaking to the Duke of Hamilton” -- something strange happened within me; not that I loved him then, not at all, but it was always that magic name.
Inserted itemNote de Marie, imprimée en bas de page dans Mon Journal
I was not thinking of such things, I knew nothing about them; I was twelve years old.
Then I remember his back, when he was posted in the middle of the lawn before the grandstands -- the cord of his opera glasses -- and I remember too that his morning coat seemed very thick to me. Then I remember him at Kazai’s, when I passed with Matildita; then one morning at eight o’clock near the Conversation House, his trousers tucked into his boots; then in his carriage, when he had stopped near the shops. Oh, this I remember so well -- it seems to me I see those great trees, that promenade still deserted and silent, those shops half open, and his horses still moving, halted, shaking their heads and making the bells jingle, and he perched up high, and the road to the left, and the stream by the road, and the little bridges, and the sun, and the pale blue sky piercing through the trees... And why I remember all this so well,
and the shadow cast upon the path by the bench under the tree, and the grass, and every dry leaf on the ground and every grain of sand. Everything, in a word, that surrounded that carriage that morning. Yet then I was thinking of nothing, nothing at all; I never thought then that I could become a woman and that I could love; I lived the life of a child -- and why he and everything around him engraved itself so deeply in my memory. Why I do not remember anyone else so well...
Because the Duke of Hamilton was, is, and will be for me an extraordinary creature, apart, divine, and...
I shall never finish.

Notes

Written in Russian in the manuscript; French translation by the editor. ↩
In English in the original. ↩
Written in Russian in the manuscript; French translation by the editor. ↩
Written in Russian in the manuscript; French translation by the editor. ↩
In Latin in the original: semel licit in anno insanire (Marie writes licit for licet) — “once a year it is permitted to go mad”, a saying of the carnival season. ↩
In Latin in the original: insanire (“to go mad”). ↩
Written in Russian in the manuscript; French translation by the editor. ↩
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. ↩
Written in Russian in the manuscript; French translation by the editor. ↩
Written in Russian in the manuscript; French translation by the editor. ↩
Written in Russian in the manuscript; French translation by the editor. ↩