Tuesday, 3 March 1874

I dreamt of a grey dress that seemed to me charming; I go into town with Machenka (brown dress, black hat, new hairstyle, hair on the nape -- good). It is windy and there is almost no one, for I do not count the pebbles and the dust. Is it possible that everyone has already left!
Boreel no longer appears; his room is shut. I believe he has left again. We go on errands in town, a little to the Promenade -- there is a concert. I go to look for pale grey cloth for my dress, then to Simone's, whom I do not find. We were passing 55 when Maman and company were entering; we go in too. This villa will be very beautiful if God wills that it remain ours. Tomorrow is the fatal day when everything will be decided.
We collect Papa on the bridge and we go home.
I find my chemistry apparatus overturned, the bottles unstoppered, and the potassium ferrocyanide open and on the table. It is Monsieur Pitou who, displeased with his wife, has vented his fury in my cupboard.
In the evening M. and Mme Anitchkoff and M. Zibine play roulette with us; Paul is the banker. I won seventeen francs, but Stiopa begged me to keep playing so as not to carry off everything from the bank. I go to bed with ten francs.
I am very bored at seeing no one, not one suitable man. In Le Derby I no longer read Hamilton's name, and I find Le Derby monotonous. I shall read Saturday's, which is not yet opened.
Simone is at our house; she is fitting Dina's mourning dress. Tomorrow she will send me grey samples.
I have nothing to say; that can be seen from the legibility of my handwriting -- one can tell that I am not hurrying, that thoughts are slow to come.
I was complaining against Le Derby! I open it, I read, and my eyes are struck by that infernal and celestial name! It cut off my breath, and I recovered my senses only when I heard the sound made by my tears, quite hot, falling on the newspaper; they burned my hands too. I do not know why I wept to the point of tears, I do not know why I am weeping now; why I rose, why I drew in air with all my lungs without feeling better; why I got up, why I paced around the room; why I went to kneel and pray and weep.
I am mad, you see, and that is why I behave so foolishly; that is why I write, and my burning tears flood the paper and my fingers (I blow my nose with feeling).
As soon as I was a little recovered I ran to fetch my journal, but on the way I knelt down again, weeping. Am I mad enough -- why write my follies?
But this evening, it is extraordinary how moved I am, and why? I do not understand how all this happens; I do not understand myself. I am mad. (I throw my journal far from me.)
I took up Le Derby again, but by chance I saw that name once more; I quickly turned my head away, shaking it to rid myself of the vertigo. I was reading fairly calmly when all at once, in large letters: Stud of the Duke of Hamilton.
Once again my breath fails me; I smile, I weep, I rise, I put both hands on my head and look at the ceiling, still weeping, but this posture did not calm me; then I lay my head upon the bed, but am forced to change my pose yet again. Why not read it all at one go and then describe my transports?! I could not continue reading and was incapable of writing; it is not my fault, it is stronger than I.
But what does this state mean? It suffices for me to see his name to weep, and for it to cut off my breath.
But when I saw among his horses Berthe, I could not help smiling -- but for that I was again obliged to rise and shake my head. Poor little Berthe.
I remembered Baden and everything. And... I am truly ashamed -- I was weeping.
It is that I truly love him.
Enough foolishness.
Hamilton alone is capable of moving me, of making me live, of making me feel that I exist (I wept for Allard too yesterday, but how different those tears are!). He alone moves me, makes me think, and calms me -- for after this tempest I am so calm: I shall go and pray to God!