Friday, 3 April 1874

O what dreadful fright! My heart is still pounding. I go to take my journal from behind the painting; I feel about as usual, and... o terror! My fingers meet nothing! "Horror! All my blood ran cold." I was about to cry out; I search on the table and find it! How did it get here? A mystery. Who could have taken it? Why is it not behind the painting?
That is what I cannot explain.
I have not written my journal; besides, there was not much to write. As always I go out, and as never before I do not go to the Promenade but on the contrary into the old town, by carriage and on foot. I find there a simple and original hat that I may wear. The one Mantel had sent me did not suit; I sent it back and await another... We go through all the streets, all the shops -- I am slumming it. I was at the Promenade only once.
Today it rains... I was at Laussel's; it is going better, but I am still afraid.
The Howards, from passionate friends, have become good acquaintances. It is more solid, I believe. Here are four calm dinners, and we amuse ourselves reciting bellissime poesie -- the only kind that please me and make me love verse. Here is an example:
*He even smeared his face with cream
He pomaded his hands
And from the cellar he brought
A pair of chintz trousers*
etc. etc. etc.
It is charming, and then:
*He spun the cat around, saddled it
And galloped down the street like a grenade.*
It is divine, admirable. Here is another magnificent specimen from the war negotiations between the Sultan and a hetman of the Cossacks; the hetman replies to insults with a series of insults still greater. "What envoy of the living God thou art -- of the devil thou art..." (the word will not pass), then he concludes: "such-and-such a year and a month as with you. Kiss us in the --"
One guesses that it was Papa who recited the verses with the words that will not pass. It amuses him, poor man.
Maman is ill; in the evening we stay with her. My aunt, Walitsky, Paul, Bete, and Stiopa have been in Monaco since five o'clock.
Georges comes in the evening. Machenka was truly frightened when I told her that every evening something knocks in the chimney. I arranged a hat for her and I began to invoke the knocking spirit; she was frightened. What a madwoman...
But what is true is that yesterday around midnight my bed was shaking; I did not get up, out of laziness. At breakfast, Machenka tells me that her bed shook so violently that she leapt in fright onto Stiopa's bed; Walitsky too believes he felt a tremor.
Was it a small earthquake?

Notes

Italian: "most beautiful poems."