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 the most beautiful poems -- 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

In Italian in the original: bellissime poesie. ↩
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. ↩
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. ↩
Written in Russian in the manuscript; French translation by the editor. ↩
Written in Russian in the manuscript; French translation by the editor. ↩