Tuesday, 1 December 1874

Yesterday the Countess Merjeewsky and her son came to take their leave. How he looked at me! But I did not turn — [Crossed out: was not turned] for all his fixed, melancholy gaze, though I felt it and had to make an effort not to look back.
Around two o'clock the rain stopped and I went with my aunt to the outdoor concert.
We passed in front of the station, from which a whole crowd was streaming out, all hoping to catch a glimpse of the Empress. Walitsky saw her — he was with the consul Pelikan and Rangouli, captain of the Jarevna.
We spoke of Schestakoff, who is military attaché in Trieste, as Wittgenstein is in Paris.
How can you say Schestakoff is nobody, when Wittgenstein has dined at MacMahon's with grand dukes? Yes — for Wittgenstein is not Schestakoff; he is Prince Wittgenstein of ancient lineage, bearing a chivalric name, of our imperial family.
I contradicted her and she argued back, so that the whole time we talked about Madame Rosalie Léon.
Truly this conversation was more agreeable than many, elevated as it was by a touch of Hamilton. My aunt said that Wittgenstein is perhaps ranked on the same level as Hamilton.
— Hamilton, yes — he is of royal blood, I said. It pleases me that whenever she wants to say something grand, noble, or fine, she says Hamilton. How else could she express it? I ask you!
I have been reading my fourth notebook, having added annotations to it in Paris — annotations perfectly in accord with what I think now. And yet, despite everything, despite reason, I still believe today, at this very moment (is it madness!), I believe in what I believed then. It is such madness that I can barely comprehend its full extent — and for that very reason it is a madness, an unbelievable thing, an absurdity, a nameless enormity, an unspeakable folly — and for that very reason I believe it. It is not my reason that believes; it is something else I do not understand — it is my genius, whose existence I acknowledge on this occasion, as Socrates acknowledged his. And every time I read my old diary, especially page 130, fourth notebook, I believe it — but to the point of thinking I am losing my reason.
That page 130 makes my heart beat, and the English quotation unsettles my mind and strengthens me in my madness — to the point of making me think that everything except this is madness.
My honourable uncle Georges yesterday gave himself over to every possible and impossible fury, and screamed at grand-père, Maman, and my aunt such horrors as make one's hair stand on end, filling me with indignation and rage. There is not a crime in the world he did not impute to them — and he concluded his tirade by saying he was tired of concealing their horrors and that he, innocent, was mixed up in their sordid affairs.
Good God! When I hear such things I lose myself entirely, and understand every crime one might commit when goaded to such extremity!
Audiffret was walking with the Prodgers party — I am displeased, for when I cannot have men near me I prefer to see them walking alone.

Notes

Empress Maria Alexandrovna (1824–1880), wife of Tsar Alexander II. She wintered regularly on the Riviera for her tuberculosis.