Tuesday, 1 December 1874

Yesterday the Countess Merjeewsky and her son came to take their leave. How he looked at me! But I have not turned did not turn, 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.¹ 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 family².

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 blood³, 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-papa, 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 dirty dealings.

Good heavens! When I hear such things I lose myself entirely, and understand every crime one might commit when goaded to such extremity!

Audiffer was walking with the Prodgers — I am displeased, for when I cannot have men near me I prefer to see them walking alone.