Thursday, 18 December 1874

Bitterly cold — a wolf-cold — and we walked with Florence, wrapped in beautiful blue-fox furs. Enoteas and Terffidua (Saëtone and Audiffret reversed) were out promenading; then Lewin and Clémentine flashed past like lightning. Let us hope that spiteful creature does not disturb that household.
We had chocolate at the Cercle de la Méditerranée — at Rumpelmayer’s.
Paul — that lost, wretched creature — is hardly ever seen at home; he spends his life in the lowest company, in the servants’ clubs, in taverns, and so forth. He borrows money everywhere and runs up debts. After the events at Ostend, what was to be expected? My mother has tried everything — anger, tolerance, tenderness, severity — and she has forgotten the one thing that might perhaps save him: firmness. She has none; it is not her fault. This boy is so corrupt and vicious that the only thing that can save him — and save us — is his death. When my mother speaks to him he pays no attention to what she says, as if he were deaf, or as if her reproaches did not concern him. Such callousness, such corruption in so young a being, is both revolting and terrible!
Everyone will blame the mother — and what can she do with such a monster?
From the school of Hactius at Geneva — a school of great repute — she was obliged to remove him. She placed him with Wash; she removed him from there too, because they would not keep him. At the lycée — a serious, classical state establishment — the same thing happened. At last this poor mother resolved to keep him at home and prepare him for the university. She called for him and spoke to him gently; begged him to mend his ways; wept. He wept too — the hypocrite! — but did not take in the excellent arguments she offered. She took him on a journey, hoping that away from Nice, away from the bad company into which he had fallen, he might reform in her company — and then at Ostend he showed how thoroughly reformed he was. [Between the lines: the proud Duke] She wished to take him to Germany and place him in a strict school, but she had no money and was obliged to bring him back to Nice — where she learned of Émile’s death. That death moved her deeply; she called Paul again; he wept and begged her to let him stay near her, promising to behave — and she had the weakness to yield, and to believe him.
It is impossible to say how vicious he is! When she spoke to him of Ostend, he showed not the slightest emotion and maintained a hideously indifferent composure.
He has But such callousness cannot exist, I have often thought — yet it does exist; I know it, and I cannot believe it. My heart has not been sufficiently steeped in human vices to admit of such such horrors!
Today a policeman came asking for him — but no one knows where he is; does one ever? What can he have done? He has stolen, perhaps. Ah! How painful it is to know that this creature is my brother! His vices can grow no larger — or else he cannot go on living; for if they increase with age he will be a monster beyond conceiving, a monster that cannot exist, a monster such as has never yet been on earth. At present he already has every vice a man can have — ah, I forget murder... That is still lacking. But no — he will not be a murderer. To kill, one still needs a certain greatness of soul; he is too vile, too base, too filthy. He will rot in his wretchedness.

Friday, 18 December 1874

“Filth: public contempt, family shame” — says La vraie clef des songes by Lucimius.
The fulfilment of last Friday’s dream was not long in coming, as will be seen. This morning, as I was making Victor jump — that beautiful, good creature — my mother hands me a letter and tells me to go read it in my room and bring it back.
Here it is, more or less:
Madame Nadejda Stepanovna — after mature reflection, I have decided.
No — I do not remember it well enough to write it out; she the letter says that after reflecting she thinks — (who is “she”? I have not yet said) — has decided that she will on no account bring her children to a house where the young ladies frequent gaming tables; that in matters of education she would never see eye to eye with Madame Romanoff, to whom the letter is addressed; and that it is better to part, for nothing is more disagreeable than forced relations. That she regrets it infinitely, for Maria is a charming, likeable, and agreeable woman — but alas! why such a weak mother!
Signed, Julie Howard.
Furious and red with anger, I would not let it show; and having composed my face as best I could, I went back and returned the letter — to which my aunt replied:
You must have noticed yourself that our relations have been quite different from what they were, following certain rumours that have reached me. You unjustly slander our young ladies, who went to Monaco no more and no less than your own. As for the education of children and young ladies, our methods differ entirely — that is true. For me, as for any respectable, honest woman, a young girl’s name is sacred; whereas you choose to slander children with such levity.
Nadejda Romanoff. At your service.
A letter which I admire and respect.
As for the effect this affair produced on me — what am I to say? I had almost expected it, for being so grieved about our position, I expect nothing but affronts. But what revolts me is the infamy of the slander! When, for heaven’s sake, do I go to Monte Carlo? On the day of a shooting competition, or of an illumination — and there is only one illumination a year. Every young lady in Nice goes as much as I do. Fie! Am I reduced to justifying myself when I am not guilty? No — what is vile, what is cowardly — above all from a mother — is to use a child, a young girl, as a pretext and slander her before anyone knows what she is! For she cannot seriously believe what she says. The business originates with my aunt Tutcheff and with Boutowksy — a depraved woman if ever there was one — and with Hélène; for since last year she has been jealous of me in a manner too visible for me not to see it. And there is cause enough! She is ambitious and cunning. When we first knew this family, neither Hélène nor Lise (still less so) had any notion of manners or elegance; by copying me little by little they began to dress more neatly — many silk dresses were made for them, feathered hats, etc. Then Hélène’s admiration turned to envy, and while continuing to copy me she pretended to think herself superior. The more she dressed up, the less she succeeded; I never had many dresses but was always well turned out — above all since Mademoiselle de Galve helped me understand the value of simplicity. At the matinée they gave, I was the best-dressed of all — whereupon Madame Bariakinsky said:
“Who is that remarkably distinguished and well-bred child?”
And again I heard with my own ears another woman, or the same, say:
“What a charming young girl.”
It was at this same matinée — which I attended as a child, and only because it was at the home of friends — that Woerman pretended to pay court to me.
Well — she is satisfied now; at their Tuesday matinée she will doubtless be the best-dressed, given the sorry company they will have.
I drove out in the carriage and saw Lambertye — I was not even surprised, and looked at him as I look at Saëtone. I walked with Sabatini. Copland — or was it Plantus? — kept insisting on taking me to see some wild flowers or other, but I shook him off — Thank God. I am, one might say, displaying my languages: several people, having heard me speak Italian, then English, then French, then Russian, showed faces of astonishment at hearing me speak a different language each time.
I am not shouting, but the Promenade is not very wide, and as one passes one catches a word or two — enough to recognise what language is being spoken, especially when one is listening.
I am fortunate enough to speak four living languages and to be studying a dead one — Latin — which I shall speak, God willing; for I study it with love and find it the most beautiful of all.
While Copland was accosting me I saw all the Galve family — at least there are some proper people.

Notes

“A wolf-cold” — un froid de loups: French idiom for bitter, penetrating cold. ↩
“Enoteas” = Saëtone backwards; “Terffidua” = Audiffret backwards. Marie’s reverse-spelling privacy device. ↩
In Latin in the original: Duk superbus (“the proud/arrogant Duke”). Written between the lines as an interlinear annotation; possibly a reference to the Duke of Hamilton. ↩
In English in the original. ↩
In French in the original: grandeur d’âme. ↩
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. ↩
In Spanish in the original: Gracias a Dios. ↩
In Italian in the original: con amore — i.e. with passionate devotion. ↩