Sunday, 7 February 1875

I have prepared some laxative sweets for my dear facchino; it will spoil his Carnival for the poor devil — but it will be a petty and vile revenge, though better than nothing.
At half past two or three, Cima, Olga, Paul, Dina, and I set off — all dressed in pink dominos, in a pink carriage, the horses covered in roses and driven by a pink coachman, with on our knees — or rather on one of the front seats — an enormous pink box full of confetti.
I was seated on an improvised seat — between the coachman's box and the lowered hood I had a cushion placed, which gave us two excellent extra places.
From the entrance to the Rue Saint-François-de-Paule the battle began — but I was lukewarm; I saw no one interesting except the Prodgers and their loyal circle on the Prefecture grandstand, the Durands, and a few others.
Furstenberg was at a window on the Cours; as I was pelting everyone without distinction, I threw confetti at him before recognizing him — but the wretch did not respond; I stopped, humiliated and furious.
I needed only that to detest him entirely — I was already half-detesting him for his resemblance to the Pole.
Carnival was less fine this year than the year before — only one procession, fewer floats, fewer costumes.
With the Russians from last year we fight furiously again this time. I was moderately amused.
I had hoped to murder the Italian, and I did not see him. But now I think of it — so much the better! a thousand times better!
If I see him tomorrow or on Mardi Gras, I shall crush him with my contempt. That is a man I hate for himself — not merely for his face, as I hate Merjeewsky and the two Lanelfards, whom I have seen here these past few days and who resemble him entirely — and the Polish woman.
At half past nine I go with Dina and Paul to meet Alexandre, who is arriving from Russia with his family. Whatever he may be, he is my uncle and I go as a matter of politeness. But the train comes and does not bring them.
We spend an hour at the Sapogenikoffs'; they are not quite settled yet and we help them — but instead of making order, we amuse ourselves like children, like madmen. We do a thousand silly things; Mme Sapogenikoff herself was running about and laughing like us.
Maman is very ill. Were it not for the terrible anxiety her health causes me, I should be weeping and giving myself up to my own sorrows.
At one o'clock Alexandre arrives. It has been five years since I saw his wife and children — him, only three.
Five years! Five minutes — five years ago I was eleven; now I am sixteen. Phew! It is hard, sixteen! Oh, these sixteen years trouble me.
Stiopa, the eldest, is seven; Julie is six. Nadinka's smile is falser than ever, and despite all my goodwill I cannot find her likeable — but that will come. I am benevolent by nature, and if I were to become otherwise, it will be people who have changed me. My uncle is as he ever was, and I never know quite what to think of him — is he a good-natured man? Is he crafty? That is the question.
Maman is ill — it is strange: I weep over a bad dinner, or over less — and before this illness I am cold. Oh, but I suffer more than those mewling weepers who irritate me.
I do not go to bed until half past three.

Notes

Facchino (Italian: "porter"): Marie's contemptuous nickname for an Italian admirer.
In English in the original. A reference to Hamlet, Act III, Scene 1.