Adam is drunk, the stove is good for nothing, and we have no luncheon. You must understand that when I am hungry I become ferocious, or else I weep — today I wept. Maman is leaving for San Remo. It is dreadful. The doctors understand nothing of her illness and put everything down to nerves. Le duc uscite degli medici [sic] — the chest, or the nerves.

When she comes to embrace me before leaving, I lifted her lip with my finger and saw pale gums, almost white — one could clearly see there was no blood there. I shuddered, the rosy flesh seeming so frightening in its pallor. At five o'clock Nadia suggests we go to look at the sea — in this wind it must indeed be beautiful. I put on Dina's hat and looked like one of those little English girls in the picture books, my pèlerine trimmed with skunks^[In English in the original.] over the long brown dress, a white veil, and thus disguised I went out, certain — or rather desirous — not to be recognized.

We threw pebbles into the sea, and after this innocent occupation made our way to the Cercle and turned back. In this wind and at this hour no one was on the Promenade except the little Spaniard who hovered around us and Lucie Durand who passed in her carriage, recognized me, and saluted me several times with a smile — no doubt amused by my long skirt. A sad evening, which I spend at table in Maman's room with Sacha, Nadia, and my aunt, weeping, or rather shedding torrents of hot, salt tears accompanied by bitter words. Sacha tried to reassure me, but in vain.

And why was I weeping? For the same thing, always. Do not tell me that, Uncle — you do not even believe it yourself. Men are made to live in society; God gave them speech to express their thoughts, but to whom? To their fellow creatures. Even animals — look at dogs: Victor does not stay alone, he goes to the Promenade — why? Because he finds other dogs there. Wild, ferocious wolves do not live in isolation either; birds fly in flocks, fish swim in shoals. Besides, why am I telling you things you know, that everyone knows? I am not speaking of a society life, of spending one's time at balls and in company — but I ask only enough to live decently, just decently. Nothing more... and I weep, but face uncovered and head held high. — But, Moussia, he says, you study, you are occupied. — Ah, there it is! Why precisely do I study — why do I have a fine voice, why do I speak several languages? Assuredly not to be locked up fra quattro mura.^[Between four walls.] Is it so that someone who has come from Russia may praise me before some relation? But why do you despair — you whom God has given everything? — Well yes! I will say, like Rosina: a che serve lo spirito, a che giova la belleza^[*"What good is wit, what use is beauty" — Rossini, The Barber of Seville.] — shut in as I am, hidden, isolated, wretched?