Tuesday, 27 July 1875

It is hot, and we wander from the garden to the house like the shades in Dante’s Inferno; my dogs follow me, the sun burns, everything irritates me, I can do nothing. How wretched the heat makes a person!
There is something I am missing, or something I have to do and have forgotten. And it torments me. I am not at peace.
Stiopa and the monkey Smirnoff have gone out, my aunt too; I am alone with Machenka, Stiopa’s wife.
Ah! how sick I am of this heat! Ah! how wretched I am!
Saëtone is charming; he is seeing to my cook and will go on seeing to him.
“Do you know,” he says to me at the concert, “I have told one of my friends that you are leaving for Paris.”
“To whom?” I say, unmoved.
“To M. Girofla,” he says, after looking me full in the face.
“Whatever for?” I say simply.
“Because it is an interesting event; putting in your name made the letter interesting to everyone.”
“Oh!”
“And then, to fill two lines of my letter.”
“Well, really! But is M. d’Audiffret still in Paris?”
“Yes, he is at the Hôtel Splendid; he will stay there a few more days — another fortnight or so.”
Am I not right to call him Mercury?
This news cheers and enlivens me. Now I want to leave. And not for nothing, if the cards speak true.
In the evening we read Solomon’s Song of Songs. What a jumble of words! What indecency!
And the priests dare to say that this Anacreontic song refers to Our Lord Jesus and to the Church? Fie!
It is stupid — so many words, such absurd comparisons! Fie!