Sunday, 15 August 1875

At half past eight we set off for Wiesbaden in two landaus.

I am again dressed all in white with yellow shoes, and very pretty. First of all we attend mass at the Russian chapel, then on to the Kursaal¹ — magnificent rooms, the garden with a lake, the shopping galleries — it all recalls Baden to me, and all of it more beautiful than Baden. But it is a body without a soul. In the days of gambling there was high society here. We pass through and cause a sensation with our elegance.

Several gentlemen, rather good-looking from what I could see, rush to the window abandoning their meal; we enter the great hall — after having passed before the restaurant windows — and at the very same moment those same gentlemen throw themselves in by another door; we enter the gaming salon and those madmen too a minute later, but as I was arranging Dina’s train they withdrew with great discretion.

Maman goes off with Stiopa, his wife and Walitsky to look at the shops, leaving us to play draughts. A gentleman arrives, greets Dina: — Is she your cousin?² — Yes³, she says. I hold out my hand to him, for I have recognised him as Batourine, the friend of Georges and of Stiopa, and Maman’s admirer since she was twelve. They loved each other dearly, but did not marry. He married a woman ten years his elder who keeps him under her thumb through her family connections. Every time he encounters Maman he reproaches her for not having married him — not in front of his wife, oh no.

He says I resemble my mother greatly, and introduces me to Madame his wife, who is old and plain but of the very best society, amiable and agreeable. She says I am the very image of my mother. Which is not true — I am not as beautiful as she is — and it is most kind of her to say so.

We go together in search of the rest of our party, but do not find them. The Batourines take their leave, asking me to beg Maman to come at half past three.

We dine at the Kursaal at two o’clock and then call on the Batourines. They have a house of their own. I enjoy myself with Madame; she talks of things that interest me and that I love.

While she shows the house to Dina and me, my mother remains alone with her former admirer; he kisses her hand and says, his eyes full of tears: Maria Stepanovna, we could have had a daughter just like her!⁴⁵ (Maman tells me so this evening).

I quite believe it, poor man — his children are dreadful.

Princess Souvoroff’s daughter is to marry Prince Tchetvertinsky, who has an income of a hundred thousand roubles. A magnificent match!

We go to the concert as at Baden, seated around small tables.

All of a sudden — what a surprise! Who should I see! Diadia!⁶ Monsieur de Toulouse!

We join together and remain thus until six o’clock, then we set off again for Schlangenbad, which is an hour and a half from Wiesbaden.

But what a dreadful thing they tell me! Carlo Hamilton is dead, or very nearly! Having obtained the divorce for Madame Paskevitch, he was in Petersburg on the eve of their marriage, when driving along the Nevsky⁷ his horses bolted, he was thrown from the carriage, and is in such a pitiful state that he is thought to be dead. The doctors despair of saving him.

It was a Russian lady who was here who told Maman. She left Petersburg the evening of the accident and does not know whether he lives or is dead.

The affair caused a frightful scandal in the capital.

Poor Carlo, on the very eve of happiness! If only one knew how much grief this causes me. I am shocked and sorrowful.

Poor Paskevitch — it is dreadful!

It is she I pity.

He is dead and it is over, but she remains, she lives. My God, how wretched she must be!

To love each other for so long, then at last to obtain everything, to be on the eve of marriage — and then such a catastrophe! It seems to me an injustice, a cruelty, on the part of heaven!

I have received Walery’s portraits. Some of them are ravishing.