Wednesday, 25 August 1875

We dine at the Batourines'. A ravishing dinner and excellent wine — I have not drunk much and yet I am giddy. Machenka goes to try her dress at the dressmaker's; I undress and drink a great deal of water, but cannot entirely sober up.
Stiopa and Walitsky stay at the Batourines' while we go to the dressmaker's. Towards seven o'clock we return and pass the time pleasantly enough, for me deliciously for Madame Batourine is a great talker and talks of nothing but her world, of high society. A rather singular thing: yesterday evening, to fall asleep, I invented a story involving Blackprince — I called him Pierre Wittgenstein.
Why Pierre?
Well — at the Batourines' I see among the visiting cards: the Prince Emile Says de Wittgenstein. We speak of the Wittgensteins, and it turns out that the one from Nice is called Pierre.
Is that not singular?
In the evening the Comtesse Rudiger arrives — that celebrated old lady. And shortly after we depart for our adorable Schlangenbad, to my great relief, for I am not entirely myself. This cursed wine has clouded my understanding. I found myself comfortable with those people on account of the atmosphere that I love which one breathes there.

Notes

In English in the original.