Tuesday, 8 August 1876 (27 July) — Wednesday, 9 August 1876 (28 July)

We sat up until four o'clock; I am tired this morning and Yssayevitch was not admitted to my rising.
Paul, my brother, telegraphs that my father had sent him to meet me at Konotop [?] (a railway station near my uncle's estate); he asks when I shall arrive.
I went straight to Nina's, where I spent the whole day. The city is en fête, and at Peterhof the imperial family receives in state their relatives, the royal houses of Denmark and Greece. All Petersburg is there to see the illuminations. But not being of the party, and not wishing to be, like all Petersburg, a spectator at the rope, I stayed at home — that is to say, at Nina's — embroidering a band of tapestry imitating Gobelins on a soft blue ground; this band, placed on the front of a cream velvet dressing-gown, will make something the like of which has never been seen before, for beauty and richness.
[Four Latin words devoid of meaning.]
Galula and Girofla are indispensable to the maintenance of our gaiety. I invented that Girofla was about to depart as a volunteer for Serbia, with a light pack containing his old war trousers and two worn handkerchiefs. On this theme I improvised a poem in verse, detailing everything that would befall the young adventurer on the road and in Serbia, to the tune of Partant pour la Syrie. Olga imagined drawing him in a coffin — this was found so funny that we laughed for ten minutes.
From this conversation I have carried away inspiration for a correspondence or an epic poem that you shall read.
There is only Audiffret who can make me laugh and compose verses. And God knows I think of it.
Nina was with us; she read us a novel while we worked at the canvas. M. Sapogenikoff shared in our gaiety and ended up speaking of Girofla himself.
I returned at midnight with Étienne; Yssayevitch, having come in the afternoon, was so badly treated by me — aided by my Graces — that he went home quite sad, according to my uncle.
Petersburg gains by night. I know nothing more superb than the Neva hung with lanterns contrasting with the moon and the dark blue, almost grey sky. The defects of the houses, the paving, the bridges are dissolved at night by obliging shadows; the breadth of the quays appears in all its majesty. The Admiralty spire is lost in the sky, and in an azure mist edged with lights one sees the dome and graceful form of St Isaac's Cathedral, which seems itself a floating shadow descended from the heavens.
I should like to be here in winter...
I am penniless. An agreeable situation. Étienne is an excellent man but always wounds my delicate feelings. This morning I lost my temper — but half an hour later I was laughing as if nothing had happened, at the Sapogenikoffs'. Doctor Tchemicheff was there and I wanted to ask him for a remedy for my hoarseness, but I had no money, and this gentleman does nothing for nothing. A very delicate position, I assure you. But I shall not weep in advance — the unpleasantness is disagreeable enough when it arrives without weeping over it beforehand. At four o'clock, Nina and the Three Graces set off by carriage for the Peterhof station — all three dressed in white under long dust-coats.
The train was about to leave; we climbed aboard without tickets, but furnished with the escort of four Guards officers who were no doubt tempted by my white feather and the red heels of my Graces. So here we are, Giro and I, like proud military horses to the sound of music — ears pricked, eyes bright, and spirits gay.
They were intrigued — we spoke Russian, French, and English, and were dressed like foreigners. Our rosy cheeks and nimble tongues caught their eye and ear.
Seeing this, I pitched myself two notes higher, and for the entire journey there were nothing but anecdotes, sallies, and witticisms, which made my Graces swoon and intrigued our companions more and more.
They followed us in a cab; scarcely arrived at Peterhof, I was madly tempted to let them believe we were demi-mondaines and invite them to supper... at M. Sapogenikoff's. Picture that. Peterhof is a true paradise of greenery, villas, and lakes. The Islands are enchanted isles, with ivy thickets and houses that look as if transported from Pompeii — with porphyry vases and malachite tables. All of it belongs to the Emperor, naturally. Olga declared herself already in love with the blond one; I with the dark one; the other two were generously ceded to Nina and Marie. We stopped before the island, but the followers went further — and for half an hour this made us thoughtful. But Giro assured us it could not end there, and that they would leave at eleven o'clock in the evening on the same train as ourselves, since we had said so loudly enough for them to hear.
At six o'clock the thousand fountains of Peterhof were set playing. One cannot imagine anything more beautiful.
[Fifteen lines cancelled]
The canal lined with gigantic jets of water — which seem small in comparison to Samson wrestling a tiger, from whose gaping jaws the water leaps almost as high as the two superimposed terraces at the summit of which stands the Emperor's palace, a yellow edifice otherwise unremarkable, though hallowed by memories of Peter the Great and Catherine. This Samson canal and the palace in perspective create an effect of rare beauty. Peterhof is inhabited by the Emperor, the Grand Dukes, and the Grand Duchesses — each with their own summer retreat, their own villa. In the avenues one encounters nothing but imperial carriages. One feels entirely inflamed with respect and adoration for the Emperor and the reigning house — so affable, so kind to everyone, despite the grandeur that characterises them and which is only an indispensable apparatus for their personages.
Nina, still streaming with laughter from the lakeside separation, took us to General Rostovzeff, head of the Grand Duke Nicholas's household. Rostovzeff is related to the Sapogenikoffs, who beam with reflected glory. The general and his wife had known Maman and my aunt four years ago at Nice — and it turns out they even remember me. This visit, a little cold compared with Nina's expectations, draped us as if in a grey veil, and it required the sight of Grand Duke Constantine, the Emperor's brother, passing by — his bow and his charming smile — to make us four madwomen again. At seven o'clock two military orchestras drew a multitude of people on foot and in carriages; the air one breathes at Peterhof is the air of kings and court, and the many uniforms give this land of greenery and water a character of gaiety and elegance one rarely encounters elsewhere.
We were [blank] before an antique temple — a marble column, [one line crossed out] set on a marble dais with two lions at the entrance and a female statue in the centre representing a spring, which has this remarkable quality: that viewed from behind, the water flowing from the urn on her shoulder [she appears (?)] to be doing what one does not do before company. We were, then, before this temple — all streaming with water and veiled in a silver mist — when one of the four, the blond one, passed in a droschki drawn by a ravishing black horse. This gave Giro a turbamento, and all at once we began to remember Nice.
"Do you remember the day when we bowed to everyone?"
"And when we dressed in disguise?"
"And when I came to yours..."
"Yes, and we spent the day spitting at targets."
But the music had ceased; it was getting late and cold; we had but one rouble between us for food — it was not to be thought of.
"What shall we do until eleven o'clock tonight?" asks Nina.
"Wander in the wood."
"And die of hunger."
"That is quite likely."
Giro already saw us stretched out on the grass and the four officers on the horizon in a cloud of water or flame.
But in reality we were in a droll situation: the wood grew deserted and dark; there was only our carriage, conveying four women half-mad with laughter and with saying foolish things in French, the coachman understanding nothing.
No one knew us and I felt at home; the officers gave us a topic of conversation. For in truth they were charming and very distinguished. My dark one especially.
The coachman brought us to the station an hour and a half too early. Imagine the pleasure of being followed by all the military men in the place. We did nothing but change position to escape the pursuit. A few minutes before departure the four appeared; I tried to enter a compartment — the blond followed us in; I moved to another — the same manoeuvre... I returned to the first, and the blond installed himself there too.
"My dog will not disturb you, Madame?" he asked.
"Not at all, Monsieur," I replied with a glacial smile.
The dog came to lie at my feet; the young man dislodged it, to my displeasure as the creature was warming me — but I said nothing.
"How tiresome they are," the officer tried again, after the tenth attempt [one and a half lines crossed out] of a dreadful little red-headed man — "they see there is no more room and still wish to come in."
I had my mouth half open; I closed it with a kind of smile, or grimace.
"[...]" called [word crossed out] dog, turning [...] importuners.
But at this third attempt I contented myself with closing my eyes and saying to Olga in a plaintive voice:
"Giro, my dear, come and sit beside me — we shall exchange our impressions."
Giro sat down beside me, and from that moment we gave free rein to a gaiety as mad as it was impertinent and unconstrained, maintaining for the unfortunate officer cutting glances and pursed lips. He did not know what face to put on; and as I was saying very funny things, and as my Graces and Nina were dying of laughter, the young blond pinched his lips, looked out of the window, and finally burst out laughing while covering his face, forcing himself to a gravity so comic that we redoubled our insolent laughter, our free jests, and our stiff and solemn airs toward him. He no longer knew at all what company he was in; this mixture of giddiness and pride disconcerted him and made me enjoy his embarrassment. Then I let drop a few words, naming at random the great-world people my mother had known eight years ago — Rostovzeff, my princess, and many others — and immediately afterwards told my companions (as if they did not know) how we had been followed by military men.
"How stupid they are," I said with majesty; "and is a white hat sufficient to expose ladies to being followed by all sorts of people?"
I enlarged on this subject and on the quality of the followers with such good grace that the... pretty blond turned red and serious, and at the first station called his dog, stepped out of the carriage — as did his three friends. Their exit was followed by a silence of death, succeeded by a mad burst of laughter lasting approximately three minutes — the time the train remained at that station, and our military men standing before our carriage-door, lit by a glacial moon.
Having banished him, I began to deplore my own cruelty and, passing to a sentiment of great pity, was seized by a more violent laughter than the first. Nina and the Graces were rattling in their corner while I, recovering a little, looked out of the window without comprehending what I saw — for a thick mist, or a dew, was descending from the sky and covering the earth like a silver water, or a transparent snow. One could see the layers of air, lit by the moon, blue, transparent, descending like a veil... like a dream; I had never seen anything like it and remained enchanted, and this agreeable feeling gave birth to a... sudden idea. I made a knot of a rope which Marie held in her hands I know not how, and threw it at the feet of the handsome officers at the moment the train began to move.
This was found sublime; Giro covered me with kisses, Marie pressed her head in her hands, and Nina lit a cigarette. My hoarse voice lent a particular stamp to everything I said; Giro seconded me like an angel; Nina threw in from time to time a killing word, and seemed as gay as if Yourkoff had never existed.
Scarcely in the carriage there were new cries; Nina was positively raving; as for Giro and me, we sang a war march and [words crossed out] from the station to the hotel — a full hour. She could bear it no longer and my hands were burning, but I had made a vow and I begged her in a plaintive voice to continue.
On returning I found a supper, Étienne, and money sent me by Alexandre. I ate the supper, dismissed Étienne, and hid the money.
And then, strangely, I felt a great emptiness — a kind of sadness; I looked at myself in the mirror; my eyes were as on that last evening in Rome; the man, the creature who had taken my first kisses, returned to my heart and to my mind; I desired like a madwoman to see him at that moment and to be pressed in his arms. The other evening he was begging me to stay one day more; I closed my eyes and believed myself back then and there.
"I shall stay," I murmured as if he were there; "I shall stay for my love, for my beloved! I love you — I want to love you — you do not deserve it — no matter — it pleases me to love you... only love me well; but I feel you do not love me as I understand love — yet I shall explain that to you... I love you!"
And suddenly taking a few steps about the room I began to weep before the mirror — such tears in small quantity become me tolerably well.
Having excited myself by caprice, I calmed myself through fatigue, and sat down to write, laughing softly at myself.
Often I thus invent a hero for myself, a novel, a drama, and laugh and weep over my invention as if it were reality.
I am enchanted by Petersburg — but one does not sleep here; it is already light; the nights are so short.

Notes

Gobelins: the famous French royal manufactory of tapestries, founded in the 17th century; here used as a stylistic reference for rich, pictorial needlework.
Serbia: the Serbian–Ottoman War of 1876–78 had just begun; thousands of Russian volunteers crossed to fight alongside Serbia, a major public excitement in Russia that summer.
Partant pour la Syrie: a French romance (1807) that became enormously popular under Napoleon III's Second Empire; its familiar tune made it an irresistible vehicle for parody. In French in the original.
Peterhof's Grand Cascade featured 64 fountains and 255 statues; the centrepiece was the Samson Fountain described in the next paragraph.
The Samson Fountain (1735): the central jet of the Grand Cascade, representing Samson forcing open the lion's (here described as tiger's) jaws — a symbol of Russia's victory over Sweden at Poltava.
Turbamento: Italian for agitation, excitement — a fluttering of the heart. In Italian in the original.