Monday, 14 August (2 August 1876)

Yesterday at one o’clock we left Moscow, all bustle and decked with flags for the arrival of the Kings of Greece and Denmark.
Throughout the whole journey Étienne positively got on my nerves. Imagine my grand-ducal reverie and my reading of a study of Cleopatra and Mark Antony, interrupted every moment by remarks like these:
“Do you want something to eat? Perhaps you are cold? Here is roast chicken and cucumbers. A pear, perhaps? Shall I close the window? What will you eat when we arrive? I telegraphed ahead to have a bath prepared for you, my queen — I had a marble one brought in, and the whole house has been arranged to receive Her Majesty.”
Incontestably kind, but irrefutably tiresome.
Thoroughly respectable gentlemen pay court to Amalia as though she were a lady; Chocolat astonishes me with his emancipated mind and his cat’s nature, ungrateful and sly.
At Grousskoë station we are met by two carriages, six peasant servants and my wretched brother. A giant in height and girth, but handsome as a Roman statue, with comparatively small feet. An hour and a half by carriage to Chpatowoka, during which I glimpse any number of rivalries and pinpricks between my father and the Babanines; I hold my head high, and I keep my brother in check — who is, for that matter, quite delighted to see me.
I do not want to take anyone’s side. I need my father.
“Gritzko (the Little Russian village name for Georges) waited two weeks for you,” Paul tells me. “We thought you would do as you did last year.”
“And has he left?”
“No, I left him in Poltava; he very much wants to see you. ‘You understand,’ he said to me, ‘I knew her when she was this small!’”
“So he thinks himself a man and me a little girl?”
“Yes.”
“Just like me. What is he like?”
“He always speaks French; he moves in high society in Petersburg.”
“They say he is a miser?”
“He is merely sensible and correct. A great gentleman. He and I wanted to receive you with a band at Poltava, but Papa said that was fitting only for queens.”
“Papa talked like a fool; I shall tell him so.”
I notice that my father is afraid of appearing boastful and vain. I shall very quickly reassure him: I adore all those follies that he idolises.
Eighteen versts of ploughed fields, and at last the village, made up of low, poor huts. All the peasants bare their heads the moment they catch sight of the carriage, long before it reaches them. These good, patient, respectful faces touch me; I smile at them, and, quite astonished, they answer my little friendly greetings with smiles.
The house is a single storey, small, with a large and rather wild garden. The peasant women are remarkably well made, handsome and piquant in their costume, which outlines every form and shows their legs bare to the knee.
Marie, my aunt, receives us on the front steps. I bathe; we dine. Several skirmishes with Paul. He tries to needle me — without meaning to, perhaps, merely obeying the impulse his father gives him. I put him superbly in his place, and it is he who is humiliated where he meant to humiliate me. I see through them. Incredulity as to my successes, pinpricks at our position in society. They call me nothing but “Queen”; my father wants to dethrone me — I shall make him bend; I know him, for in many things he is me.
Editors’ note
[Annotation]
in the marginAnnotation de Marie
They do not even have the kindness to be polite to these poor martyrs.
Étienne gives me a book written by one of my governesses; this book is a necessary preface to my journal. I beg posterity to translate it and publish it at the beginning of this work. Only an extract — the part that concerns us.
If I had to live here, I should suffocate. The climate of “Russian Italy” has given me back my voice. I pretended to fall over backwards on hearing that nothing was being done for the Serbs in Poltava.
“Give a concert,” said Paul.
“Gladly,” I replied.
It has been my plan ever since Moscow.
I think I am dreaming: I, the bird Italian songs, carried off to the land where the orange tree does not bloom? O my South! My broad, fleshy leaves, my flowers, my sky, my pure and fragrant air!
My servants are housed in an outbuilding.
All the neighbours, they say, are impatiently awaiting my arrival.
Étienne is highly respected.
People are curious to see “the little Arab,” the Italian woman and the niece. My arrival is known and awaited. “A niece from abroad.” I am in a hurry, I do not know why.
The room is transformed; the various objects that never leave me make it feel like home.
As is my habit, I shall read a chapter of the Bible in Italian and then sleep.
I adore God and I feel like crying.

Notes

“Little Russian”: the period term for Ukrainian; Little Russia was the name then used for the Ukrainian provinces of the Russian Empire, including Poltava. ↩
Verste: a Russian unit of distance, approximately 1.07 km. ↩
Marie turns round the famous romance from Ambroise Thomas’s opera Mignon (1866, after Goethe), «Connais-tu le pays où fleurit l’oranger ?» (“Knowest thou the land where the orange tree blooms?”): Mignon longs for Italy, and Marie, exiled to the Russian countryside, for her Riviera. ↩