Wednesday, 23 August 1876 (11 August)

I have written to Maman nearly as much as I write in my journal. It will do her more good than all the medicines in the world. I appear enchanted, though I am not quite there yet; I have recounted everything exactly, but I am not sure of the outcome as regards the end of the story. Well, we shall see. God is very good.

My father had gone out, and when he returned I asked:

— Where have you been?

— In the forest, he replied.

In the forest a cottage is being built, near which his mistress lives — hidden there on the occasion of my arrival.

— You did right, Papa; the forest is the part of the estate that requires the most supervision — the peasants steal the timber and devastate the wood by letting their flocks graze in it.

At the beginning of this sentence he had raised his eyes in expectation¹, almost in surprise, but I spoke with rare good nature and he said to me:

— Quite true, yes.

I rode on horseback with Paul and Pacha; Eristoff and Kapitanenko — nicknamed Kapitan — followed in a tilbury.²

Pacha is my true cousin, the son of my father’s sister. This man intrigues me. This morning we talked; he held my embroidery frame while I worked. We spoke of fathers, and I said that sons always criticised their fathers’ actions, and that once in their fathers’ place they would do exactly the same, only to be criticised in turn by their own children.

— That is perfectly true, said the young man, but my sons will never criticise me, because I shall never marry.

And after a moment I said:

— There has never yet been a young man who did not say the very same thing.

— Yes, but with me it is different.

— And why?

— Because I am twenty-two and have never yet been in love, and no woman has ever caught my eye.

— That is perfectly natural — one ought not to be in love until that age.

— What about all those young men who have been in love since fourteen?

— They are freaks of nature; besides, none of those passions have anything to do with Love...

— Perhaps, but I am not like everyone else. I am awkward, I am proud — by which I mean my self-esteem — and then...

— But all these things you are citing me are qualities.

— Good ones?

— Why yes.

Then, apropos of I cannot remember what, he told me that if his mother were to die he would go mad.

— For a year, yes... and then...

— Oh! No, I would go mad, I know it.

— For a year, for everything fades as one keeps seeing new faces.

— Then you deny eternal sentiments and virtue?

— Absolutely.

— It is strange, Mousse, he said to me — [word crossed out] — how quickly one grows close when one is not stiff.

The evening before last I said Maria Constantinovna, yesterday Mademoiselle Mousse, and today...

— Simply Mousse — and I commanded it.

— It seems to me that we have always been together, so simple and winning are your ways.

— Are they not?

I amused myself by talking to the peasants we met on the road and in the forest — and would you believe it, I speak Little Russian³ quite passably. The Vorsklo, the river that flows through my father’s village, is so shallow in summer that one can cross it on foot, but in spring it is a proper river. I took a fancy to make my horse splash through the water, and lifting my riding habit quite clear, I rode in. It is a delicious sensation and a ravishing sight. The horse was in it up to his knees.

— It is true, said my cousin, you have a remarkable figure — I have never yet seen one like it.

And Paul, with all a brother’s naivety, exclaimed that I was very plump... comparatively, since I wore neither pleated petticoats nor a bustle.⁴

I was flushed from the sun and the ride, and I tried my voice, which is slowly returning. I sang the Lacrymosa⁵ from the Requiem Mass, as I used to in Rome.

My father was waiting for us under the colonnade.

— Well then, have I deceived you? Do I look badly in my riding habit? Ask Pacha how I ride. Do I look well?

— It’s true, yes, hm... very well, really.

And he examined me with satisfaction.

I am far from regretting having brought thirty dresses. My father must be won over through his vanity, and I must show myself to best advantage.

Michel brought me this morning a doctor from Poltava, whom I had requested yesterday for my larynx — and the gentleman was already in the drawing room when I entered, my skirt lifted over one arm, wearing knee-high boots with steel heels on which my coat of arms is engraved in gold, and the same arms embroidered in silk at the top of the boot.

After my fashion, I stood in the middle of the room and from there joined in the conversation, answering from all sides at once.

At that moment Miloradovitch arrived with a trunk and a manservant. When he had greeted me I replied to the usual compliments and went off to change my outfit, saying “I shall be back.”

I returned dressed in a gown of Oriental gauze with a two-metre train, and a silk bodice open at the front in the Louis XV style,⁶ fastened with a large white bow. The skirt is quite plain and the train squared off.

Gritz naturally spoke to me about my dress, admiring mine and proving by his conversation that he knew his subject. He adores antique costumes, bronzes, and porcelain, and collects them. They say he is stupid, and yet he talks of everything — music, the arts, the sciences. It is true that it is I who do the talking, and he merely says: “You are perfectly right, that is exactly so.”

I kept quiet about my studies, fearing to alarm him, but I was drawn out at table into citing a Latin verse and expanding on classical literature and its modern imitations with the doctor. And Gritz took it very well.

And they cried out that I was astonishing, that there was nothing in the world I could not speak about, no subject of conversation in which I was not at my ease.

Papa was making heroic efforts to contain the beams of his pride, and Gritz stared at me open-mouthed. Then a chicken with truffles provoked a culinary discourse in which I displayed a gastronomic expertise that opened Gritz’s eyes and mouth still wider — he is as much a connoisseur of good food as his father.

And then, passing on to sophistry, I set about explaining all the utility of good cooking, maintaining that it made men virtuous.

Gritz went from approval to approval, and I assure you he is rather a handsome fellow.

I went up to the first floor. The reception rooms are very large, especially the ballroom — they brought the piano up there only yesterday. I played. Poor Kapitan made desperate gestures to prevent Paul from chattering.

— Good Lord! the poor fellow kept exclaiming, listening makes me forget that I have been rusting and mouldering in the provinces these six years! I live again!

I do not play well — I make a muddle of it often enough — yet there are things I do not play badly. But no matter; I knew very well that poor Kapitan was sincere, and the pleasure I gave him gave me pleasure.

[Kapitan] on my left, Eristoff and Paul behind, and Gritz on my right — watching and listening with an enchanted expression, Gritz that is; for I could not see the others. He seemed pleased to find me furnished with every social accomplishment and every physical advantage.

When I had finished Le Ruisseau⁷ they all kissed my hand, and when Gritz made the gesture of taking it I extended it to him with particular pleasure — and after kissing it, he pressed it.

Papa, stretched out on a sofa, blinked his eyes. The princess worked in silence, but she is a good woman.

I breathe freely — the curse of that other place does not weigh on me here. I am in my father’s house, and he is one of the foremost men in the province; I need fear neither disrespect nor improper behaviour.

Tea was brought in and around the table I was obliged to hum through the entire Offenbach repertoire and to imitate the fashionable actresses, to excite admiration for my “French” manner and my memory.

At ten o’clock Papa gives the signal for departure, entrusting Paul with the young men, who all lodge in the red house with him. I went to find them in the portrait room to beg Miloradovitch to prevent them from drinking over there. He promised me he would, tenderly kissing my hand. When they had gone, my father escorted me to my room with a candlestick. He plays the true father. His eyes never leave me, and if I disappear for an instant he goes in search of me.

— You know, he said, while Amalia was helping me into my dressing gown — we were speaking Russian — I may be too strict, but the more one carries oneself with dignity, the more respect one commands from what one calls “young men.” You must be less of a butterfly and...

— I! But I am not in the least. I am freer here, but there are no strangers and Gritz is an old friend.

— Yes, yes, all that is very well, but I am a true father and I am fulfilling my duty.

— That is very kind of you; I appreciate such things.

— You know, in your world — over there — people do things that way. I remember when I was courting Maman, they would leave us alone; everyone would sit drinking until five in the morning, the late-night parties were such that... well, you understand, it is not good for a young lady, because there is always a crowd of spongers, or frivolous people who seek only amusement. Here I want everything to be proper, and believe me you will be the more appreciated for it. In any case it was ten o’clock when we parted. That was the right time.

— Yes, that is true, and it is right.

I was describing our furniture to him and when I had finished:

— But, he said, all that is very well, but have you thought — as all young ladies must — that you are to marry...

— Yes, of course.

— Well then, have you thought about your social situation, and have you grasped how false a position it is? All those people who used to come to your house — that is not what is needed, and...

In a word, he told me absolutely everything that I have told myself a hundred times. But he told it to me with care, without wounding any of my feelings; on the contrary, he smoothed the way and navigated the dangerous straits with great caution. He anticipated my wishes; I had none of the awkwardness of having to open the subject myself, and when he had finished I said quite naturally:

— But since it cannot be otherwise, there is nothing to be done.

— Quite true, there is nothing to be done. But think carefully about everything I have said.

— I have already thought about it a hundred times. But there is nothing to be done, so one can hardly torment oneself over it.

— Oh! Tormenting yourself, truly that is not worth the trouble, but...

— But why would you not come to Rome this winter?

— Now it is too late — you were in Rome, and inquiries were made. Do you think a man — unless he were quite alone, a man with serious intentions — would not ask himself or have his family ask... In short, do you think that if Paul were to marry I would not ask: who is the person, what is her family? And all the rest? Now you have spoiled Rome.

I did not grow angry; I could see that he would yield.

— Not at all. If you came with your children, who would dare look askance at you? Above all someone like you — a thoroughly proper man, with such an excellent position in society.

And it would be better for you and for me. People would have nothing for us but attentions and salutations.

— One must think about it, and then you see your mother abandoned me, and you know — “every man has his little affairs.”

— That is not something one discusses and I do not enquire into it.

— In any case I remain as free as the air despite all that. One must think about it.

— There is no thinking about it. You must come with me. You can see perfectly well what I am; I am worth something. Here is what we shall do: when I go abroad, you will come with me.

— I will think about it, yes, perhaps.

I was satisfied. A silence fell, then we spoke of other things, and when he went away I called on the princess, and within a quarter of an hour she was showing me the portrait of her Italian, and I was telling her he was her sweetheart, and she laughed like Nina. At that moment my father entered, returning from the red house, and the little hunchback sat down on top of the portrait — which made us laugh like madwomen after M. Bashkirtseff had gone.

I told my father to invite Alexandre here, and he wrote him a very amiable letter. What do you think of that?

I say that I am an angel. If only God continues to be good.

Do not laugh at my piety — one need only begin and one finds everything in my journal ridiculous. If I were to start criticising myself as a writer I should spend my whole life at it.