Saturday, 26 August 1876 (14 August)

Country life is deadly dull.
What shame! What horror! And I did not have him thrown out of the house after that! I forgave him, I spoke to him, I embraced him! I! I forgave that insult! The most abominable, the filthiest! At least nobody knows... perhaps he has told! Fie! Filth! Degradation! Shame, shame, shame!
With astonishing speed I sketched two portraits, my father and Paul. It took thirty-five minutes.
“How many women in this world could not say as much.”
My father, who had taken my talent for idle boasting, acknowledged it and was pleased. And I was in raptures, for to paint is to walk towards one of my goals. Every hour spent outside that, or outside coquetry (for coquetry leads to love, and love to marriage perhaps), falls on my head like a weight. Read? No! Act! Yes.
When I think of the ovation given to Cassagnac on 15 August! I read of it here in a Russian newspaper. A Bonapartist demonstration of the most pronounced kind. Cassagnac was all but smothered in the general enthusiasm. Reading it sent a shiver through my whole body and so went to my head that I am still choking with it.
They questioned me about Cassagnac; I told what I know of him, and in talking about him I worked myself up into a fanatic’s enthusiasm for him. His astonishing article in Le Pays crowned it all and... well, there I am!
I was still in bed when my father came into my room, and after a few ordinary remarks, Paul having left the room, there was a silence during which I felt that my father had something to say; and as I wanted to speak of the same thing, I kept silent on purpose, as much so as not to be the one to begin as for the pleasure of seeing someone other than myself hesitate and be embarrassed.
Hm... well then... what have you to tell me? he asked at last.
I, Papa? Nothing.
Hm... very well... hm, so what was it you said?
What?
Hm... you said... hm... that I should come with you to Rome, hm... so how would that be?
Why, quite simply.
But...
He hesitated, fidgeting with my brushes and combs.
But if I come with you... hm... and Maman... she will not come? And then... you see, if she does not come... hm, what is to be done?
Aha! Blasted father. Now we come to it. So it is you who hesitate... adorable! Cassagnac and the Vatican are all very well.
Maman? Maman will come.
Oh?
Besides, Maman will do anything I wish. She no longer exists; there is only me.
Then, visibly relieved, he asked me a number of questions about how Maman spends her time, about my way of travelling, and a heap of other things besides.
How is it that Maman used to warn me against Papa’s malicious wit and his habit of confounding people and humiliating them? It is because it is the truth. But why am I neither humiliated nor confounded, when Maman always was?
Because my father has more wit than Maman, and not as much as I have. Besides, he respects me enormously, for I always beat him in argument, and my conversation is full of interest for a man who has grown rusty in Russia but has enough knowledge to appreciate it in someone else.
I reminded him of my wish to see the people of Poltava, and I saw clearly from his answers that he was ashamed to show me those among whom he shines. Only when I told him that I wanted them, even if they were stuffed with mud and dressed in straw sacks, did he say that it should be as I wished, and he sat down with the princess to draw up a list of the ladies we must call on.
— And Mme Miloradovitch, I asked, do you know her?
Yes, but I do not call on her; she lives in seclusion with that hussy Belli and that Yonina.
Yes, but I must go and see her with you. She knew me as a little girl, she is a friend of Maman’s, and since, when she knew me, I was a very rough little girl and rather unprepossessing in looks, I wish to efface that ugly impression.
Very well, we shall go; only, in your place, I would not.
And why not?
Because... hm... she might think...
Think what?
Why, all sorts of things...
But tell me; I like people to explain themselves plainly, and hints make me impatient.
She will think you have designs...
What designs?
Well... hm, her son; she will think you would like him as a suitor.
Gritz Miloradovitch? Oh! no, Papa, she will not think so; and besides, Miloradovitch is a charming young man whom I knew as a child and am very fond of, but marry him? No, Papa, Miloradovitch is not the husband I want. Set your mind at rest.
I was lying. Miloradovitch, if what they say of his fortune is true, is a desirable match. Here they credit him with lands in six provinces, something like a hundred and fifty thousand acres. It is fabulous.
The Cardinal is dying.
Wretched man! There is one I should like to crush — I mean the nephew. If only I were queen, I would have him locked up in solitary confinement and keep him there six years. But I am not queen; all that is left me is to beg Paul de Cassagnac to kill this abominable insect who dares to go on living after insulting me.
At dinner we talked of bravery, and I said something remarkably true: that the one who is afraid and goes towards danger is braver than the one who is not afraid. And the more afraid one is, the more merit one has.