Monday, 28 August 1876 (16 August)

My father was in Poltava until six o’clock; he was on duty. As for me, I attempted philosophy with the Princess, but it degenerated into a conversation about love, men and kings. The newspapers say the cardinal is mad. Well, my little somnambule did not lie so very much after all.
I got badly sunburnt playing croquet with Paul for three hours. I lost a hundred roubles to him. But it cheered me up, and I talked with the greatest gusto about the cardinal’s death, interrupting myself to talk to my father’s partridges, which are shut up in an old aquarium with holes in the top.
Michel brought Alexandre, and Gritz arrived later.
There are days when one feels ill at ease. Today is one of them! Although I showed Alexandre all my ascendancy over Bashkirtseff and how thoroughly at home I am here, I am dissatisfied.
Miloradovitch brought the Princess a bouquet, and a moment later, at table, he held forth with Alexandre on sheep-farming.
— I prefer it when you talk of bouquets rather than of sheep, Gritz, said my father.
— Ah, Papa, I said, it is the sheep that provide the bouquets.
I meant nothing by it, but everyone stirred, and I blushed to the tips of my ears.
And then in the evening I very much wanted Alexandre to see that Gritz is courting me. And I did not manage it! The idiot would not leave Michel’s side.
Besides, he is stupid, and everyone here says so. I tried to defend him, but this evening, whether from bad temper or from conviction, I am of everyone else’s opinion.
When they had left for the red house I sat down at the piano and poured out onto the keys all the boredom and irritation I had in me. And now I am going to fall asleep dreaming of Cassagnac or of the Grand Duke Nicholas; perhaps that will amuse me.
The moon is insipid here; I looked at it while the cannon were being fired. My father has left for Kharkoff for two days. The cannon are one of his vanities — he has nine of them — and this evening they were fired while I was gazing at the moon... hm, that is silly.