Sunday, 3 September 1876 (22 August)

It seems I am enjoying myself. I have been carried in a carpet like Cleopatra, I have tamed a horse like Alexander, and I have painted like... someone who is not yet Raphael.
In the morning we went off in a large party to fish with a net. Stretched out on a carpet (I insist on saying so; no one must suspect me of rolling about in the grass and the dust) on the bank of the river, which is beautiful and deep at that spot, in the shade of the trees, eating watermelons brought by the Crocodiles, we got through two hours somehow or other.
And on the way back I played Cleopatra: they carried me in the carpet as far as the gate, and there Michel and Kapitan improvised a litter for me with their interlaced hands... and finally Pacha carried me all by himself. Having thus exhausted every kind of locomotion, I found myself at the foot of the great staircase, which I climbed on my own, with Michel invariably hanging on to the end of my train.
I made a charming appearance at lunch, by which I mean my dress. A Neapolitan blouse of sky-blue crêpe de Chine and old lace, a very long skirt of white taffeta, and a large piece of Oriental fabric striped white, blue and gold, laid across the front like a sheet and knotted behind. All the rest of the fabric falling naturally, like a bedsheet turned into an apron! You cannot imagine anything more prettily bizarre.
While some were puffing and panting over cards and others were howling about the heat, some animal or other brought up the dun horses. Their youth, their strength and their freshness were praised.
For several days now there had been talk of saddling one of them for me, but at once an ocean of fears would be voiced and I let the matter drop. At last, this very day, as much out of vexation at my own cowardice as to fill the Crocodiles’ bag of gossip, I ordered the beast to be saddled and, while waiting, went off to play croquet. Ah! but I am forgetting the main thing. Just imagine, we crossed the river in a douchegoulka, which means soul-destroyer or murderess. Imagine a hollowed-out oak trunk. You get in and move forward with a single oar, which you work alternately to the right and to the left. Three people fit in it. This piece of wood, fitted, for the convenience of travellers, with benches, but all of one piece. It has a wildly extraordinary shape, and the front rises above the water like a little whale’s head.
While I was playing, my father, lying on the grass, did nothing but turn his blinking gaze from me to the Crocodiles and back; he was pleased with the impression I made, and dares to say so.
My outlandish but adorable costume was set off still further by a white foulard, which I put on my head, low over the forehead, tied behind, with the ends brought back round to the front in the manner of Egyptian women, covering the nape and neck as well. The horse was brought round and a whole chorus of impossibilities went up; at last Kapitan, remembering his service in the Horse Guards, mounted it, but at the first steps he was so shaken about that the charitable spectators began to laugh as stupidly as possible.
The horse reared, stopped dead, bolted, and Kapitan declared amid the general merriment that I could ride it... in three weeks. I looked at the quivering beast, whose skin kept rippling into veins, as when the wind ruffles the surface of the water, and I said to myself:
“You are going to make a spectacle of your false bravery, my girl; you will behave like a true young lady, and the Crocodiles will have nothing to tell about you. That is stupid. Besides, have the courage of your self-respect, and do not disgrace yourself in your own eyes. You are afraid? So much the better, for those alone are brave who are afraid and still march straight toward what they fear. Bravery does not consist in doing something that others are afraid of and that does not frighten you. No, true bravery, the only bravery, is forcing oneself to do something one fears.”
I ran up the stairs four at a time, put on my black riding habit and a black velvet toque, and came down again only to go up once more... onto the horse...
I rode round the lawn at a walk, with Kapitan beside me on another horse; feeling the eyes of the company fixed on me, I came back to the front steps to reassure these people. My father got into the cabriolet with one of the Crocodiles, the others took their seats in the Prince’s troika, and, followed by these two carriages, I set off down the main avenue.
I do not know how, but quite simply I broke into a canter, then a full gallop, then a trot, and came back to the carriages to collect the compliments.
I was delighted, and my crimson face seemed to breathe fire like my horse’s nostrils. I was radiant! A horse that had never been ridden!
In the evening there were fireworks; the houses were illuminated, with my initials on every side. Village musicians, and the peasants dancing beneath the balcony.
The table had been laid on the other side of the house, and we passed through the crowd of curious savages.
“Why, it is a real church procession,” said a woman in the crowd, “and here is the body of Our Lord.”
And indeed we were lit by torches and Michel was carrying my train, and you know that on Good Friday they carry a painted cloth representing the body of Jesus.
Michel did acrobatic tricks while the village boys watched him in amazement, themselves clinging to the ropes and the swings and looking, in the darkness, like hanged men in faded, sinister engravings.
I was surrounded by these good people; good people, I am wrong to say it, for women and men alike played the courtier to perfection and reeled off compliments to me, like this one, for example:
The horse was beautiful this afternoon, but the horsewoman far surpassed it.
You know how I adore rubbing shoulders with the common folk; I talked to all of them and very nearly started dancing myself. Ah! the thing is that the dance of our peasants, who are oppressed and naive in appearance but in reality as cunning as Italians, their dance is a real Parisian cancan, and even a very seditious cancan, not to say something worse. They do not kick their legs up to their noses, which is frightfully ugly anyway, but the man and the woman turn, draw close to each other, chase each other, and all this with gestures, little cries and smiles that send a shiver right through you. The girls dance little, and very simply.
They were given something to drink and, having left these amiable savages, I meant to go to bed, but on the staircase I stopped, as I had the other evening, and my two cousins and Paul arranged themselves on the steps.
I wanted to make Chocolat sing; he dug in his heels; I made him a paper cap with donkey’s ears; he cried; I put him in the corner; he howled. Then I took him into another room and reasoned with him gently and kindly, after which he dried his tears, calmed down little by little and came back to the staircase to sing us a song from Nice, to my delight, for obstinacy is one of the dominant traits of my little plaything, and it is an ugly thing in a child.
After the singing came music: I drew the most incredible sounds from the violin, and those shrill, solemn, screeching, tangled sounds made me laugh out loud, and my laughter, with that furious accompaniment, had the others helpless with laughter, even Chocolat.

Notes

In French in the original: demoiselle — the proper, timid young lady of good family. ↩