Tuesday, 5 September 1876 (24 August)

I have just come back from Poltava, and I have just spent twenty minutes before Antonelli’s portrait. His eyes and his lips have worked me up into a fever, and I cry out again, as before, as always: Shame on me for having let myself be tarnished, and shame on him, for he is a coward!
A conversation with Alexandre had set my nerves on edge, and I came to fetch my father to go out, but he began asking me where I wanted to go, saying that he had his calling clothes with him. We simply went to Trepké’s shop to buy presents for the Princess’s name day.
crossed out[Two lines crossed out]
As for visits... the people I might see are not in town, and as for calling on the wives of tchinovniks, I refuse!
“I would have taken you to Madame Miloradovitch’s,” said my father, “but there has been friction, there has been foolishness.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“Before you arrived, Paul did nothing but... well, as if it were... and this and that.”
“Instead of treating him as you treat the others... well... hum, and now he no longer shows his face!”
And he began pacing furiously about the room.
“And if we went now,” he went on, “people would say that since he does not come, we are going to fetch him, to bow and scrape!!”
Michel arrived with five boxes of sweets from Petersburg.
As we were not going out, I allowed myself the innocent pleasure of slipping bits of ice down Michel’s and Pacha’s collars, which made them jump. Michel made me a present of a ball, and we all played until we broke a candelabrum.
We set off at night, and as Pacha was sitting opposite me, I began by calling him a scoundrel, an animal, a cretin, a brute, and ended by launching into a dissertation on Everything; and as the boy put forward ferocious theories and vaguely youthful and very stupid ideas, I told him his brain was still green and that for the present he should simply engrave my words firmly in his memory, so as to understand them in ten years’ time.
A moon as in Italy, air as pure as in paradise, and no one!!!
“Do you know what I am asking myself?” the happy mortal who has me for a daughter suddenly asked.
“What?”
“Whether I ought to love you enormously, as I feel the urge to, or not?”
“Love me, of course; besides, love cannot be commanded.”
“Oh yes it can, at a certain age and in certain circumstances.”
“My dear father, you are talking nonsense! To begin loving or to stop loving! One cannot order oneself to do that. One imagines chimeras. When one orders oneself to stop loving, one believes one is obeying oneself, but no! For one goes on loving, thinking, suffering, and love goes away only when it pleases, just as it would go if one imagined nothing at all, and then one imagines one has driven it out!”
From whichever side one approaches Gavronzi, one has to come down hills of terrifying steepness. When one thinks of the mountains of Switzerland and Italy compared with these, one wonders how it is that there one climbs them with the greatest ease [One line crossed out] whereas here one risks breaking one’s neck every time.
This sentence is muddled, but let it pass, and let us arrive... where? Before the portrait of the cardinalino.... fie!

Notes

Tchinovnick: Marie’s spelling of the Russian chinovnik (чиновник), a government official holding a rank in the civil service; the word often carried a note of contempt for the petty bureaucrat, as it does here. ↩
Cardinalino — Italian: “little cardinal”; Marie’s mocking name for Pietro Antonelli, nephew of Cardinal Antonelli. ↩