Saturday, 9 September 1876 (28 August)

The days go by; I am wasting precious time in the best years of my life. Family evenings, charming jokes, a gaiety I supply entirely by myself... then one has oneself carried up and down the great staircase in an armchair by Michel and the other one. One looks at one’s shoes in the mirror all the way down... Every day like that...
But what boredom! Not one witty word, not one educated sentence... I am a pedant, unfortunately, and I adore hearing talk of the Ancients and of the sciences... find me that here! Cards and nothing else. I would gladly shut myself up to read, but since my aim is to make myself loved, that would be a strange way of going about it.
As soon as I am settled for the winter I shall take up my studies again as before.
My father has some plan or other for tomorrow and wanted to review all my dresses; I had to try on thirty costumes and he examined every fold, every ribbon. Then the hats, the gloves, etc. He has no more taste than any other man of his kind, but I let him have his way.
Afterwards we played croquet and ball. And in the evening there was some business with the servants involving Paul; my father took the valet’s side, I reprimanded (that is the word) my father, who swallowed the reprimand. That is vulgar, but my diary is full of such things. Pray believe that I am not vulgar out of ignorance or out of vulgarity. I have adopted this careless style for its speed and for the ease with which it lets one say a great deal. In short, there was discontent in the air; I was angry, and in my voice one could hear those trembling notes that herald a storm.
I have placed myself so high, I said, that all petty miseries passed beneath my feet — and now here are some that touch me!
At that moment Stepan, the guilty valet, a good peasant, blunt and thick as a post, came and bowed to the ground before me and begged me to forgive him. I had nothing to forgive, but I understood that he was addressing me as a power, and, not wishing to irritate the Princess or anyone else any further, I smiled and asked why this man had come to me.
I have nothing to forgive, I said.
Go, Stepan, said my father.
Paul does not know how to behave, and through him I see that my mother was right to be unhappy, for anyone who does not see M. Constantin as he is, is a person much to be pitied.
These gentlemen were going off fishing for the whole night, my father too, and when I asked Paul whether he was going, he answered: later.
If it is I who am in your way, cried my father, I shall not go; I shall go off to Pavlovsk, and you will stay here very happy and content without me. Whereupon, very happy with the pretext, he climbed into a phaeton that was waiting for him and left.
Paul began to justify himself, to look for the cause of the misunderstanding, which is the surest way of creating another; I sat down on my highest step, like Malborough’s nightingale, and Michel, Pacha, Paul and Kapitan took their places on the lower tiers.
I spoke to Paul in such a way that my words would be carried back to the blasted father.
Paul tried to bring the conversation round to my father’s escapades, but I passed them over in silence. And indeed, why should I trouble myself about how my father spends his nights? I am not his jealous wife, and you will agree with me that he has done a great deal “for a” man of forty-five and of his character, in dislodging a mistress of three years’ standing for a daughter he has hardly ever seen. He keeps up appearances so well that, if I knew nothing, I should have suspected nothing. What the devil, let us not ask for more!
Paul is unfortunately placed here; I shall give him the support of Pacha, who has influence over my father and is a fellow who says what he thinks without caring about anyone.
And when, having gone up to my room after getting clear of the allusions to the forest by turning a deaf ear, I found myself with Paul, Stepan came, all tearful, to implore his pardon, kneeling and making low bows to the earth as if before the good Lord. After all, he was guilty only of a little trickery over the post, easily sanctioned by Monsieur, and besides, the humble humility of these peasants moved me; the man was forgiven and stayed in service.
Let us note here that I must be a very shameless person. This concerns the pleasure I take in having my hand kissed by my cousins, and by the Prince more than by the other, and I notice with virtuous horror that what I took for love for Pietro was perhaps nothing at all. “I have thought more of the others, as” I said after the walk at the Farnesina, and that is all. Pacha never kisses my hand; it is I who put it against his lips, and yet the boy almost repels me. What a strange caprice this is!
Ah! if only I were at least rewarded for the life I lead. Croquet, the rubber ball, cards, and to finish, a session on the staircase: Pacha’s nerves to fray and the hair of the prostrate Michel to torment, varying this exercise with tugs that his ears feel until they turn red.
And finally, the atrocious sounds of the violin. The first evening I played it, all the servants came running in a crowd, frightened, unable to understand where they could be coming from — these heart-rending cries and infamous howls, which bore a faint resemblance to the death-cries of a young pig in the kitchen.

Notes

In the French nursery song Malbrough s’en va-t-en guerre, the nightingale sings “sur la plus haute branche” (on the highest branch); Marie puns marche (step) on branche. The transcription reads “Maiborough”. ↩
Marie’s French: saluts terrains [sic] — apparently her calque of the Russian zemnye poklony, bows to the ground. ↩