Sunday, 10 September 1876 (29 August)

My Majesty, my father, my brother and my two cousins set out this day for Poltava.
I have only myself to congratulate: they give way to me, they flatter me, and above all they love me. My father, who at first wanted to dethrone me, has almost entirely understood why I was accorded sovereign honours and, apart from a few childish rough edges in his character, accords them to me.
This dry man, a stranger to all family feeling, has outbursts of paternal tenderness with me that astonish everyone around him. Paul has conceived a double respect for me because of it, and the others too hold me in particular esteem, and since, while having my father, I am kind to everyone, everyone loves me.
You have changed so much since I first saw you, he said to me today.
How so?
Well... hm, that is to say, if you rid yourself of a few insignificant little fits of brusqueness (I have some in my own character too, for that matter), you will be perfection and a real treasure.
That is to say... well, only those who know the man can appreciate the weight of these words.
Every morning he comes to wake me and we chat, he in an armchair, I in my bed.
And again this evening he put his arms around me and, kissing me tenderly (an unheard-of thing, according to Paul), he said:
Look, Michel, look, all of you, what a daughter I have. There is a daughter who deserves to be loved. Yes... hm, he added, kissing me again.
Is it not so, papa? I am a treasure. Michel, you shall have a daughter like this yourself!
Michel, I went on, I promise to marry you to my daughter; just think of the honour — she may be a Princess of the blood.
Indeed, it is an idea: Michel will be my son-in-law; he is not yet eighteen; in eighteen years he will be thirty-six.
I am writing at Poltava. It has been raining since this morning, and when we had to climb that satanic hill halfway along the road, the horses almost refused to obey; my father took his place on the box, the coachman got down and accompanied us, running in the mud and whipping the horses, which had to be put to a gallop to carry the carriage up and not give them time to reflect on the difficulty. The jingling of the bells, the cracking of the whip, the shouts of the footman, of the coachman and of papa, the mute astonishment of Chocolat — it was an exciting spectacle; it reminded me of a hotly contested race drawing to its finish.
We arrived in town at eight o’clock and went straight to the Prince’s; he had left at five this morning to put his house in order. A little house, very plain outside; nothing was finished yet; in a few hours (details I have from Paul, who has them from Basil, the Prince’s cook) the carpets were laid, the lamps, the mirrors and the beds put in place, and the wines bought and stored. In all Russian houses there is a hall after the anteroom; this hall is all white; then a charming chestnut-brown drawing room and a bedroom for me full of every necessary and graceful detail, delicate attentions at every step... imagine, I found white and rouge on the dressing table!
But all this took up the time until seven o’clock; at seven they realised there was nothing to eat! And when we arrived the Prince pretended he had given up expecting us, lied very clumsily, and, mercilessly attacked by our mockery, remained quite abashed throughout the dinner, which was brought from the Club at about ten in the evening. Silver-gilt goblets led me into temptation; I drank two, which made me prettier and loosened my tongue remarkably — just enough to make me lively; besides, I have been lively since this morning. That monster Kapitan took it into his head to praise Gambetta and predict the presidency for him. Horror! So I swore to be a second Charlotte Corday. I swore it and I shall do it, because by assassinating this nauseating cyclops I win eternal glory for myself, and I am sure of impunity.
While the horses were being harnessed I described how it would all happen to the Princess and to Pacha, who looked at me gravely, laughed, grew grave again and shrugged their shoulders. I struck him with the bow and pulled his hair.
My father’s plan is done for. The people he wanted to show me are in the country; he went off to sleep and I sat on his bed, with Michel at my feet so as to have his hair within reach. I have no dog here.
As I have small, white, spotless feet, I let Paul take off my shoes and I displayed them, extolling their merits. And, Michel having been sent away, we talked of Gritz’s stupidity.
How stupid he is! I exclaimed. No, listen, really — with my ambitious ideas, having studied, read, seen, I should go and marry M. Miloradovitch!
Hm, said my father, yes, no doubt he is stupid.
And he looked at me, not knowing whether he ought to be disdainful, carried along by my self-assurance, or else speak his thought, which was certainly this: Miloradovitch is a desirable match, even for you. If he thought otherwise he would not have acted as he has acted from the beginning; he would have regarded Gritz like the others and would not have troubled himself about how I was with him and he with me. In short, he would not have been so cutting with this young man in order to inspire great respect in him and drive out of his stupid head any notion of his own worth. But from the very first day I noticed that M. Constantin had an idea about Gritz, and his manner proved it clearly to me. All those disdains, all those subtleties, those severities and that exaggerated self-regard. It was as clear as day to me. But he says to me: Gritz is a fool and I shall not take one step to bring you together. And I answer him: I should think so; Gritz is a fool and I would not have him if he came and offered himself on his knees
And now let us go to bed in the bed made by the Prince himself.
He made your bed, Amalia cried. A prince. Heavens! You really are a queen!
At this moment I hear shrill cries... it is Amalia shrieking because Paul has opened the window onto the gallery and is watching her bathe. What a boy! Pacha and the Prince have long been asleep.
I scarcely have room for my notebook; the table is cluttered with flasks, phials, powder boxes, brushes, sachets, etc. etc... Paul de Cassagnac...
Intoxicated by my filial success, I cry out inwardly: Those who do not love me are brutes, and those who love me badly are villains!

Notes

Charlotte Corday (1768–1793) stabbed the revolutionary Jean-Paul Marat in his bath in July 1793 and was guillotined four days later. “Cyclops” mocks the republican leader Léon Gambetta, who had lost an eye as a boy. Gambetta never became President of the Republic; he was President of the Chamber of Deputies (1879–1881) and briefly Prime Minister (1881–1882). ↩
In Italian in the original: Le ha fatto il letto, … Un principe. Dio ! Lei è proprio une regina ! ↩