Thursday, 14 September 1876 (2 September)

Domenica had coffee with me; then I went to join the others, and we talked about Pacha’s departure while he came and went, buying and exchanging guns, for he is a mighty hunter before the Lord, like Nimrod. My father begged him to stay, but that stubborn nature, having once said no, would not budge from it for anything in the world.

I took him aside and, walking up and down the corridor, begged him to stay.

At least let me go away for two days! he said, and then:

Do not ask me to stay, I implore you, for I could not obey you...

And why not?

Why, because... you know... and then I do not want Michel, who otherwise... and that is not it yet, but...

Aha! Green man! So that is why! Oh, how strange you are. Ah, so that is what you dread — it is Michel you are afraid of!

Well, since you know why, do not torment me.

On the contrary, green man!

Indeed, one would have had to be mad to tease a man like that.

I had begged him in vain, and I would not have been sorry to keep him, above all because I knew it was impossible. I dragged him along on my arm, roaming the station without a thought for the crowd, and stopping Jews to tell them in French:

You see that handsome boy there? Well, he is the one who is afraid of Michel.

And I passed on, leaving the Jew to his astonishment. I left him for a moment to talk with Lola, her mother and my uncle Nicolas, who had come to see me off.

There was an enormous crowd for the departure of fifty-seven volunteers for Serbia.¹ And as I cared nothing for all those people whom I do not know and whom I take to be riff-raff (I do not mean the volunteers), I went on roaming the station, now with Paul, now with Lola, now with Michel, with Pacha, with each in turn. A person dressed in white and so restless does not go long unnoticed.

— Really, Pacha is not being nice — said Lola, having learned what it was all about.

So, trying hard not to laugh, I went up to the green man and made him a little speech, very curt and very offended; and as he had tears in his eyes, and as I wanted to laugh, I withdrew so as not to spoil the effect by bursting out.

One could hardly move, and it was with great difficulty that we made our way to our compartment.

After the country this crowd amused me, and I went to the window. People were pushing, shouting; I was looking on, and I stopped short when suddenly there rose a concert of those boys’ voices, more beautiful and purer than women’s, which were singing a church hymn and seemed a choir of angels.

It was the archbishop’s choristers, who were singing were saying a prayer for the volunteers.

Every head was bared, and those ringing voices and that divine harmony took my breath away; and when they had finished, and I saw all those people waving their hats, their handkerchiefs, their hands, their eyes shining with tears of enthusiasm and their breasts swelling with emotion, I could do nothing but shout hurrah like them, and weep and laugh.

The shouting lasted several minutes and stopped only when the same choir struck up the Russian anthem, God Save the Tsar.

But the prayer for the Emperor seemed insipid after the prayer for those who were going to die defending their brothers.

And the Emperor lets the Turks do as they please! God!

The train left amid frenzied hurrahs; then I turned round and saw Michel laughing and my father shouting fool² instead of hurrah.

Papa! Michel! Is it possible! Michel! Shout, then — what are you made of, good Lord!

You are not going to say goodbye to me? asked Pacha, stiff and red.

No!

He stepped back, bit his lips... and I saw tears in his eyes.

The train was already moving.

Goodbye, Pacha — I said, holding out my hand, which he seized and kissed without a word.

I drove from the station to the hotel with Michel in his troika. The booby, the monster, plays the jealous lover! He bombards me with declarations, which I accept for want of anything better. This worn-out, sensual little creature believes himself in love because I am pretty and because he is depraved. I love him when he looks at me for a long time, then throws his hat on the ground or crumples his handkerchief and goes off in a fury; I watch him and laugh.

Here I am in Poltava again, that detestable town.

Harkoff (that is how it should be written, and in pronouncing it one must aspirate the h) I know better; I spent a year there before leaving for Vienna. I remember every street, every shop, and this afternoon at the station I recognised a doctor who had attended Grandmamma, and I went up to speak to him. He was not surprised; Nicolas had already pointed me out [to him].

I long to go back there! “Do you know the land where the orange-tree flowers?”³ Not Nice, but Italy.

But today I do nothing but repeat: “You see that handsome boy there — he is the lover of A—, he is the lover of Amanda.”⁴

Everyone knows that song, and by dint of repeating it and reworking it to fit every imaginable circumstance, I cheer myself up by making the others laugh.