Wednesday, 27 September 1876 (15 September)

If you only knew where I spent the night! On the sofa in my father’s room.
Maman has sent me the portrait of Cassagnac — as lifelike and as beautiful as life itself. This portrait has caused me considerable agitation and joy.
I went to fetch some ink; my father called me, and I sat down on his bed, then lay beside him like a child. It is the best way to talk intimately. We did not deprive ourselves of it. I talk while laughing, which allows me to say everything — even the most disagreeable and impertinent things. He had been wounded by my last remark the day before yesterday, and last evening I repeated the same thing, adding that my mother could not have lived with him because scarcely married he had taken a country girl as his mistress — one he had had even before the marriage. He fell to swearing that the girl was dismissed as soon as he had met my mother.
He complains; he says he has led a wild life, that he has amused himself, but that something is missing, that he is not happy.
— Who are you in love with then? I asked, laughing at his sigh.
— Do you want to know?
And at this he blushed so deeply that he put his arms around his head to shade his face.
— I do. Tell me.
— With Maman!
And as his voice trembled I was so moved that I burst out laughing to conceal the feeling.
— I knew you would not understand me! he cried.
— Forgive me, but this romantically matrimonial passion suits you so little—
— Because you do not know me! But I swear to you, I swear it is true — before this image of my grandmother, before this cross, my father’s blessing! Not yet knowing the man through and through, I believed him.
And he crossed himself before the icon and the cross hanging above the bed.
— Perhaps it is, he resumed, because I always picture her as young — as she was then — because I live on the imagination of the past.
When we were separated I was like a madman; I walked as a pilgrim to pray before the Virgin of Akhtyrka — but they say this Virgin brings misfortune, and it is true, for everything became still more entangled afterwards. And then — must I say it? you will laugh... when you were living in Harkoff, I used to go there alone, in secret; I would take a cab and watch your lodgings, I would stay there a whole day looking at the windows to see her pass, and then I would go home without being seen.
If it were true, it would be very touching; but as I did not witness all that, and it did not happen at a time when I understood everything, I cannot judge.
— And tell me... since we are talking of Maman... does... hm... does she feel an aversion for me?
— An aversion? Why ever should she? No, not at all.
— Hm... it is just that sometimes one has these insurmountable antipathies...
— Of course not, of course not.
Well, we talked about it at length; I spoke of her as the saint she is, and always has been since the time I can remember understanding things. What happened years ago, when I was a child... of that I know nothing, and I cannot judge.
It was late; if I had gone to sleep in my own room I would have had supper, written, read — so I decided not to go up. My father went to fetch me linen from the linen room so as not to wake the servants; he made up the bed for me, gave me his dressing gown and a shawl to cover myself, and drew aside the curtain that separates the chaise longue from the bed, and we talked for a long while yet; and, laughing all the time, I begged him to marry [me] to Prince Kotchoubey, who is a widower, who has two sons, is forty-five, and owns a hundred thousand arpents of land — that is, seven hundred thousand roubles a year.
They are friends; they get tipsy together.
— Ah yes, that would be good.
— I should think so, Papa!
written across the page
When I think that I treated that man as a father, I am ashamed.
This morning at eight o’clock we were about to leave for Poltava when Mme Hélène Gorpintchenko, Pacha’s mother, arrived.
An amiable hunchback, a little affected, I think. Was at one time the mistress of the celebrated black actor Alridge.
We had tea together and left afterwards. My father has been summoned there to preside over I no longer remember what... contraption.
It is cold, it rains from time to time; I went out in white, my complexion further improved by the damp, and Michel’s horses go like so many Pegasi — two others besides his troika, which is chestnut; these are black: the shaft horse is a remarkable trotter, the side horse a wretched Tartar nag that looks like skin and bone but flies instead of running.
Michel brought us the famous M. Gedanoff; we lunched as a party of five — my father, this gentleman, Paul, Michel and I.
Then we went to the photographer’s; I posed as a peasant girl, standing, sitting, and lying down asleep.
Poltava seems livelier; I was seen by Yonina, who was coming out of the Miloradovitch house. Gritz came back today, according to Michel.
— Have you seen my daughter? my father asked M. Gedanoff as he came in.
— Yes, sir, I have had the...
— They do not make them any better, do they? There are none better, and there never have been.
— Forgive me, sir, there have been — in the days when Olympus existed.
— Oh! M. Gedanoff, you are a maker of compliments, I see.
— Not at all, Mademoiselle; on the contrary, I am lowering the value your father sets on you, since I say “that there have been.”
The gentleman is fairly ugly, fairly dark, fairly presentable, fairly a man of the world, fairly an adventurer, fairly a gambler, and fairly an honest man. In Poltava he is considered the best-educated gentleman and the most well-bred, which is true... for Poltava.
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This stay at the Hôtel Européen in Poltava has raised my spirits ever so slightly. I felt that people were proud of me, that they looked at me and took notice of me. In a provincial town there is less to take notice of. My father stole my journal; there was a chase, shouting in the corridor, and we laughed about it.
This time I stayed in the carriage during the diabolical descent; the first cold forced me to put on my fur from last winter. Shut away as it had been, it had kept the smell it had in Rome, and that smell, that fur...
Have you noticed that to be carried off to some place or other, all it takes is a scent, a tune, a colour?
Spend the winter in Paris?!! Oh no.
In the evening there was merriment over the letters and telegrams with which I bombard Pacha. A week ago I wrote him something that must have wounded him deeply, and three days ago I told him it was only a joke, and to console him I am sending him three abominable neckties.
He told his mother that he nearly fainted when I begged him to stay and he could not.
Sensitive young man!
But that gives me an idea for tomorrow... you will see.

Notes

The wonder-working icon of the Virgin of Akhtyrka (Akhtyrskoye), a celebrated pilgrimage destination in Ukraine, venerated for miraculous healings. ↩
Ira Aldridge (1807–1867), the African-American tragedian celebrated in Europe as Othello. He toured the Russian Empire repeatedly from 1858 and died on tour in Łódź in 1867 (Wikipedia, “Ira Aldridge”). Marie spells his name «Alridge». ↩
In French in the original: comme il faut. ↩