Friday, 6 October 1876 (24 September)

I left at one in the morning for Iskrowka — a half-station — counting on no carriage, not even hoping for a cart.

— But how shall we manage the seven or eight versts¹ to Tchernakowka? Paul cried.

— In a peasant cart, and if we find none — on foot!

Upon which he cried out that nothing in the world would induce him to walk through the forest to be devoured by wolves.

Fortune favours the bold² — at the station I found Zankovsky, M. and Mme Volkovitsky, and Gedanoff; the first offered me not only his carriage but:

— If I had no horses, he said, I should harness myself.

The other three were going to Kharkov, as they had told me that morning.

Bear in mind that I rose yesterday — Wednesday — at nine in the morning.

At Iskrowka we found one of Alexandre’s troikas waiting for his solicitor — and Stepan returning without the letters I had asked for!!

By the pale light falling from the moon I vaguely recognised the road, the forest, and finally the gate, the magnificent courtyard masterfully planted with shrubs and flowers so as not to obstruct the view, and the house, a single storey and very long, with large windows and flanked by two towers. There was a frost; the grass looked powdered. All the watchmen (there are four on night duty) came running; I rang and called at the top of my lungs; through the oak vestibule, the waiting room, the dining room, the ballroom, I turned right leaving the other drawing rooms to the left, and swept like a whirlwind into the bedroom — the old tea room — which Alexandre and his family occupy, not yet venturing to violate our own rooms, out of praiseworthy delicacy and a kind of old-fashioned respect.

They were not expecting me — but the sight of those two children, beautiful as angels sleeping close to their father, moved me; I kissed them while pulling the letters and documents from my pocket and resuming my reproaches aloud. Nadine woke and I went to embrace her behind her screen.

Whatever entreaties were made I refused to sleep; I took the letters I needed, I talked — but talking is useless with this man — I drank tea, and it was not yet day. When I think that formerly, to go from Poltava to the country, it used to take a whole day, preparations, bother, horses!

At four o’clock the steam threshing machine began to work and the house awoke entirely.

I saw the rooms; I rummaged in the wardrobes, in the chests of drawers, where everything is intact and kept with remarkable care; I saw the old servants, the old cook; Mayer the German gardener, who claims to be an illegitimate son of the present Wilhelm of Prussia and who has been in our service for twenty-six years.

The Bashkirtseffs may do what they will — one will always feel that the man who built and embellished their house was a soldier, whereas here one feels a nobleman. It might perhaps have been better to be a soldier and cudgel one’s sons as the general cudgelled my father — the Babanine name would then be unsullied.

I went into Grand-maman’s room, but as I did not enter alone I affected profound indifference and began to rummage in a trunk of Maman’s that had been placed there.

I hasten to write — O vanity! I hasten to recount my exploits.

I want to recount all the reckless things one does at my age. Ah! No matter — this life makes my head spin.

From Wednesday at eight in the morning until Thursday at midnight I did not sleep. I stayed awake for forty hours, as fresh and vigorous as possible.

The “terrible thief” is at bottom an honest man — he only robs his father, and he takes very little from us, merely withholding the revenues for a month sometimes; but it is fair that he should have some reward for all he does. So it is only his character that I detest — if one is not there to ask for a thing one will not get it. I took everything I wanted: papers, documents, notes on everything. I dispatched twenty thousand francs to Nice.

At seven in the evening I departed from our old nest, where every person, every object has a history for me. Now, as I write, I very much want to cry.

I remember myself as a very small child in that house, and now there is already a new generation — a girl and a boy, like myself and Paul... and then...

They escorted us as far as Iskrowka.

Ah! I was forgetting — poor Vassilissa, Grand-papa’s sister, a former millionairess, who having squandered everything without ever having allowed herself a single diversion or a lover, has come to live here. They call her mad because she is excessively proper.

The sight distressed me. She is relegated to the pavilion — alone, alone, always alone. I spoke to her from the depths of my soul; she was moved, I think — they say she is made of stone. I stayed a long time; I felt that conversing with a kind and friendly soul did her great good.

— She no longer has her dog, I said to Nadine on leaving — she is always alone!

— She has a cat, the exemplary woman replied.

The poor old woman followed us a few moments later. I dressed her hair with a white tulle — she was majestic and beautiful as Mme de Chevreuse in the Gallery of Versailles.³ (Mme de Chevreuse is portrayed in that picture with a black veil.)

At Iskrowka, the Volkovitskys and Gedanoff, returning from Kharkov, invited me into their carriage; I scarcely had time to board — Gedanoff threw himself to his knees and served me as a step.

Alexandre came with me. More things forgotten! I weighed myself at the station — I weigh 125 pounds!

And then — that is, before that — on the road from the house to Iskrowka stands the cemetery, in the midst of which rises a marble rock surmounted by a cross. Grand-maman’s tomb.

Alexandre has entrusted me with a peasant matter that depends on my father and to which he attaches enormous importance, the affair being a machine of vanity involving Jankovsky.

If he has a hold on me, I have a hold on him too. Besides, he will soon have no hold on me at all, and you will see how; I write every day, and the telegraph knows me by dispatches far longer than the one to that blasted cardinalino⁴, son of a priest, Roman scoundrel, miserable coward and villain!

I had supper at Poltava and arrived at Gavronzi fit only to say my prayers, read a chapter of the Gospel and fall asleep! Whoever has never been tired does not know the delights of sleep.

The next day, Thursday, today, I went downstairs to recount my exploits, got up in a Turkish dressing gown with slit sleeves and a second pair of narrow sleeves in white silk, an otchipok on my head (it is a kind of bonnet worn by the ladies of the Middle Ages!). And a sword at my side. All of it comes from over there, and it makes the most outlandish get-up.

I have been writing all day. Never have I been so active as now.

My father made me furious by arguing on purpose about the construction of the compensator (physics); I spent three hours proving to him what he knew perfectly well, and he ended by kissing me and all but smothering me.

Remembering Colbert and Mazarin, I wrote this to Alexandre:

That way there can be no pretext.

The man has been instructed to stay until Alexandre gives him the plan, to present himself three times a day to ask for it, and to follow my uncle everywhere if need be.

It is day again. I spent the evening and the night playing the upholsterer. I decorated my brother’s room with little ribbons and gold threads; I sewed and nailed up a curtain made of plahta, the length of cloth our peasant women wrap themselves in — the sapaska is black, the plahta is checked and brightly coloured.

Chocolat held the nails. Paul re-covered the furniture with the help of two servants — these good Little Russians! — chatting, nailing, cutting.

The housekeeper, or governess, helped everyone. Well, let us boast some more! The room is enchanting, and done in a single night. Now I shall no longer cry out in disbelief when I read in novels that whole apartments are decorated in a few hours.

It is day; goodbye, blasted readers; do not judge me too harshly, take an interest in me, be kind, love me — my journal is my sovereign master.

I am cold — enough!