Saturday, 7 October 1876 (25 September)

It is my brother’s birthday. He was given presents and there was company — that is, the same riff-raff as the other times, plus Gedanoff.
Michel has at last made up his mind to come back, with an edible offering, as always.
Decidedly I am a little person much to be pitied: yet another who wants to “forget me”. The little fellow is posing as Byron and tells of his passion to every passer-by.
Very tired though I was, I showed the most charming high spirits and my father was delighted. At last I deigned to make some effort for these parasites!
At the end of the evening I came down dressed in yesterday’s costume, that is: a velvet and gold bonnet, a Turkish robe open over a white silk petticoat, flowing sleeves open over white under-sleeves, a short sword at my side, its belt drawn down into a point by the weight of the weapon. And a Cross of St George on my breast.
This cross was given by the Grand Duke Michel or Nicolas to my uncle Voldemar on the Malakoff Kurgan, where he held on alone with four or five soldiers, never losing heart and loading the cannon himself. The Grand Duke unpinned the cross from his own buttonhole and put it in my uncle’s. On the return from the Crimean campaign Maman had put the precious cross away, and I found it again in “the excavations” at Tchernakowka.
My appearance drew attention away from the game. I joined in myself, then went up to my room. I had been lavish with my company only until dinner. Afterwards I went into the library with my two aunts and we talked of Italy
I wonder what I ought to think of you, said Hélène; you are either a child or a great rogue, and there are moments when I think you mad.
I shall not become so; my natural state is to mix the serious and the mad together, the grand and the grotesque, the melancholy and the ridiculous.
I find that I am wasting away to nothing in the country; I am growing so dull-witted that I no longer know what I want. I feel that my journal is stupid: for want of things to tell, I ought to have reasoned — that would be amusing. I am reduced to amusing myself with the astonishment of the Crocodiles: yesterday, for instance, I appeared at dinner in costume, as this evening, before two officials from Poltava; since nobody said anything to me, they contented themselves with staring. It was only at the second course that my father burst out laughing and put them at their ease by explaining that I was indulging in fancies.
Dear and blasted readers, do not grow weary; I shall surely tell you some good story later on. Live my life, be bored, wait with me; I promise you to do everything I can to amuse myself. Well! after all, if you would rather read some grubby novel, read it! I am convinced in advance that you are all pedants or ignoramuses, bores or the bored — in a word, a herd of rabble who, taken in the mass, may flatter my vanity, but who, taken one by one, are good for nothing.
By disdaining me you give me the most pitiful idea of your intelligence.
At last, with God’s help, I have attained everything I wanted here. I am the mistress of the house; I am respected, I am obeyed; I am what I become all the same after a certain time. My father is at my service as far as his engagements allow. You may well imagine that I, the daughter, have no ridiculous pretension to supplant the mistress. I am waiting for Mme Tutcheff; she is very necessary to me. I am waiting for Pacha. He has telegraphed to the Princess, asking her what he has done to deserve such displeasure.
I want to make him my friend for ever; he deserves to be one. Such a heart of gold — I would have given a great deal for my brother to be like him... besides, things are well as they are, [words blacked out] and this man, being only a cousin, adds a certain piquancy to our relations, which might have no charm at all if they were those of brother and sister.
I cannot understand any interest, any lively love, for male relations. Female relations may be loved a great deal and tenderly; male relations can be loved only very coolly — protected, showered with favours if possible. All this in my opinion.
I detest endearments between brother and sister; I almost never kiss mine, and when I do kiss him it is for form’s sake and to show him my goodwill.
I know only one kind of kiss that gives pleasure.
And that is natural at my age.
Every time I come across the name of Rome in my reading, I close my eyes and kiss those four printed letters with superstitious adoration.
The state of my soul prevented me from seeing Rome and from speaking of it. And why speak of it? Others have described everything; I shall confine myself to saying what I feel, while envying the people who mention every ruin, every rock, attaching a name or a historical event to it.
I feel nothing less than terror when I think that I might not go back there.
And my goal, now and for ever, is that divine city. Paris will give me fame, which I shall carry to Rome, and I shall make Rome my city, my nest, my happiness. I must live in Italy, the land of love, of eccentricity, the kingdom of women.
I adore Rome; I shall go back there, but only in February.

Notes

The Malakhov Kurgan, the fortified hill that was the key to the defence of Sevastopol during the siege of 1854–55 in the Crimean War; its capture by the French on 8 September 1855 decided the siege (Wikipedia, “Malakoff” / “Siege of Sevastopol (1854–1855)”). The Cross (Order) of St George was the Russian Empire’s highest award for bravery in battle. ↩