Friday, 13 October 1876 (1 October)

I am in Poltava with my father and Paul, waiting for Alexandre so as to conclude the deal with Vinogradoff.
Besides, I am fairly easy in my mind about all the spiteful tricks he might play on me; I am expecting something from Nice which, God willing, will put an end to my troubles.
As was only to be expected, my charming uncle did not come. Vinogradoff, a fairly substantial merchant who made his fortune in the service of M. Romanoff, came twice; he was invited to supper, and my father entertained him, no doubt in order to wipe out the words you are about to see.
There was talk of leaving, and he said that if he had been nothing but a poor devil, neither my mother nor I would ever have given him a thought. As the thing was true, I took offence and said not a word, but an hour later I burst out with reproaches, though restrained ones, and told him a host of impertinent things which I do not regret.
Gritz is not only in Poltava but in this very hotel; he has come to see his aunt, Countess Miloradovitch.
He meets Paul in the corridor and shows him an anonymous letter, more or less to this effect: “Since you no longer wish to come to our house, I beg you to tell me a place where I might see you” — followed by protestations.
— I know, says the imbecile, that it was you who wrote this letter.
Have you ever seen anyone more hounded by filth than I am?!
On that subject I told my father that I suspected his sister Nathalie. He flew into a rage and went quite red, and would have stormed off had Vinogradoff not arrived. We stayed at table until nine o’clock. When the merchant had gone, my father went to the club, then to Abaza’s, and came back very drunk at three in the morning to give me an account of his adventures.
The next day he made peace with me and was wonderfully tender.
I have put in a day’s work that was very strange for me.
Alexandre (whom Paul brought at six in the morning, having left at midnight yesterday), Alexandre, I say, did not want to sign the contract of sale. I must tell you that I want to sell Vinogradoff timber for… twenty-five thousand roubles.
First I had to force my uncle to obey me, then I had to witness, and take part in, a beastly scene.
They haggled. The two men crossed themselves, swore by all that is holy, went up, came down.
In the end they settled on twenty-four thousand roubles.
Ah, I nearly forgot: some brilliant visits — Volkovitsky and Pavelko in the morning, and Gedanoff and Michel all day long.
I am founding a bank at Akhtyrka which will bear my name in perpetuity, in return for a gift of ten thousand roubles, which I shall give with ease, having more than sixty thousand roubles in various sums to come in.
Gedanoff amused us by reminding Michel of their escapades at the circus. The two gentlemen got so carried away that they praised the equestriennes, the riders and the clowns to the skies.
I have just swallowed, by mistake, a disgusting book by Xavier de Montépin, and I feel sick.
My uncle and my father were at the club, Paul was asleep. I was alone, and naturally I was thinking of Rome — for God’s sake do not confuse that magic name with Antonelli, and do not think that I mean to hide him under the name of Rome.
I was reading Le Figaro when I remembered the anteroom at the Hôtel de la Ville. It seized me by the head, the heart, the throat. And here I sit, asking myself quite calmly: What, my dear, you are not dead? I find a bitter pleasure, a malicious satisfaction, in stirring up my own revulsion by calling up that hideous memory again and again, so as to punish myself as far as it lies in my power.
That is where this life of déclassés leads; that is where contempt for the proprieties and ignorance of certain indispensable rules of conduct lead.
I was alone with that man — you no doubt remember the details of that humiliating dialogue — then I put my two hands on his shoulders, he drew me towards him and… I want to say it in so many words, so that it is understood exactly, but not beyond the truth. He kissed me on the cheek, I let him, he pressed me to his breast, then… My God, have pity on me. And you who read me, do not think that I call on God and cry out from affectation, but because if I did not call on God in my mind and with my pen I would not have the strength to write. Listen, here it is: he held me pressed against him and tried… Jesus! give me the nerve to write it! …and tried to push his knee between mine.
written across the page
Do you know anything more brutal than that business with the knee? If it is always like that, love must be deep indeed to idealise such horrors. But for one who does not love, it is the height of vulgar, bestial filth, the height of a disgust fit to revolt one to the very depths of one’s being, to fill every drop of blood with horror, to revolt one to the point of madness.
I have often worked myself up in imagination. But this… this gives me fever and fury, I swear it before God.
My whole being revolts!
Let us go on; it is to punish myself.
I wanted him to think that I had not understood, and I drew away a little (I was afraid that if I drew away altogether I would make him angry). He pulled me close again and, keeping one arm around me, slid the other hand down along my dress for the space of… I no longer know…
Then I shrank back, so astonished, so terrified and so trampled into the mud that, even as I let out a stifled cry, I began to smile like an idiot, which my face never fails to do when I am very upset about something.
And I believed I still loved that man afterwards? When the mere memory of that scene has kept me here, prostrate and crushed on the sofa in Poltava, for I do not know how long? Love? Before, a… I do not know what that laudable feeling is called. After, repugnance and shame. Now, disgust. To affect indifference would be ridiculous, and, I say it in truth, I hate a man — not as I used to hate before, those who insulted our family and our position, like Audiffret for instance. But I hate, I execrate a man for a personal insult… Oh! need I say why! I hate him so much that I can no longer think of it without shuddering with horror — so much that I would commit a crime, provided I could whisper in that creature’s ear: one does not insult women like me! And at the moment that creature was yielding up his last breath to the Devil.
It is not the vengeance of love, which seems pointless once love no longer exists; it is not a child’s vengeance, nor vengeance on a maker of gossip like M. Patton, or a venomous slanderer like Mme Tutcheff, or a poor imbecile like Audiffret, who has no doubt been persuaded of the same thing as Gritz Miloradovitch.
I hate that man. Love for a… come, since I am at it, I shall say as impartially as I can what this gentleman is. He is Nothing extraordinary, and do not expect a terrible picture like Michelangelo’s chaos. A man without any principles, with little of the honour that is called chivalrous, or “hero of a novel” honour, with no understanding of love, but sensual and depraved. For the rest, a very good fellow, an excellent young man in society, ingratiating and consequently liked by all. Do not take that as irony.
No doubt, if it were all to do again, I would take just as much interest in him, but differently: I would have understood that I ought to look at him as a man looks at a grisette he finds pretty… But since a woman is different from a man, my love would go no further than letting myself be courted and waited on, with a great deal of severity.
I do not know whether it is because I am the one concerned, or because I am still very innocent, but I feel the greatest repugnance, and the deepest disgust and contempt, for “seducers”. They all have, underneath, an air that is infallibly grotesque, dirty and stupid. It is like those anecdotes about water closets and so forth: one is disgusted and one laughs.
It is very late, I believe, and really it is not worth sitting up to invent definitions.
I have told everything. And as you see, one does not die of humiliation. Outrage does not kill. And kill myself?… no — I, the one insulted, punish myself with death? That would make no sense at all. A single thought stops me in my plans of vengeance, and it is this: the man will not understand why he is being punished. That is more than likely, from a gentleman without schooling, without upbringing, whose only principles are the examples of the gallant knights of the club [words blacked out] and of La Jeunesse du roi Henri by Ponson du Terrail, the only novel he has read, and even in that novel he admired nothing but the debauchery; as for the acts of loyalty, he laughed at them as “romantic humbug”. My God, I am not trying to blacken Antonelli; coming from me that would be laughable, and the proof is that I want you to know he is neither a perfidious Don Juan nor a model villain.
My father came in and I swore before him, calling on God, crossing myself with both hands and calling down on my head all the wrath of heaven if I broke that oath. I have sworn never to draw near Antonelli again, whatever happens, and to despise him everywhere and always.
What is rather curious is that it is not out of rancour. What rancour can I bear someone inferior to me in intelligence? It is quite simply out of contempt for the man’s character. With time he will change, I hope; then I shall take my revenge.
written across the page
What a rash oath that is. What a useless oath. I would deserve to be shot if I did otherwise; there is no need to swear, what the deuce.
I told Michel to write me a declaration. Well, that one at least spoke of “pure feelings”, of “sacred things”, of irresistible attraction — of all those things as old as the world, as worn as Mme Tutcheff’s face, used by everyone and unavoidable in the least novel and the most wretched play. But in spite of everything, and always, holy, noble and honourable.
And it is towards me, towards a “young girl”, that someone behaved like that! Morality, respect… oh! humbug, humbug, and nothing else.
All this gives me a furious longing to be loved by a man I love in return, if only to give the lie to the previous sentence.
The only vengeance I want. It is that God should make him understand all the horror, all the cowardice, all the unbelievable indecency of… Oh! fie! the horror!

Notes

In Italian in the original: metterà (the rest of the phrase is French). ↩