Monday, 16 October 1876 (4 October)

I woke up in my dressing gown and slippers, but in my bed. I had lain down for a moment and sleep took me by surprise. It was my father who woke me this morning, and I sprang towards the drawing room in piercing anxiety. My diary had been left open on the table; he could have read the abominable description.
I was only reassured after making him swear on the Gospel that he had not read it — and besides, one could see as much from his face.
About yesterday there is almost nothing to say… Ah! yes — the cause of his anger. My father answered that he was angry about the letter in which Maman tells me that it is he who urges me to accept my aunt’s fortune, and he added that he was far from urging me to do so and that he pitied anyone who might be tempted by that fortune. To this treacherous insinuation I replied with forceful and honest words, which confounded him a little and made him almost ashamed of having alluded to the basest calumny there is in the world — a calumny that came from the mouths of those who stirred up the lawsuit out of avarice (the Zamiatines are richer than we are), and who threw that calumny into the filthiest gutters, not daring to speak or write of it in legal form, since the penalty for defamation is very severe.
We were hardly back at the house when it was the turn of my aunts — that is to say, of the Princess — still on the subject of Maman’s letter, to talk, and to give my father advice which, without being exactly insulting, was very disagreeable to hear from the third room; they were talking loudly. I might perhaps have liked to walk in among them and say impertinent things, but I contented myself with smiling; they were playing straight into my hands for the evening when I would talk with my father alone. Before, I had only Mme Tutcheff’s despotism to reproach him with. So she is not the only one who rules you! And you dared to claim that all those things which I maintained came from other minds than yours were your own! And you dare deny that you are under the most despotic tutelage! You dare claim that you are your own master! When you are a miserable nought, a cipher — not even that! And I who talked to you, who wore myself out with persuasion! And I who took a dummy for a man! And I who thought I was acting, making headway! And I who built castles… on sand! Truly, it grieves me to see that I took an interest in all these things in vain, that I raised an edifice on a floating island, on a volcanic whim! They thought I was gaining influence over you, and they are beginning to turn you away from me. They are too clever to do it point-blank; they go about it with art; they say to you: “What a charming daughter you have there, Constantin! She has turned the whole house upside down, she is a real demon of grace and wit! You yourself acknowledge her sway.” And since weak men have a horror of being caught in the act, you will do everything in the world to prove the contrary of what they take for submission. Oh! they have chosen the true, the right method.
They will prove my domination to you and, frightened, you will draw away from me! Poor man! I am no longer angry — can one be angry with a creature ruled by everybody! I pity you; you are a poor wretch, influenced, tormented, led by the nose! I am no longer angry; you inspire nothing in me but pity. It was while thinking of all these things, which I shall say tonight, that I smiled while they were shouting over there.
And to make the most of my discretion, and to be able to say: “Thinking so little of you, I did not even want to speak to you again — what is the use of idle words?”, I went straight upstairs and sat down at the piano, meaning to pass the time that way until dinner and to withdraw curtly in the evening to my room, but my father would no doubt come to join me. I did not have to wait so long: he came at once and began pacing the room with his arm round my waist, saying that he was very unhappy and that nobody pitied him. Then I delivered the speech I had prepared, but with further embellishments and indulgent airs that made it doubly precious.
— You want me to justify myself, to prove that nobody rules me — that is the aim of those words!! said my father, and since he had hit the mark, I answered at once:
— You think too poorly of my wits. It is not with such childish jibes that one catches men like you, for after all, without having a very strong character, you are no idiot, and the trap would be too crude. Besides, I did not want to say anything; I withdrew because I know myself, I knew very well that if I stayed I would not have the strength to hold my tongue. So I withdrew, and it is you who provoked the explanation… But let us talk of other things; you know, I have no wish just now to talk to you of serious matters. You know, I have made up my mind: I shall spend the winter in Rome, I shall rent the finest apartment, I shall have magnificent horses, a studio that I shall furnish divinely; I shall never go out except to visit ruins or museums, I shall no longer show myself on the promenades, and if I am seen out by day I shall always be dressed in black velvet, modestly… And I shall have a box in the lower tier, furnished in my own way, to which we shall have the key. We shall not see a living soul, and I shall work from morning till night… at painting and singing. In this way my life will arouse a marvellous interest without exposing me to slander. For as to going into society, that is not to be thought of! Maman cannot take me, and going with acquaintances… I do not like it; one looks poor, shabby. And there you are.
Indeed, that is what I have resolved on, for want of anything better. The solitude of the studio will let me give myself up to my chronic despairs and forget myself, by not reading the newspapers and forbidding anyone to speak of the rest of the universe in my presence. And perhaps I shall win some glory by it.
— That would be eccentric, my father replied, and eccentricity does not become a young girl. In my view the best of lives is a normal life.
— With a father and a mother? Yes, no doubt. But since with you that is not to be thought of, I take the other. You cannot help it, poor father; it is not your fault. Ah! it is that all this should be… but let us change the subject, let us talk of Rome, which I love so much and which is divine!
Eh?
If I do not succeed, it is because God is against me.
written across the page
I am too stupid.
As for today, it was pitiful, and one must be bored indeed to go running off hunting dressed like a vestal. It is true that it was my father who dragged me there by force, Victor (long since recovered) having seen this morning some… some game or other.
We climbed the highest mountains, among dry branches, through nettles so tall that they stung my hands, while a shower of yellow, withered leaves fell on our heads, thickening the deep carpet formed of other leaves already fallen. These leaves fell and fell — you would have said it was Russian snow.
But as always we killed nothing; I did not so much as glimpse a wretched crow, and as we passed the family vault I fired two shots into the air, as a funeral salute to my grandfather.
Since that evening in Poltava when I remembered Antonelli so vividly, I feel as though I had been insulted yesterday. Every moment it comes back to me, and I make an involuntary gesture of terror and disgust.
You will see, one of these days I shall tell someone of this shame! When a thing torments me I nearly always end by saying it aloud, not content with writing it. If I had no diary I would write on the walls, on the mirrors, on the floor, everywhere!
written across the page
NEVER
Fortunately I did not tell it; I only spoke of insult and vengeance — a general conversation.
I was in my father’s room when I heard Paul, who is back from Poltava and bringing Pacha… at last!
Without waiting for him to come in, I ran out and, meeting him in the dark library, seized him by the sleeve, I think, and dragged him along like that, knocking over a table and two chairs with a great clatter and overwhelming him with nonsense, so that he arrived in the bedroom literally dumbfounded.
— Where is the green man? Papa was saying.
— Here he is, there he is!
I tugged at him, pushed him, shouted a thousand bits of nonsense at him, and ended by kissing him on the forehead… which finished him off.
Then I reproached him with a heap of invented things, the most outlandish things. He apologised, laughed, turned serious again… It was enough to make one die laughing.
— What! I exclaimed at last, you are not going to see your mother!
And I dragged him up to the first floor, to his mother’s room, where the Princess came to join us. I maintained that the green man was in tails and drawers. The cut of his jacket perhaps bore me out, and above all his linen trousers.
And then I was witty — vulgarly (perhaps), but witty all the same; and I set down here a remark that seems to me just:
Wit always needs some sort of urn to be poured into.
crossed out[One line crossed out]
We went in to supper, where I did a thousand mad things which must have been amusing, for everyone laughed with great enjoyment. My father was asleep; I woke him by bursting into his room, followed by the others. And at last Mme Gorpintchenko forced us to go back to our respective apartments. Then I declared that I could not go upstairs unless I was carried. The two Pauls carried me, and I was hardly in my room when I called Amalia and, throwing a fur cloak over my shoulders, rushed off to the red house, where I busied myself finishing the decoration of Paul’s room until one in the morning. While hammering in nails I amused myself dumbfounding Pacha, who held the candle for me. He saw me back to my rooms, and on the way I wrung from him phrases such as this: “I came only for you,” and others less strong.
Amalia followed; it was altogether picturesque, and to make it more so still I knocked over the candle Pacha was carrying to light the way, and we parted at the foot of the stairs. I went up again with a kiss on my hand and a thought in my mind. Only one? Oh! no, but I say one thought because that one is bound up with my happiness — that is, with my desire for vengeance.
Antonelli has cruelly outraged me, and he has wounded me mortally, if one allows that there was some love for him in my heart — and with a little good will one can allow a great deal. So there is everything needed to make me wish for vengeance at any price. In short… who knows… perhaps Pacha could serve me. If not at once, then later. Pacha is a precious man, he is made of the stuff of the fanatics of old, and… but that would be dreadful! Bah! I want to be avenged and I want to keep my hands clean… that would be too good… but to sacrifice an innocent man, the most honest man on earth… well, we shall see.
Let us not sell the bear’s skin before we have killed the bear.