Sunday, 22 October 1876 (10 October)

The post brought a great many letters, among them one from Foster; I neglect no one.
I know nothing of what is going on. My father confers with his sister every moment. I ask nothing, and what can I ask? Mme Tutcheff is polite and goes no further, which is wise. She would be very awkwardly placed on meeting me in Nice if she became intimate now. So her coming will be of no use to me. Perhaps I would have done better to say yes when my father offered to tell her to leave. But no, she would have become an implacable enemy. Besides, they say she has sorrows of her own, and she wept in a corner while we were gathered round the table. Her prince is in Poltava; it is better so.
My father had a bed made up for me in his room; once again there was talk of my position, spoiled by the Tutcheff woman or Georges, or the devil!
I had not the strength to plead as on previous occasions; I went to bed in silence, glad of the curtain that hid me from my father’s eyes. As I said nothing he called me and came and sat on the edge of my bed. But I could not speak, I was choking with tears, for he had several times answered me that he could do nothing about it.
I only prayed God to calm me; I felt the clenching of my jaws that had preceded the fit of the day before yesterday, and I was ashamed to show my nerves. My father consoled me, and that only made me despair the more, above all because it is in the gentleman’s character to exasperate people for the pleasure of lavishing on them consolations as touching as they are sterile. That is what I kept telling him in a slow, low voice so as not to seem tearful. At last I promised him I would kill myself, and once the candle was out I thought about it for a few moments, which made me stretch out my hand towards the drawer where the fully loaded revolver lies; as I had foreseen, the noise attracted attention, my hand was stopped and the weapon thrust under the mattress.
Whereupon I fell asleep, thinking over this stormy day, for stormy it was: my father and his sisters, and even M. Tutcheff, all snapped at one another a little.
At eight in the morning Mme Tutcheff, who had kissed me the evening before, came into the room to say goodbye and kissed me again. A Judas kiss.
It is a day of departures: the Princess and Hélène are going abroad, and I am going to Tchernakowka, where Étienne strangely summons me. I am shattered. I woke only to shed fresh tears; never have I been so dejected. Perhaps I shall be even more so in the future, but for the moment it is enough to make one despair.
By the way. I am introducing, or trying to introduce, a different manner into this writing. I am going to aim at concision, and so that this first sentence may be concise, let us not add another word of explanation, as we feel the urge to.

Notes

Marie’s coinage: entre-mordus [sic] — “bitten one another”; in the printed French the editors’ [sic] stands after the whole sentence. ↩