Monday, 23 October 1876 (11 October)

Yesterday we crammed ourselves into a coupé with six horses and set off for Poltava at about three o’clock.
Pacha decided to come with us after I had told him that filial respect required it. And he consented only after taking my word of honour that I would not make fun of it.
The journey, which began with the tears of the two sisters at the sight of the family vault and with utter dejection on my part — the journey was merry; the weeping at the hour of leaving the paternal roof brought on something like a general outpouring, and Pacha exclaimed that he was madly in love, with all the exaltation such a case entails. “I swear it is true,” he cried, “but I will not say with whom.”
“If you are not in love with me,” I cried, “I curse you.”
And we kept up this tone the whole time, nearly two hours, during which I remained leaning against Pacha with a great affectation of sisterly feeling.
At Poltava Michel paid a very short and formal visit, which would astonish me if I did not know that he is in the middle of a lawsuit against his stepmother, of the same kind as our lawsuit.
At seven o’clock we went to the station, I to see them off, for my train leaves at midnight. But on the way the ladies, having reflected on Michel’s attitude, merely stopped in front of the station to tell me that they wished to put off the journey until the next day and consult a man of business.
My feet were cold; I told Pacha to sit with me and Paul so that the three of us would be warmer. But Paul, morose and unwell, got into my cousin’s cab, and my cousin sat down beside me, took off his fur coat and covered my feet with it.
— Pacha, swear to me that you will tell the truth!
— I swear it.
— With whom are you in love?
— Why?
— It interests me; we are related, I am curious, and then... and then it amuses me.
— You see! It amuses you!
— Of course, but do not take the word in a bad sense; I take an interest in you, you are a good fellow...
— You see perfectly well that you are laughing! You will make fun of me afterwards.
— Here is my hand and my word that I am not laughing.
But my face was laughing.
— With whom are you in love?
— I told you yesterday.
— Yes... no, I do not remember. Well then?
— With you.
— Really and truly?
— Word of honour.
— You say it so offhandedly!
— I never talk the way they do in novels — must I then fall on my knees and reel off a heap of nonsense!
— Oh! my dear fellow, you are parodying someone I know!
crossed outAnd my face contracted.
— As you please, Mousse, but I have told the truth.
— So it is with me that you are in love?
— Yes.
— It is madness.
— Why, of course! And that is what I like about it! It is a hopeless love, just what I needed. I needed to suffer, to torment myself. And then, when the person has gone, I shall have something to dream about, something to regret. I shall make a martyr of myself; that will be my happiness.
— Green man!
— Green man, green man!
— But we are brother and sister!
— No, cousins.
— It is the same thing.
— Oh! no.
— Well, really!
— So it really is with me that you are in love; I did not expect it in the least, and it is very strange.
But I forget that this conversation had been preceded by another, in Paul’s presence, in which I tried to make the boy understand that his mother was [setting] him against me for fear he might become infatuated with me, and that she was persuading him that I dominated him, for that is the surest way to turn a green man aside.
But nothing equalled the surprise of Michel, who had expected to find me with Paul alone and saw his aunt and his mother in the company of a man of business.
He stood for a few moments in the doorway uttering extraordinary syllables, but ended by coming in, and stayed until ten o’clock.
Then I began to tease my admirer... Always the one I am not looking for!
Hélène said good-bye to me, repeating that if ever I needed a devoted friend I had only to think of her, and as I kissed the Princess I said, half laughing: “Do not slander me too much.”
At the station we saw Count Miloradovitch, and it was he who did me the few little services I needed there and in the railway carriage.
I left with Paul, sending Pacha back to Gavronzi, as I had promised.
I was woken at Iskorwka, and I passed in front of the Count, who looked fast asleep, only to hear him say to me:
— I stayed awake on purpose to see you pass.
Stupid! All the Miloradovitches are stupid and stingy. That does not prevent me from almost regretting it.
written across the page
They say that Miloradovitch was put off by Michel, who told him not to court me, seeing that he was courting me already. I have this from a reliable source, for the Prince said the same thing to Pacha. Besides, the whole affair has been sullied by the Bashkirtseffs, and Maman, in her letters full of solicitude, senses and guesses and tells everything as if she were there. Maternal instinct is a marvellous effect of the goodness of God. Yes, the Bashkirtseffs have made a scandal out of Miloradovitch, and my mother foretold it to me.
They were expecting me at Tchernakowka, but I went to bed at once, broken. Oh! broken.
Étienne and Alexandre, with their wives and the children, came to see me in my bed, and soon after lunch I made a scene to demand my money, a scene borne with villainous submissiveness. In Russia this is called: bombarding a wall with dried peas. It is exasperating, and to crown it all... to crown it all Alexandre told me that I was wrong to stay at Gavronzi, that this stay would bring me nothing but disgrace, and that there was everything to fear in the company of my father’s sisters. (Oh! that is true.) That they were capable of anything, even of slipping me a sleeping draught as in the novels of M. Xavier de Montépin. And finally that Pavelko was spreading the rumour that I was making advances to him, and then... that people were saying my father was courting me — but he put it differently.
My heart gave a leap that hurt me in the chest, and I thought myself annihilated and (evaporated) by the sudden cold that ran through my whole body.
I shouted for them to give me the money from the tenant farmers, and, terrified and almost out of my mind, I threw myself on a large green leather sofa. If I did not faint, it was because I was too revolted.
That is what they were saying!
Chasms on every side! I must die... but sensibly: put my affairs in order, correct the Journal, write a little memoir recounting the things that happened before the journal, see my mother and my family again — and then die!
Die, declaring the causes of my suicide to everyone! But taking my revenge. Kill, poison, disgrace (I know whom and how), and then die... I was afraid. Of death? Oh! no, what do you take me for? After all the horrors life has brought me in so short a time, should I regret it? No, but I thought... I do not know why, the dread and disgust that froze me gave me an idea of the eternal punishments of the other world... and I was afraid of crimes... those who kill themselves to put an end to their torments must be cruelly disappointed. It is the soul that suffers, and the soul is immortal... Pierre Antonelli proved it to me on the road to the Colosseum the night before our departure. And it was Pierre Antonelli who spoke of the soul! Fie!
Little by little I recovered, and I understood that this horrible infamy was not in circulation, but had been invented or surmised by my uncles from my father’s strange behaviour the other evening.
Then and afterwards those kisses repelled me, and I did not want to think anything, but now!!!
Messengers were sent to the tenant farmers; I recovered a little more and went to join the others, and above all the children... the angels. I let them kiss me and was ready to burst into tears.
I want to go back to my own people! Already here I feel better; there I shall be at peace — no, but away from the... Oh! how horrible!
What have I done, my God! What have I done, and why crush me?!
I saw my wet nurse Martha.
— The best thing you can do, Alexandre told me, is to stay here a few days — besides, you need to stay here for your affairs — and then to leave for abroad again as soon as possible.
That upset me, but it may also be a way of getting rid of me... Ah! listen, let us suppose villainy everywhere, while we are at it.
I am among my own people, the good, the honest ones (I am not speaking of money), my own above all.
In my memoir (the one I shall write) people will see the Bashkirtseffs.
And you want me to be good, to believe in anything at all!!
Oh! but there again, that life, those mortifications, the sight of people who are the kind I like, who have acquaintances, who have charity sales, concerts, parties... while I... and at my age!
The Tutcheff woman claims that she did nothing and that the scandal began from the moment Alphonse Karr told the story of the Romanoff lawsuit in a rather peculiar way in his “Guêpes”. And to think that, without knowing it, I used to detest Alphonse Karr and his writings. But the Tutcheff woman is lying! If Karr wrote, it was at the instigation of the Boutowsky woman and the Bezobrasoff woman, egged on by my dear aunt.
Everyone knew that we have a lawsuit, and people spoke to us about it, and it was all quite simple before the Tutcheffs arrived.
And now, now.
Lord Jesus, take my soul!