Saturday, 28 October 1876 (16 October)

Alexandre keeps talking to me about Miloradovitch and says, rightly enough, that he (Milorad.) was very much offended by the way he was treated at Gavronzi. And that it is my father who is the cause of this strange adventure — I cannot find another word, but you understand.

Whatever he does, I forgive him; he calms me, he makes me see things in a favourable light, he explains, he smooths the rough edges, he gives me hope. He is good; he does not forget his own interests, but he is good, very good.

Having taken a suitable carriage at the hotel, I set off on my errands. First the bank, where I took a draft for five thousand roubles on Rothschild. Then the furrier’s, and elsewhere, always with Alexandre.

The weather we are having is called autumn, and it is freezing.

The rest of the time was spent in the shops and at the house, where furs were brought for us to choose from, and in the evening we went to the theatre. A new play set in the time of the Crusades, full of convents and nuns, and new costumes had drawn the crowd. And besides, it was the leading actress’s benefit night.

We had the ground-tier stage box. That box has nearly always been taken by our family, and it has witnessed both my childish laughter and my childish terrors, according to whether the play was merry or sad.

The effect I made this evening on the blessed public of Kharkoff sent me home sad, or rather irritated, above all because of what Alexandre, Étienne, Nadine and Lola said. Besides, I could see well enough for myself. These vulgar triumphs only irritate me. A woman like me needs a certain setting, a pedestal.

I remembered everything, I spoke of my desperate position, and then I listened to the kind words of my uncle and his wife. They do not flatter me, and they do not try to console me with irritating commonplaces. Together we tried to work out what was to be done.

I told them everything — not my personal humiliations, of course — and we searched for a way.

Nadine fell asleep on her bed next to mine, Alexandre withdrew to his room; I stretched out on a sofa and lost myself in quiet weeping until dawn.

And nothing helps! On the contrary, I am getting fat!

In the end I bought sables for two thousand roubles. I almost regret the expense; it reduces the sum I am taking away with me, which will nevertheless come to some sixty thousand francs, forty thousand of them from the sale of the forest. Enough of that... I keep my accounts elsewhere; let us not fill these pages with them; it is enough to be exact, sensible and intelligent. Alexandre is a precious man for business, and for everything else too. He has managed to make himself respected everywhere without brutality, and he has raised up the Babanine name again. Étienne is going to be marshal of the nobility of Koiwtop. These two are the most flourishing members of the family.

At three o’clock we left Kharkoff — and Étienne and Marie, who are going back home, and Domenica and Lola, who are staying in town.

Russian railway carriages are drawing rooms where people meet and come to know one another more or less from travelling so much. This is especially true of the inhabitants of Kharkoff and Poltava, who were kept apart before, but who, since the railway has made moving about so easy, fraternise and pay one another continual visits. And all this company is swelled by the good country squires, who go to be civilised in the railway carriage.

We made the journey in the company of a Baron Essenn of the railways. Russia has a great many of these railway barons. He is well known, and naturally the talk turned to the war. Those poor Serbs — people talk of them so much that I never write a word about them. It is said that Italy will join our country, against which England and Prussia are arming; should the latter power turn against us, France would come to swell our forces, and so one would see united the three most likeable and most beautiful countries in the world: Russia, Italy and France.

My first thought was of Antonelli’s impassioned words when there was talk of country and war. I can already see him breathing his last in my arms after fighting like a lion. For the Love of Heaven, let him become a priest or die in the war!

On returning to Tchernakowska, our dear old nest, I found a letter from the Pater in reply to some brandy I had sent him out of courtesy.

And all evening Alexandre and his wife did nothing but advise me to take my father to Rome.

— You can, said Nadine, so do it; it would be a real happiness. I have thought about it for a long time.

I answered in monosyllables, for out of superstition I have made myself a sort of promise not to speak of it to anyone. Alexandre told how he had come to marry his wife, and she told the same story; it was an evening of confidences, in which I felt more than ever how much one ought to cherish one’s own people, one’s family, when it is like ours — united, loving, sincere. I do not know whether I should weep over this mistrust that keeps watch unceasingly in the depths of my being, or congratulate myself on it. I look everywhere for ruses, self-interested words, dissimulation.

At home I took down, one by one, all the icons covered in gold and silver. I shall put them in my oratory, over there.

Take my father with me.... But how, great heavens!