# Sunday, 12 November 1876 (31 October O.S.)

Sunday, 12 November 1876 (31 October O.S.)

Monday, 13 November 1876 (1 November O.S.)

Tuesday, 14 November 1876 (2 November O.S.)

Wednesday, 15 November 1876 (3 November O.S.)

Last Sunday I was woken by Nadine's children, who had been brought during the night from Tchernakovka.
I lunched with my family, after which my father came to pay them a call and sent two sweet-boxes to the children.
This is two days running that Poltava has seen me, and although I am in travelling dress — that is, a grey cloth dress and black velvet bonnet — people stand at their windows as I pass, and I seem to them a curiosity...
The Silver Heart Society has just been enlarged by two members: Marie Yegorovna Babanine (Lola) and Madegeda Kondratievna Babanine (Nadine).
It was Sunday evening that I finally departed with my father, having seen during my last two days in Russia Prince Michel, Gedanoff, etc.
At the station there was only my family with me, but a great many strangers who watched our whole entourage with keen curiosity.
The journey to Vienna alone costs me nearly five hundred roubles.
I have paid for everything myself. The horses travel with us under the escort of Chocolat and Kousma, my father's valet. I had meant to take Victor, but Kousma, devoured by a longing to travel, came to beg in the Russian fashion to be taken; as it was all the same to me, I consented. Chocolat will keep watch, for Kousma is a sort of lunatic who could very easily lose himself one day counting stars until the horses are stolen from under him — and perhaps his coat as well. On marrying a girl he had long loved, after the ceremony he fled to the garden and lay on the grass for more than two hours, weeping and carrying on like a madman. He is a little mad, I think, and his wild, unsteady air makes him a quite remarkable specimen of imbecility.
My father was still raging; as for me, I strolled about the station as though it were my own drawing room, under the eyes of Poltava's most perfumed riffraff — for here people come to spend their time in the station restaurant.
Pacha keeps his distance from me, and he is right to do so. The evening before, while my father was at the Club, instead of going to bed I went to his room and remained there until three in the morning in the company of the green man, complaining against "the man you know, Pacha," and reading him the most touching passages from this Journal.
At the last moment a parcel was found to be missing; a storm broke out and everyone ran in all directions — Amalia was making excuses, I was reproaching her for serving badly. The onlookers listened and were amused, and seeing this I redoubled my eloquence in the tongue of Dante. It amused me all the more because the train was waiting for us. That is what is good about this wretched country: there one reigns.
Alexandre, Paul and Pacha came into the compartment, but the third bell announced the departure and people were jostling around me.
— Paul! Paul! the green man was crying — at least let me say goodbye!
— Do let him come forward, I said. He kissed my hand and I kissed him on the cheek, near the eye. It is the custom in Russia, though I have never followed it.
Only the whistle was awaited, and it was not long in coming.
— Well? I said.
— I shall still have time, said the green man.
The train began to move slowly and Pacha began to speak very quickly, not knowing what he was saying.
— Goodbye, goodbye — do jump!
— Yes — farewell, goodbye.
And he jumped onto the platform having kissed my hand one last time. A dog's kiss — faithful and respectful.
— Well, well! my father cried from inside the compartment, for we were in the carriage corridor.
I came to him, but so distressed by the pain of which I was the cause that I lay down at once and closed my eyes to think at my leisure.
Poor Pacha, dear and noble boy — if I regret anything in Russia, it is that golden heart, that loyal character, that honest spirit.
Am I truly distressed?... Yes, if it were possible to feel nothing at the just pride of having such a... friend. His blushes, his agitation charmed me, and the more agitated he became the more I pressed my siege. Is that wrong? And why should it be? Had he not found me to his taste, my batteries would not have had the slightest success. So... enough of this. Honour and respect to a man whose memory will always remain pleasantly engraved upon my mind.

Notes

The Coeur d'Argent (Silver Heart) — Marie's private circle of trusted intimates, a select society she founded and maintained throughout these years.
Bataclan — Marie's collective term for the bustle and commotion of her travelling party.
The tongue of Dante — Italian. Marie scolded her maid Amalia in Italian, performing for the Poltava crowd.