# 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 Society¹ has just been enlarged by two members: Marie Yégorovna 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 entourage² 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 even his coat. On marrying a girl he had long loved he was so happy that on the very day of the wedding, after the and 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 I were at home, 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 about “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.³ It amused me all the more because the train was waiting for us. That is the good thing about this wretched country: one reigns there.

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. Besides, 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 moved off slowly, and Pacha began to speak very quickly, not knowing what he was saying.

— Goodbye, goodbye — do jump!

— Yes — farewell, goodbye.

And he jumped down onto the platform after kissing 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.

That very evening we encountered a certain Marie Perlik, a spinster of forty, daughter of a highroad innkeeper, known to all the local people who travelled before the railways came. She was present at Maman’s wedding and came to see me from her refreshment counter at Vodianaga station to see me.

She told me, among other things, that in the same train was a M. Novosselsky who, having known my mother long ago, would very much like to see me. I have heard the name from Maman; besides, it is a very well-known one, and there was a time when nothing was talked of but his colossal enterprises, his millions, and his ruins no less colossal than his enterprises.

At the next station Mlle Perlik (going to visit her brother an hour’s distance away) brought me this gentleman. The introduction was... singular — but, but he knew who I was and I who he was, and it went off very well. Novosselsky, thanks to his varied fortunes, has been received everywhere — even at the courts of Russia and France — and is therefore a man of good manners and pleasant company.

He rendered me every conceivable service, gave me his cushion, his travelling rugs, and was the soul of courtesy.

He is now mayor of the city of Odessa. A most enviable position — especially in Odessa.

In Russian the mayor is called Golova (head) and the town hall Douma (thought).⁴ Is that not curious?

The next day, Monday, passed without incident until the evening. We parted from Novosselsky and learned that by superior order the export of horses from the Russian Empire had been forbidden!⁵

We leave them at Birzoula and continue our journey, hoping for some arrangement at the border, where we arrive Tuesday morning. Having a letter from the stationmaster at Birzoula — devoted to Novosselsky — we find the stationmaster at Voloczysk immediately at our disposal: a young Pole speaking French and with the air of a gentleman.

Thanks to him not a trunk, not a crate was opened, and we had to pay only for the cigarettes which I declared myself. Be reassured — they are presents for Nice.

As for the horses, we leave written instructions with Kousma and commend him to the stationmaster at Voloczysk as well as the previous ones. We had to wait until evening at Voloczysk for the next train, in the company of a bourgeois Russian family that turned my stomach.

This surplus of time did not prevent us from running late — all because of the box of cigarettes, which no one could manage to nail shut, Chocolat having stuffed his muddy old boots inside it. But the stationmaster being obligingness itself, the train waited five minutes for us, as if we were in Poltava.

That night, from Tuesday to Wednesday, I slept very well in a proper bed, as in a hotel, my father having taken berths in the sleeping carriage — very comfortable, and scarcely more expensive than ordinary first class.

As it was not yet late and I was lying down, I fell to reading the famous Jeunesse du roi Henri.⁶ Ah, if only I had read it before, this excellent book! Nothing would have happened with Antonelli. The rogue was copying one of the most repulsive heroes — and copying him visibly. At every page I had little fits of indignation. How humiliated I am to have been taken in by a young dog — to have paid any attention to an improved specimen of Michel Eristoff! What are novels good for? Why, you can see that plainly enough, heaven knows! For not being deceived about the gentlemen who reproduce the heroes of MM. Ponson du Terrail and Xavier de Montépin. Ah, if it were at least Dumas, that would be superb: Dumas puts nobility and honour into his books even when one meets nothing in them but underground passages and silk rope-ladders. But these gentlemen put nothing into theirs but the most idiotic depravity.

And as I now see, Pietro Antonelli, nephew of the illustrious Cardinal of the same name, took me for a bourgeoise of the sixteenth century.

Moral: one must read the worst books, inasmuch as those are the ones read by the majority of gentlemen one has the honour of rubbing shoulders with.

I am in Vienna.

Physically speaking, my journey has been perfect — I slept well, ate well, and am clean. That is the main thing, and possible only in Russia, where the heating is by wood and the carriages have washrooms.

My father was quite bearable — we played cards and mocked the other travellers. Only this evening he made a scene in his own particular style.

He took a box at the Opera but refused to accompany me unless I went in my travelling dress.

— You are taking advantage of my position, I said; but I will not allow anyone the luxury of tyrannising me. I shall not go — good night!

And so here I am in my room. My position? Yes — I haven’t a penny. For I have only bills of exchange on Paris, which are no use to me until I get there. Having been forced to abandon the horses, I gave five hundred roubles to Kousma and am left with my fifty thousand francs — but only in drafts.

I told my father, who took offence and assumed his most noble attitude, crying that he cared nothing for expenses and that spending money on me cost him nothing, given all he had spent in his life.

Europe is in the air here. The tall, proud buildings raise my spirits almost as high as their topmost floors. Poltava’s low dwellings crushed me.

What I miss is... yesterday’s carriage lighting. Light coming from the ceiling has a particular charm. First, it does not cut the room in two; it forces the gaze to travel the full height of it, since the eyes naturally seek the light, and in this way the lines and harmony of the space are not destroyed, and the brightness falling from above seems to spread over you and over everything around you like a mysterious favour, full of majesty.

Through all of this — during and after the journey, standing or sitting or lying down — my thoughts always return to the same point: the Cardinal is dead. As none of the Mongruel’s predictions have come to pass, I shall never speak of it again. In the matter of clairvoyants, there is only Alexis — but he does not predict the future, since he is no charlatan. But remember the card predictions of la Moreau. Let us not speak of those before we see them fulfilled. Let us speak of reality. The Cardinal is dead. Had he had the kindness to do so sooner... in fact, it would have come to the same thing.

Hah! What have I to do with this family of Italian rascals, charlatans, and makers of chalk statues! Away, and to the devil!⁷

The Cardinal is dead. When Pacha put that dispatch before my eyes, I blushed and my fingers trembled for nearly an hour — which I concealed by arranging a hat.

He is dead and, I do not know why, I am glad of it.

It seems to me that a great obstacle has fallen. But an obstacle to what? Who knows?⁸

Oh, what torment when I think of Rome.

I want to study and everything prevents me. My talents are being wasted, time is passing. I am making no progress in my studies, and I have no worldly pleasures either.

It is death.

I do not know which way to turn.

To Rome! No doubt to Rome — but so much time already lost. I shall make it up in summer. I have no more journeys to Russia to make. And who knows?

The Cardinal is dead.

I will give my fifty thousand francs to whoever would destroy Pietro Antonelli morally; there is no one for the moment, and afterwards I shall have no more money.

But let us be calm — nothing is lost, and the day will come when I shall have my revenge, that is to say, when God will avenge me. He is just.

I tried to reread last Friday, 13 October and truly could not. It is odious.