Saturday, 9 July 1881 – 27 June

Here we all are, setting out for the pilgrimage, and from there to Kremontchougy,¹ where we are to take a trip on the Dnieper. I play the impious one — more or less — and push them all toward this excursion.

After a thousand disputes, a decision is reached. You cannot imagine — it is a whole undertaking! But why go? And perhaps it would be better not to go! For really, how will it turn out? Will there be anywhere to sleep or eat? Well, it is a village — Vassil will be brought along to do the cooking. It is terrible: there is a hill near Gavronzi that must be crossed, and consequently everyone ought to be used to it — but no. Each time it is as though a new and frightening obstacle had just presented itself. At last, after everyone had said in turn that he was staying, or that so-and-so had told him he was staying, we set off in three carriages: M. and Mme, Dina, the Princess, Catherine (Nini’s sister) and Sperandio; then Nini, myself, Paul and Micha. Halfway along the road, Paul and Micha sing with great good cheer, which astonishes the peasants along the way. We find the three Babanine brothers gathered at the hotel — Alexandre, Etienne, Wladimir — drinking champagne.²

Alexandre talks of his heart, of family, of youthful memories — in short he is open as a carriage-gate, when it is open... Well, I immediately divine that there is something afoot. Indeed, he has just bought out Etienne’s share of the inheritance; Etienne has gone the way of the others. Only Nicolas remains, but he will follow despite all his protestations, and then Alexandre will have all his father’s lands. He is a force, this man — he marches toward his goal and will reach it; a force. I bow to him and almost respect him. He is at odds with Paul, and he will ruin him — so I shall reconcile them.

As we have no business dealings, our relations are entirely courteous, and I took his arm this evening in the public gardens. But it appears we have had the rowdiest day anyone could dream of in Poltava, and people will talk of it. I shall tell you all about it.

We dine in the said gardens — a table of fifteen covers occupying the entire right side of the terrace — and we are not troubled by the public, who press in at an insufficiently respectful distance to watch us eat and to hear the orchestra that plays for us, and the women’s chorus we have had brought in. Gypsy songs were sung by Russian and Swedish performers.

I should have liked to ring the alarm bell, for the crowd was not arriving fast enough — and by eight o’clock the gardens were full.

We go to the shooting gallery, where I arrive after two officers who shoot less well than I do! Let us not forget that during dinner we were joined by M. Oustimovitch, marshal of the nobility³ for the Poltava governorate.

My father holds the same post for the district — one of thirteen or fifteen. He is a pretentious idiot, a versifier, pompous and grotesque, who passes for a wit and a handsome man. A few days ago, and often before, I mocked his ridiculous verses as much as he deserves, and this evening I did it in front of company. So I make a show of praising him, and every word of my praise carried a double meaning for those listening. It is absurd to have such a representative of the nobility — besides, he slipped through by surprise; people were frightened and voted to be done with it, and so he landed on his feet, quite dazed by the honour. And he is of excellent family, rich, well married and an idiot, but not decorated — and so he was in despair at having been absent when Prince Mirsky passed through here? And accordingly he expressed his displeasure to my father that the latter should have gone to receive the Prince. “I am a fine-looking man,” said my father, laughing, “and I was asked to receive him because I make a good appearance?” “And because Papa has a great many decorations,” I added sharply. But as this idiot persisted, my father told him that in future he would act as it pleased him, and encouraged him to do the same. He took this seriously as a reproof, and offered his card — which was rather well judged — smiling, and our man had the wit to riposte with his photograph. No matter — in two years I shall come back to help overthrow this insolent King Log.⁴ He walks about with us and insists on calling on the archbishop, but I say that as we are not expected at such an hour it would be inappropriate. Maman had abruptly withdrawn at the impropriety of his remark to my father — but he understood nothing whatsoever.

We go to the theatre adjoining the gardens. The applauding and shouting are so loud as to be irritating... It is a dreadful custom, these cries for curtain calls and these manufactured enthusiasms at every moment. The upper gallery shouts that someone is smoking in our section — it was Alexandre; he hides, and Maman helping to quiet everyone, the offender is let alone. But the gallery, emboldened by impunity, wishes us bon appétit when the tea is served. As for the pilgrimage, no one appears to believe in it any longer. Everything is called into question, which is very irritating when one is the instigator yet does not wish to appear so, and has a hidden purpose. The train leaves at three in the morning, and all these people — a crowd of landowners, invalids, pregnant women... and I, who was the sole force animating it all — I looked quite a fool. Seeing my displeasure, people rightly took it as something I had set my heart on, and everyone hurried, despite weariness, to oblige me.

Maman makes a scene on returning to the hotel — she is very frayed, but there is no cause for it. Wladimir is altogether — it is disgusting. And that public tramping around on the ground anywhere, and not even taking the trouble to... At last, after the whole party has awaited our decision, we go back to the gardens to sup — the one thing that is done with any sincerity here. But it is three o’clock; everything is closed. I suggest going to wake Alexandre at his house; he invites us to luncheon the next day, and is as always agreeable to me.

We walked a few steps in the street — barefoot and in our nightgowns. I take his arm, complaining that the procession would be amusing if people here knew how to enjoy themselves. But the pilgrimage first — we were scarcely prepared, and so I noted the slightest annoyances, to offer these trifles to God, while thinking all the time that this was not quite the thing. Well — to atone, I resolve to remain the entire night — that is, from four to ten o’clock — in prayer, which is no small thing when one is dying of fatigue.