to conceal what she was writing from him, but at the same time was glad he had surprised her at it and that she would now have to tell him.
“A diary, Nicolas,” she replied, handing him a blue exercise book filled with her firm, bold writing.
“A diary?” Nikoláy repeated with a shade of irony, and he took up the book.
It was in French.
December 4. Today when Andrúsha (her eldest boy) woke up he did not wish to dress and Mademoiselle Louise sent for me. He was naughty and obstinate. I tried threats, but he only grew angrier. Then I took the matter in hand: I left him alone and began with nurse’s help to get the other children up, telling him that I did not love him. For a long time he was silent, as if astonished, then he jumped out