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KATE LIGHT Diary Three (Tchaikovsky) Last night after supper with D. and B., a real game of whist. But I am ill and do not see the end of my sickness. Awoke today with a pain in my throat and nausea, even so I worked. Sasha, Nata, cousin. Picked lilies of the valley with Bob. Had a pain in my heart which frightened me. Nonetheless, a morning walk. Very dissatisfied with the ideas that come to me, angry because of bad luck. Am I played out? Wrote to N., was angry on returning home because lunch was not ready. Whist foursome after supper. A miracle—I won! Magnificent day—walked all morning in the Trostyanka forest—walked long and didn’t feel sick. Took part in the pas de géant after tea with G., B., and Bob. How hard it has become for me to work! I strain myself too much in my work. Was again furious, malicious, and angry. Did not mention tonight’s strange dreams, rambling with Bob, the Tarnovsky governess, etc. English language, whist after supper. Played the piano long, returned home half-sick. Looked at a wonderful sunset. Drank tea, walked in the garden. The day was so-so. In the morning took a short walk on the road to the railroad station. Worked. This whist threesome irritates me so that I make myself sick! Nothing results—except for being upset and angered. Then to what purposes do I play whist? Whist with E., duets with my darling, the incomparable, ideal Bob. Ah, how perfect is Bob! How fascinating is Bob! How perfectly charming he is in his white suit. Walked to the railroad station. Flegont is ill, so played whist with Lev (very dull) and for long, as I am ahead in my work. Because Sasha set me two tricks in hearts, I got angry as a madman. Oh, Peter Ilyich. Shame, Holy Father! I’ve been sick since morning. So exasperated, I imagined I would do harm. Sick at the thought of going away. I think it’s on account of Bob. Finished the andante, with which I am very satisfied. Less angry than usual. Played some of my songs for Bob. Before dinner, walked to the forest and back. God, how I love him! Managed to work just a little. There was no whist at all. I confess, whist is almost a necessity for me. Walked all morning. Sick all day, though I worked well. Nata, cousin, Bob (on horseback). Then whist and endless anger. Note: Bob is Tchaikovsky’s sixteen-year-old nephew, with whom he was (secretly) in love; Sasha is Tchaikovsky’s sister; whist is a gambling game, similar to bridge. Alternation of regular print and italics indicates different diary entries. The sestina seemed apt to house the six obsessions chronicled in this volume of his diary. LOVE AND SEX ...

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