Saturday, 7 June 1873

The Apollo Belvedere that I am going to copy bears a slight resemblance to the Duke — the expression especially. When one looks at it all at once, it is very like him: the same way of carrying the head, and the nose is like his.
The bodice of the grey batiste dress displeases me to such a degree that every time I put it on I am in a bad humour. To spare myself this vexation, I have sent it to be remade. At two o’clock we went to see Mlle Collignon off — Maman, Dina, and I. She made her farewells with everyone rather tenderly, with embraces. I was very composed and gave her advice for her journey — very practical advice. Not without a certain — not regret, but habit — I watched her go. I am astonished at how little her departure cost me. She was not at all moved; not one word of any particular meaning passed between us. And so she is gone! If only we can find a good governess! (grey batiste dress).
In town for the dress and other small errands, then to the Countess de Mouzay’s. There we found Mme de Ballore and Boumini, the daughter of Tambourini. They began to speak of my hat, then my dress, then my hair, my face, my figure, and finally my character, my opinions, my convictions, etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. This general analysis lasted quite a long time. Mme de Mouzay sang my praises — that I am firm, that I am ultra-logical, that I reason like a sage, that I have a fully formed character, that I say my husband will love me always, that I shall know how to make myself loved — and a host of other things.
Inwardly I thank her very much, but I said nothing to her.
At home, M. Tchernikoff came to see us, and he, Solominka and Walitsky are going to this new theatre. We are not going — it is not proper.
At nine the carriage comes and we four go out. Grand-papa is a little moody. After every governess’s departure it is the same thing. This Collignon, if I am not mistaken, had designs on him, and he believed her in good faith — the poor old man let himself be wound round her finger. It will pass in a few days, in any case.
But let us return to our drive. The moonlight is very beautiful, the air calm and pure. Dina begs to go to this theatre; my aunt opposes it, saying it is a café, it is common, it is bad, that it is a disgrace to go there — and all sorts of horrors, until we had quite lost the wish.
We stopped near the theatre and Maman had Walitsky called out. He comes out and tells us not to go in — that there are only... and peasants, that they smoke, that it is a café. We leave — but only to come back. Maman said we could go in, have a look, and leave, for one cannot much believe Walitsky: he presents everything in so dark a light! We hesitated a few minutes at the door but did not dare enter. We had first-class seats for the stalls. In the gallery one pays less. We went up there to be less seen. We called Walitsky over, and after seeing what it was — and staying five minutes — we left. It is truly not decent! I am glad to have gone; I shall have no wish to go back.
In the carriage we spoke of the fate of courtesans like la Soubise, la Gioia, etc. Speaking of the latter, I wanted to learn Maman’s opinion of the relations between her and him — but she did not speak of Hamilton. She knows, no doubt. I have betrayed myself with my stupid blushes. It is like a disease with me: from dreading so much that someone will mention him to me, I am always ready to blush. They speak of something and I tremble lest they pronounce his name; they name someone else and I blush in advance. So that now, at every name, I blush.
Today at dinner I rose from the table once to avoid blushing.
They mentioned the Michels and I was embarrassed. Such a position is a horror! I am nearly ill from it!
Soon we go to Vienna with my aunt. Manotte was very pleased with me this morning. I played part of the Mendelssohn concerto in G minor without a single mistake. It is half past ten when I finish; I am tired. My greatest happiness now is to go to bed.

Notes

In Italian in the original: composta. ↩