Saturday, 28 June 1873

At five they brought the two horses; we ate in haste and I ran to dress. This morning, while I was at my piano lesson, Walitsky came; he gave Manotte — who leaves the day after tomorrow — a watch in a waistcoat of Maman's for his daughter. He demanded of me a photograph with an inscription, a souvenir, etc. etc. They called me downstairs; I asked why, and no one would answer. I was a little frightened, thinking they had found a diary or some foolishness I had written. It is an ugly habit I have, scribbling everywhere. Fortunately, it was only an English governess who will come to speak with me a few hours a day. She is old — the type of Russian nursemaids.
I return to the horses. Off we went, Paul and I. It is too hot — I could barely hold out. Maman, Dina, and Khalkionoff followed us in the carriage. I trotted fairly well, but the horse always wanted to gallop. We returned around seven; the sun still burned. My hand was numb — the horse has a hard mouth. I had a splendid flat-out gallop.
After dinner we played croquet, but in the middle of the game the Anitchkoff children arrived with their nursemaid. They drove me mad, walking on the balls, knocking down the hoops. A serious player would understand my indignation. Then it grew dark and I had to let everything go as it would, since I could see nothing. Khalkionoff played. We talked of horses.
I am writing this diary and Dina is playing the piano. She has such mournful pieces — they make one sad. There is feeling in her playing; each note strikes my heart; it teases and is charming at the same time. I went out on the balcony, and the light in the room reminded me of the evening of the ball at the Boyds' in Baden. I was passing their house and saw two figures on the balcony — Berthe and the Duke. He was making fun of her. I pity her; she resembles me in many things — the same desires, the same fantasies. Oh! my God, how I wish I were in Baden! When I think that not a day went by without my seeing him at least once and without people talking of him. Papa was acquainted with him — I even remember one morning when I saw him in a very high carriage drawn by four horses; he was driving. And how I laughed when Walitsky told us:
What a scarecrow, that Hamilton — he has harnessed his racehorses and is driving about.
Then I would see him almost every morning at eight, nine o'clock — trousers tucked into his boots, cravat dirty, grey hat crumpled with the ribbon turned back and only covering half the hat. He walked along whistling, with his carefree air. If I soil ten more pages I shall not manage to describe him to myself as I see him. I can only say that the more I think of him, the more I remember him, and the more I love him.
That Berthe, who told me stories of him and Gioia. She wanted me to understand that it was over and that it was she, Berthe, whom he loves. Poor fool!
[In the margin: This is written in a grotesque fashion and the expressions are vulgar and ugly. Ugly — they will mock them.]
If ever anyone reads this, he will not mock it — if he has loved, and especially for the first time.
But the truth must be told: he is handsome, he has a noble air, and above all — he is not an ugly dandy, nor is he a slovenly one. He has a style all his own. He is everything that is handsome, great, noble, witty, good. How I wish I could see him! I have a true picture of him only at the pigeon shooting. I shall stop, for I am beginning to become ridiculous — I have been so for a long time, with my descriptions, my enthusiasms. If even he were to read this, he would mock it, for he would not understand what I meant to say. He would take it quite simply for the enthusiasms of a little girl, a fool, a madwoman, an imbecile. Let him think what he will.

Notes

In English in the original.