Saturday, 12 July 1873

Today, four and a half hours of piano; the Mendelssohn concerto in G minor is finished. I shall study it further to get up to tempo.
After dinner we went to the Pattons'. I found Bebe in tears; the cause was that Mme Patton had scolded Miss Catherine, and Bebe and Catherine had both wept. She is a very good little girl, but in love with Paul. It is so droll to see this in children. Paul offered her his arm; when he speaks she listens so intently, she seems afraid of losing a single one of his words. It is so ridiculous! We were sitting in the garden: Paul, Bebe, and I. I played a stupid part there — I could not help smiling; fortunately it was dark. They lit fireworks; there again Paul wanted to show himself a hero, holding the thing in his hands, and Bebe truly believed him a valiant knight. At last, when the smoke hurt his eyes, she was anxious. She runs after him like a little dog. It was very droll.
Paul lit a cigarette in the garden that evening, and... I am ashamed to keep returning to the same thing... I imagined that he was there, smoking too, beside me. I am mad — but I can write what I wish; no one will read this nonsense. Before myself I am not ashamed to confess that I love him a hundred thousand times — I love him! Who can prevent me? No one in the world. I am free to love him. If he does not love me, I shall die! No — I shall love another. I shall no doubt regret him.
It is decided that we shall wait another week or two; there are epidemics of every sort in Vienna. I do not believe it. Prudence is no harm; we do better to wait. And then I entrust myself to God and the Blessed Virgin. They will keep me; I shall pray; They will keep me from all misfortune. They are merciful to me.
I come back again to the Duke of Hamilton; I am vexed at having let myself be carried away like this. I love him very much now; to rid myself of it is nearly impossible. I have strength of character — I could have rid myself of it at the beginning. But it is so beautiful to love; I let myself go. I knew I must not, that it is useless, that he will never love me... And who knows? He may marry, or drop dead somewhere, drunk! What should I do then? Well, he is a debauchee, a bad sort, a drunkard, a good-for-nothing — it is not worth weeping over him; he is not worth it. I shall console myself very quickly over the death of that nasty beast; I will speak of him no more; he may take himself far away. Ah! no — those words may bring him ill luck! I do not wish it! I want him to live. And with my stupidities I may perhaps bring him ill luck. Forgive me, my God, and keep him!
No, truly, if he leaves me aside I do not know what I shall do! Yes I do — I shall pray to God, and He is so good; yet one must deserve His goodness. I do not do all that I ought; I want to work doubly hard to deserve something from Him. I write this at my table in the bedroom, one evening.
[Undated, at the top of the penultimate page of the notebook]
A bodice in the shape of a rose or other flower, front and back fastened at the shoulders by garlands of small roses.
At the costume ball.
[Undated, at the top of the last page of the notebook]
Heart's ease "in 2 volumes"
"Bombay and son"
"The last days of Pompei" by Bulwer [Lytton.] "Mrs Haliburton's troubles" by Mrs Henry Wood. "Mabel Vaughan" by the author of "the Lamplighter" "The select works of Oliver Goldsmith".

Notes

In English in the original.