Sunday, 5 October 1873

M. Brunet came and we settled the hours. I was at the English church with Paul. Poor Childers preaches miserably. Palajka was brought in -- she is the most wicked, brazen, and mendacious girl. She complained that they nearly killed her, and all manner of horrors. The police see what she is. Maman went to the commissioner, and Palajka has been given until ten o'clock tomorrow to think it over. Whether she wishes to beg forgiveness and be sent back to Russia, or be prosecuted as a thief before the courts.
Maman had gone out with the Princess, and she told me that Wittgenstein, upon seeing Maman, stopped short and stared at her.
"Is it not true that Wittgenstein is charming?" asks Bete.
"Yes, very handsome."
"Adorable?"
"Adorable."
"Handsome?"
"Very handsome. He is better-looking than Hamilton."
"No."
"We saw him today. And how he stared at your Maman!"
"Really!"
"I have changed my mind -- you must have Wittgenstein. He is handsome, charming."
"Princess, Princess, you are mad! And what a choice! Always men with kept women."
"But who hasn't got women?"
"Yes, but that is different."
"Wittgenstein is superb -- not better than my husband, but fine. Tell me, do you not find my husband handsome?"
"Not at all; I tell the truth. Hamilton is fine, Wittgenstein is fine, but your husband -- no."
At one o'clock I wanted to go to Monaco to shoot, but we missed the train, and this happiness is put off until Tuesday. Wittgenstein is the hero of the day, and I blush! Truly it is abominable!
"Yes, Marie, it seems to me you are turning red for Wittgenstein?" says Dina.
"Yes, my dear, twice already -- it is my curse. Tell me, Princess, what must one do so as not to blush at every turn?"
She told me to pinch the tip of my ear.
Only towards five o'clock do we have the carriage, on account of that Palajka. We go out (green dress, blue hat, good) -- Maman, Dina, Bete, and I. Maman is truly very beautiful today. We took a turn along the promenade; passing the Villa Wittgenstein I blushed, but very slightly. Bete noticed and smiled.
I jested with Maman and Walitsky. There is his yacht and his dacha, and all that for whom -- that monster, old, ugly.
I interrupted to continue: "Truly old, painted, wrinkled. Of course Gioia is beautiful, I understand. There is no one more beautiful than she, but she is a monster."
"And a sly one -- to say the least?"
We saw Gioia at the band. She was in a cab near the garden; I told Auguste to draw up beside her, but he did not advance far enough and unfortunately I could not look at her. I saw her in passing. She is sublime. Even Maman said she is pretty.
No, it is plain that the Duke has cast her off.
What, Maman -- she may cast him off, but he cannot cast her off!
Maman has found perfectly what I was looking for -- she knows how to define Gioia, she sees her as I see her, and feels the same thing. She says her features are not beautiful, but that she has something comme il faut, something proud, majestic -- her bearing proud and majestic. But she says it as though she looked down from above, as I do in the end. I am certain Gioia is beautiful. All that remains for me is to envy her and detest her. When I see her, my heart beats, my eyes shine. I admire her and envy her.
I said to Maman, for a laugh:
"You are not as beautiful as Gioia, don't flatter yourself. You are not a tenth of her. Dye your hair, paint your face, your eyes, fix yourself up, and you will do."
"If Wittgenstein will be my good friend, I shall dye my hair."
We jested the whole time.
I have no need to know whether Gioia is made up or natural -- she is beautiful, beautiful, beautiful!
We go to the English Howards'. Dina stays behind, and so do I. I have not yet seen Wittgenstein this year, but I remember him. He is very handsome. I see now that one need not be clean-shaven, red-haired, and stout to please me. It is true that Wittgenstein is dark, plump, and stout -- just my programme. He is fine; I say that, but nothing pleases me like the Duke. I cannot say that Wittgenstein is not handsome. He is handsome, he pleases me, but I love Hamilton.
Let Wittgenstein take the mother and Hamilton the daughter.