Tuesday, 21 October 1873

After lunch I have only two hours of piano. I go shooting with Walitsky, Paul, and Trifon. Paul’s gun is very good. We went all around the countryside, for our villa is truly in the country -- with plains, cultivated fields, and even peasants -- without meeting a single piece of game. Walitsky went away; I took the gun and fired at a poor little bird. Barbarian that I am! But I am becoming a passionate hunter and I reason differently -- that is to say, I do not reason at all. I wounded it, but it flew away. Not content with that -- cruel as I am -- I pursued it and knock him down with a second shot. I am beginning to handle the gun with ease. Ah, what a pleasure to shoot!
I received the jacket from Worth; I do not like it. Fortunately, Maman keeps it for herself or for Dina.
At last we go out (green dress, good). On the Quai Saint-Jean-Baptiste we see Wittgenstein with his plain beauty. I saw only their backs. The Princess was seized with a frenzy... suborbital, let us suppose.
“Turn, turn -- oh, quickly, quickly!”
We turned, but alas, too late. The two desired ones vanished like a cloud; moreover, we had to take Paul to the lycée. We waited near the house some ten minutes; going and coming also took time. We lost the finest moment of the promenade, and Wittgenstein besides. The Princess is inconsolable; I am vexed. I should like to see them -- they are the only ones at present who offer any interest, he especially. She is an old puppy; one can apply that Russian proverb: A little dog will always remain a puppy. One must truly be accustomed to her; otherwise I do not understand this Wittgenstein. When we are with Bete we laugh the whole time; often she begins to say something and stops, saying:
“Ah, how tiresome that she is not married! One cannot say everything.”
But sometimes a word, a syllable escapes her, and I understand -- without wanting to. We go to the London House and suddenly in walk the Duc d’Audiffret and Prince Saëtone. They pass to the other side. The Princess wants to see even those. And on the pretext of a sandwich, having finished our chocolate, we go. But alas for her -- we do not find them! Everything eludes us today.
We go home, and on the way we chatter about Wittgenstein, whom she wants to foist upon me. She is mad, this Bete!
I was singing the legend from Faust:
“There was once a king who, faithful to the tomb...”
“But there is no one who is faithful to the tomb,” interrupted Bete.
“Yes there is -- Wittgenstein is faithful.”
“But he is faithful from habit. I assure you, if they wanted to marry him off like Hamilton, for the family, they could very easily, and she would fly to the devil and be so thoroughly shattered that nothing would remain but slime.”
“But it will happen soon; everyone is in the process of...”
“It is the breaking out, Princess, the breaking out!” “So my husband, the first, broke out -- the very first.” And we both burst out laughing.
Bete wonders how Maman can live without love. In truth it is astonishing! I could not!
We are already dining, and we receive a scolding from Maman for having eaten before dinner. I no longer know how, but Neptune is angry and the waves of our charming family life are churning. Paul is scolded by Maman; Papa prevents Maman -- he meddles where he has no business, and by this destroys Paul’s respect for Maman. Paul goes off grumbling like a servant; entering his room, he slams the door. Maman runs after him; Papa rushes after Maman, shouting, without knowing why. I go into the corridor to beg Papa not to hinder the administration and to let Maman do as she wishes. For it is a crime -- even if only through stupidity and lack of tact -- to turn children against their parents. I meet him and say under my breath:
“Papa, leave off -- do not disturb Maman.”
At these words he shouts with the full force of his lungs as if I were murdering him. I was not expecting such cries, and quite astonished, I go back to the dining room.
Papa is like those petty swindlers who, when someone passes near them, cry that they are being robbed, and naturally people think they are truly being robbed by the poor innocents who are only passing by.
It made me laugh -- all these squalls always make me laugh, and then excite my pity for those wretches who, having no misfortune, torment themselves for want of anything to do.
I do not understand Hamilton today -- which means that tomorrow I shall learn some new horror and die of despair.
Every evening I gaze at that dear photograph in which there is a fragment of the Duke of Hamilton.

Notes

In English in the original. ↩
In English in the original. ↩
In French in the original: belle-laide -- a woman who is attractive in spite of, or because of, her plainness. ↩
In French in the original: subhorbitaire [sic] -- Marie’s mangled or invented word, perhaps for suborbitaire (“suborbital”); the meaning is unclear. ↩
In English in the original. ↩
In English in the original. ↩
In English in the original. ↩
In English in the original. ↩
In English in the original. ↩