Sunday, 2 November 1873

We arrive halfway through the mass -- myself, Dina, and Paul (blue dress, very good) -- how ugly and badly dressed the Skariatines are! There are already a great many Russians; the carpet is laid and the choir is here.
It is raining. I still cannot get used to Hitchcock. It is so tiresome having a beast to home.

^[In English in the original.]
She goes to the English church. We go out, myself, Bete, and Paul; we go to the London House and have a madman's lunch. Just imagine -- in the confectionery of the London House, three small round tables of different heights pushed together, on which one sees served all at once: chocolate, smoked salmon, ices, cakes, sandwiches, strawberries, foie gras, and grapes, without cutlery -- because we ordered haphazardly, one thing after another. If a Frenchman saw us mixing grapes with chocolate and ices with ham, he would die of indigestion merely from watching us.
But we, blessed creatures (I changed my dress and hat: waterproof and black hat, good), pay no attention to such trifles and do not sully our tongues by speaking of stomachs and digestion.
I take grapes with us in the carriage and go with Paul to look at guns. A crowd gathered in front of the shop while we were examining the guns. We then went to fetch Walitsky -- he is a better judge. We turned the entire shop upside down and left offering a hundred and eighty francs for a gun they were asking two hundred francs for.

^[In English in the original.]
I am seated beside Hitchcock at dinner; it is very, very tiresome to have a stupid newcomer beside one. You'll get used to it, you'll get used to it! Well, it seems I shall. I spoke a little more with her after dinner and showed her my school-room, my exercise books. She was seated in the armchair and I on the floor; we happened to speak of the colour of the hair; she detests red hair and said to me:

^[In English in the original.]
-- I don't advise you to marry an Englishman with red hair; it is a proof of bad temper, he will beat you, a red-haired man.

^[In English in the original.]
-- Why, I always thought that red hair was a sign of good temper.

^[In English in the original.]
Well then, I am told that redheads are ill-natured; I myself have seen in the Duke of Hamilton's face that he is capricious and bad tempered, but I do not love him any less for that. On the contrary, that Neronic expression pleases me; the more faults he has, the more he shall please me. I am not like everyone else -- I love what others do not love, and I do not love what others admire. In everything it is so: they admire I Promessi sposi, I find it stupid; they love the Italian language, I detest it; they admire the Italians, dark eyes and dark hair -- I cannot bear them. They do not like redheads, I adore them; they find it ridiculous to dress like Hamilton and Merck, I find it sublime. Everyone detests drunken men; I do not detest them in the least.

^["Bad tempered" in English in the original.]
When Georges gets drunk, Dina, Maman, my aunt -- they all grow angry and anxious and provoke Georges, drive him to folly, needle him and make him furious. I do the very opposite: I treat him as a sick man with whom one must agree. If he wants to smash the windows -- smash them, my dear, shall I help you? If he wants to drink -- let us drink together, how lovely it is to be tipsy. In this way one calms him, and all is peaceful and happy. Whereas Dina takes the wine away from him, looks at him with disapproving eyes, does not speak to him, and scolds. Naturally it provokes him. I am most extraordinary: if I loved a poor man and he loved me too, I would detest him, for I am accustomed to luxury, and poor I would be as miserable as the man who was with me. Moreover, I feel an aversion toward poverty -- loving a poor man -- otherwise not, no doubt.
Suppose Hamilton were not married, that I love him, and that I learn he is simply Mr. Hamilton with five hundred pounds a year. I would weep over that as over his death, and I would hate him -- I could not cease to love him and become indifferent, but I could no longer bear his presence, even his name; I would detest him with fury, with relentlessness. He would seem to me wretched, pitiable, contemptible, repulsive, dreadful.

^["Contemptible" in English in the original.]
That is not to say I love only fortune, for even if Barnola were the Duke of Hamilton, I could never love him.
Never could a man beneath my station please me; all common people disgust me, exasperate me.
A poor man loses half of himself; he seems small, wretched -- he has the look of a schoolteacher.
The consciousness of his poverty and of having to be thrifty and prudent (horror!) gives him a timid, pitiable expression. Whereas a man who is rich, independent, carries with him pride, a certain easy, comfortable, and assured air. Assurance and a certain victorious air are if not everything, at least a great deal. And I love in Hamilton that confident, majestic, defiant, capricious, vain and cruel air. He has something of Nero.
^[However, one must not ruin oneself while rich, for one would be reduced to economizing.]
While I write, at Maman's they are speaking of the Russians. I expressed my contempt for Poltava, her inhabitants, society, and my dislike for Russians in general. I very comically described the society of Poltava with animal epithets and droll ones (through the door). I said they are not dogs (I have the habit of saying "dogs" at every instant; it is my expression) and pigs, which are noble animals (because I consecrate the pig and the cow to the god Hamilton), but that they are bedbugs (I dare not say the word in French).

^[In English in the original.]