Friday, 14 November 1873

At lunch we had a great religious debate. Everyone was talking and shouting. They are absurd -- especially Bete, who maintains that the priest represents Christ, the Pope likewise, that the wine and the bread are the true flesh and the true blood of Christ. And a hundred similar follies. I argued, I tried to prove my point, I shouted, but they are blocks of wood. Then Bete pities me -- it is a pity I have no religion, that I do not know the truth, etc., etc. She fidgets me. I turn red, my face burns; without wasting more time and words I take paper and write a letter to the deacon in Paris. Bete dictates the questions so I can no longer dodge the point when I am right. It is truly pitiful, the ideas they have! It excites me, exasperates me, martyrises me! And they have the audacity to say I do not believe in God! Walitsky is one of the most absurdly ignorant. He dared say that in the Catholic religion they suppressed the wine only ten years ago, because of people who ate nothing and were sick. That takes the cake!

^[In English in the original.]
Enlighten their poor minds, oh my God! We go out walking, Hitchcock and I (mackintosh, black hat, boots, very good); it rains the tiniest bit, but on reaching the tabatiere the rain stops, and just as yesterday (I posted my letter to the deacon) -- delicious. I love Nice after the rain: a few drops still falling, everyone comes out, and little by little the promenade fills up -- blue dresses, waterproofs, mackintoshes on the men, boots, umbrellas, dogs: that is what I love to see. We go as far as the Villa Stirbey more or less, and turn back to take the carriage, which keeps us waiting until a quarter past four; then I am obliged to go home and my dear promenade has ended so soon. Alas! Today I wished to walk for a long time; perhaps then the promenade would lose its charm. It is like my bed: on rising I am in despair, I want to lie down again, it seems so warm, so good; but if I lie down again and rise in an hour, it bores me and no longer has any attraction.

^[In English in the original.]
Now I leap from bed at the first waking so as to leave regrets and pleasant memories. One must never let oneself be seen too much, even by those who love you; one must depart right in the middle and leave regrets, illusions. One will appear finer; one will seem more beautiful; one always longs for what is past. They will desire to see you again, but do not satisfy that desire immediately -- make them suffer. Not too much, however; that which costs too much trouble loses -- after so many difficulties, one was expecting better. Or else make them suffer too much, more than too much, and they will say to themselves (even if you are ugly) that she must be something quite extraordinary for everyone to seek her and for her to be so rare; and without deliberating further they will decide that you are something extraordinary.
Then you are queen.
Termosiris dines -- poor boy. He is a little harmless reptile.
In the evening I was leaning against the princess's mountains, and the religious question was renewed. Then she tells me she believes in miracles, that a mountain could enter this room, that if three persons come together to pray, their prayer will be granted by Christ:
"Well then, fetch Nadinka and we shall go pray."
"What shall we pray for, then?" asked Bete.
"We shall say: make, my God, the Duke of Hamilton's wife die, and let him marry me."
"No, that's stupid; I shall not say what I shall pray for."
"Then it doesn't count."
"Well, you see -- they say the prayer will be granted at three, because no one will share their prayer with three people, and so it is impossible."
"No, but not everyone prays for Hamilton or for a hat."
I cannot imagine that winter in Nice can come without his... no, nonsense.
I think Gioia is coming back.
Why does he not...