Saturday, 6 December 1873

In four days.
I am impatient; how slow they are. How impatient they must be.
Yesterday's journal is the true picture of what goes on inside me: confusion.
I go out with Hitchcock (blue dress, black hat, fine) -- this dress is adorable. We go to Seraphine's for a few minutes; Maman and my aunt are at her house. I walk along the promenade on the way home. There are a great many people. La Delaroche is becoming prettier and prettier; I am getting used to her face.
Every day there are little explosions on account of our life. Paul is a lost boy; it is truly pitiful.
I am in a rage. I, who am always preaching -- I was a few minutes late for Brunet at four o'clock and the servants sent him away. I missed a lesson; it vexes me. Solominka and Bete are in my room -- they are bitter enemies, and Walitsky amuses himself by goading them on.
I reviewed my rags. I have absolutely nothing to wear in the evening. So in the evening I wrote to Worth and to Ferry. We stay behind, just Bete and I; Dina, Maman, and my aunt have gone to the opera -- they are giving La Traviata.
So there we stay, Bete and I -- I say nothing of that English turkey. What is more detestable in the world than a detestable Englishwoman! Bete bangs on the piano and I do too -- an infernal noise -- and with all that we talk of Mt.'s marriage, of Thadee Sergueyevitch Romanoff; then of me. She always predicts two husbands for me; the first or both will die quickly, and with the first I shall not live happily. And the third, she says, will be a left-handed marriage -- but that can never be. We, she and I, would like to be the greatest beauties in the world, and we say what follies we would commit. It is true that if I were the greatest beauty in the world I would do everything most extravagant and even the impossible -- dresses, and more dresses (beautiful ones). Bete says that if she were the most beautiful she would marry Yalovitski (by the left hand -- sinistra).

^["Sinistra" -- left-handed -- in Italian in the original.]
-- No, I say; I could never do that.
-- Oh, you would do it well enough if you were the most beautiful and if he pleased you.
-- But I should choose something better, something fine -- you understand me; everything that is best in the world -- you understand me.
-- Yes.
-- At least a king.
(As I write they are coming back from the Opera.) Then we get up and somehow there are sparks beneath our feet; we were truly very surprised and we laughed like madwomen.
Afterwards I understood that it was a match we had crushed.
I am empty, empty; I understand nothing. How beautiful he seems to me.
I cannot end my writing without speaking of him; when I say a word or two of him I am calmer and clearer.