Saturday, 20 December 1873

[Crossed out: Between us I am what one calls a horrible little fellow]
My children, what an adorable day today. None of that star that gives light and life -- mild, fresh. We go out as a threesome: I, Hitchcock and Walitsky (brown dress, good). I forget the main thing!
Gioia has arrived! Gioia has arrived! Long live Gioia! That dear woman -- Dina saw her yesterday at the theatre, for she went with Mme de Mouzay; her daughter, the Strikers and my brother, with whom I no longer speak on account of his impertinences, went also. She was in the stage box on the first tier, in black velvet, old lace and diamonds -- great style, but one sees she is no longer insured against fire. So Dina told me. And who knows -- perhaps she loved him; it would not be what is called a pure love, but a love all the same. One must judge everything in its place and according to circumstances. She loved him no doubt as much as one loves in her position. Dear Gioia -- it seems to me I would love her so. I would so have liked to speak to her. I feel for her a sort of tenderness.
I did not see her on the Promenade; it is true that I go there quite rarely and for little time, which several people have told me and about which I am delighted. For I cannot recall without anger how last year I always dragged myself along that Promenade. I walked from the beginning of the Promenade to the house; on the way I stopped at the London House -- ah, that star that gives life and gaiety.
The evening I spend with the family, but sitting apart in a dark corner, arms crossed, listening to what is said. I sometimes like to busy myself doing nothing, but it is still work, for I always think of what I could be doing and how much time I waste.
This evening I took tea in the dining room -- cosa rarissima. I forget again that the Galves have arrived. I saw the Count with Lambertye, that little horror -- but not a disgusting one. And am I mad! I blushed on seeing them. So at last the good crowd is here; it is a consolation. They are truly the only ones here who are proper and as I like -- the entourage, the outfits, the men, everything. They are in a sense my ideals. How unhappy I am not to be able to go to the shoot! For I believe it is better not to go than to go wretchedly; I prefer to cry at home than to cut a wretched figure there. I am reanimated by the arrival of the shoots and the races.

^[Italian in the original: "a very rare thing."]
That same evening I have already caught hold of an old newspaper and read:
-- A marriage entirely decided. The Duke of Hamilton is to marry Lady Mary Montagu, the daughter of the Duchess of Manchester, one of the richest and most beautiful heiresses of the United Kingdom.
The sale of the duke's stables took place, etc. The ice melted; I was deeply moved and nearly wept -- I even wept. I am ashamed of it; I do nothing but cry -- it is so stupid!

^[In English in the original.]
But after all I am still very well off after this catastrophe. I am even insensible, I find. Especially yesterday and the day before I was -- no, I am like water into which one pours a drop of ink; the drop mixes in, one no longer sees it, but the water is no longer so clear... That is exactly what I am.

^[In English in the original.]
I am all the same very unhappy.
I go to bed at eleven.