Sunday, 5 April 1874

One evening as I was praying to God, this is the folly that came into my mind: I had my head bowed and my eyes closed. From my right breast emerges the Duke of Hamilton, from the left the Prince of Wittgenstein, and they begin to fight. But the Duke of Hamilton contrives that the Prince of Wittgenstein becomes a little white dog; then the Duke takes the dog in his arms, but at that moment the dog is no longer a dog -- it is I. I saw the Duke, the Prince, and the dog, but myself -- no.

Since that day this madness often returns to my mind.

I slept until noon. They wake me; I dress in haste, for we must go to Mme Teplakoff’s for lunch. A small lunch -- a large one, that is to say; I call it small because there are children. We and Hélène and Lise (brown dress, good). For the past few days I have been doing my hair yet another way: I tie up part of my hair as all little girls do; I part the hair in two, I make two sorts of plaits that I join at the ends and bring these ends back to the nape under the hair. This forms a pretty new coiffure. All the golden hair lies on top; it is very wavy. I do not know if I am mistaken, but in a hat this coiffure suits me very well, especially in the carriage, when one cannot see my short dress. Alas! I did not do my hair this way, but put it up instead.

They placed us with the Howards, Bete, Paul (Dina did not come), Abrial, and the Comte de Camprien in the salon. But they remove the last two. Lise looks exactly like a Dresden porcelain doll; Hélène is not as pretty as she, and Hélène makes faces because she thinks herself the most beautiful of beauties. We go to the children and swing on their swing, which gives me the idea of making one at home.

Lise is the same as ever; Hélène has changed a little because she is a young lady and because she is envious, and Mme Howard has changed too, I do not know why. I stir up Hélène’s envy by telling her what salons we shall have, what a dining room, what furniture, and that we shall receive a great many people; she envies my dresses, my knack for dressing and arranging myself. Who knows? Perhaps I am mistaken. Mme Teplakoff is charming as always.

There were also MM. Patton, Fedoroff, Hasford, Howard and I do not know who else, and ladies: Mmes Bashkirtseff, Romanoff, Howard, Fedoroff, Galitzine and others.

None of these people interest me much, and I could not care less. It was raining, but towards three o’clock the weather¹ turns just the way I like it. The furious sea rolls its yellow waves, the Paillon is furious too, the sky grey-blue, the air pure and fresh, the public in waterproofs and with umbrellas, the streets full of mud and puddles². I quickly have the landau opened; on the Promenade a crowd is strolling, people stop on the bridge, on the jetty, and all along the Promenade.

The landau was closed and I leaned out³ to admire the sea. At that moment the man with the dogs was passing. Had I not been cooled by the air, being outside the window, I should have blushed. To keep from it, I said, putting my head out still further: Ah, what a beautiful sea, and the weather! That is what I love⁴.

I wonder why I should blush. What a misfortune it is to blush -- at lunch I blushed twenty-four times. Lise counted. How lucky they are to walk in such fine weather, Mordog⁵ and Bijou. I love walking so much, and I have no one to walk with.

I do not look at them because she looks at me spitefully. Maman and my aunt go to Mme Antonsky’s, and we -- Bete and I -- go as far as the Place Masséna and come back to fetch them. Once again we met the man with the dogs; he is odd, he seems to be looking for something or waiting for something; he stops as though to see whether his whole household is following him -- his dogs, his bitch -- then walks on again. And he always stops facing the Promenade, and looks.

Bete, looking at the little dog and the bitch, says to me: What a delicious dog!⁶ and she turns round and looks at him. Afterwards she tells me she did not know it was Wittgenstein. I did not tell her, because she would have done something foolish and improper and made these people notice me.

As Maman and my aunt were getting back into the carriage, Wittgenstein etc. went by. Why, there is⁷ Wittgenstein, said Maman, with his kept woman -- old, nasty, ugly. Maman does not look at her, she looks with such malice, so spitefully. What nonsense⁸. In truth, I avoid looking at them, for this woman, this viper⁹ -- that is the proper word -- looks so spiteful when she looks at me.

The ladies go home to the go home to get ready for the Comtesse de Mouzay’s dinner. That woman begged so hard for me to come in the evening. We go with Machenka to Rumpelmayer’s, then I give Dina twenty francs to walk with me. We reach home on foot through all this mud, with Auguste following us: it is amusing. Dina went on at me so much, so very much, that I decide to go to the countess on the third floor. I do it reluctantly, but Dina assures me that if I fail to go this time too, the countess will be furious, that a quarrel that she was so vexed when I did not come the other evening, etc. At last I make up my mind (white dress, hair flowing in the antique style, with a bow behind to modernise it, good). Dina escorts me.

“I enter; the people flee; the sacrifice ceases; the high priest advances upon me in fury; while he was speaking to me, O surprise! O terror!” I see this whole dreadful public, these ladies and gentlemen hiding behind the doors.

I could perfectly well have stayed away; Maman had said I had a cold, and everything would have gone off very well. It is to Dina that I owe this vexation, above all the vexation of having come alone, so inopportunely -- oh!... I felt a little relieved, because I felt myself the best and the only one among all these specks of dust.

They recite, they play, they sing, one after another; and every time, applause.

The guests are ranged along the walls, mute and motionless, listening to the music, the singing, the recitation by M. Lee, a perfect Nekopor¹⁰. After a while there comes in that lame but neat and respectable gentleman whom I have been seeing in Nice for two years. What astonished me was that he did not have himself introduced. He could have been, by the Marquise de Viviani, with whom he was talking and who was sitting opposite us. I was speaking Italian to the marquise. The gentleman turned round quickly. The marquise told me in Russian-Polish (she is Polish and speaks a great many languages) that the gentleman had said: What a fine girl¹¹. She said it in Polish because the gentleman was very near; he has known me as long as I have known him, and perhaps longer. At my request Maman asked the Viviani who he is, when he came in: “He is an Italian marquis.”

We were in the other salon (the countess’s bedroom -- a fine reception!); I saw two visiting cards on the mantelpiece and was trying to read the name when I saw the lame man looking at me; I blushed and spoke to my aunt -- they were his cards. Later I asked her to read the name: Marquis de Laicier-Vento. I do not know for certain whether it is Lacier or Laicier or Liécier. But how did he dare not to have himself introduced? That is what vexes me and what I do not understand.

We soon left without being seen. Maman is ill; she had even kept her hat on.

On the stairs we meet a lady with her daughter -- the wife of a Paris banker, received at court by Eugénie. Mme Teplakoff leaves with us and we drive her home.

When dressing and undressing I cannot help admiring my body. What arms, what a bosom, how well made I am! If I were a little taller I should be perfection. But I hope I shall grow some more.

For some days now I have been falling asleep without composing; nothing will come, I can no longer compose, the heroes have grown old¹²; if I found a new character I could compose again.

Even in dreams one grows weary -- what must it be in reality! I tire of everything and everyone so easily.

Long live change!

At the countess’s there was M. de Saint-Genay, with whom all the marriageable de Ballore girls are in love. He was “delighted to see me again and remembered very well the comedy charade in which I acted.” He is a thorough gentleman, and a proper one. He talked with Paul very amicably, which pleased me. Maman got angry with me, I do not know why. She is ill and becomes irritable, as if enraged -- it is unbearable.