Friday, 17 April 1874

Well, what an affair! Mam’zelle Dina writes. Do you understand -- she writes, she writes! And in my room, too, in front of me, beside me, while I write. She is writing to her august mother, I suppose; besides, it does not matter -- the main thing is that she writes. What an affair!
All My winter dresses are done for -- dirty and even torn. Simone ruined two of them; finally, in despair, I ordered one from New Scotland. I did not go to the exhibition because this wretched covering for my body was not ready.
We take Bete along while everyone is at Monaco. Barely have we entered the Promenade when something passes us so fast I hardly saw it and did not recognise it. Dina looked for a moment, then: It is Wittgenstein. -- Where? -- Where?
I would never have believed it was he. A cabriolet like old Emile’s, drawn by a black horse, Russian and quick. With Rosalie. They looked wretched, like bourgeois. I cannot form an idea of this prince -- to live with this woman as with his wife, calmly; to stroll, drive, ride, drink and gamble!
Every day, exactly, he comes home at six o’clock; madame receives the doctor’s visit. All this is so calm, so ordinary, so patriarchal.
A young man, rich and noble, who lives like that! I do not understand it. What a difference from the Duke of Hamilton -- the other was all nobility, noise, gaiety, youth, madness, and at the same time wisdom and poetry. This one is a dull, besotted creature, and I cannot say anything more; I do not know him well enough, neither him nor his life. Only, I do not understand him.
Really, Bete often bores me with her common banalities; today, if you please, she says: I wish she would leave and you were in her place, Princess of Wittgenstein, a millionairess. Last year this did not sicken me, because it was the first time, but now that I know she repeats endless nonsense like a parrot, like a parakeet, I am thoroughly sick of it. It is really so stupid.
Summer is beginning, and she is beginning too. Let us hope it does not last -- Wittgenstein’s marriage, or, to put it better, let us hope it is not the omen of his marriage. I believe I have said that I did not like it when people of the kind I love got married. Besides, he is not of the kind I love; he behaves so wretchedly, so pettily, so tamely, that he looks like a Nice householder; he behaves like Georges. And it is pitiful!
What a strange man he must be. Often, and today, he is repellent and dusty, and brazen into the bargain. But Hamilton was an adorable and divine brazen fellow, whereas this one is a common brazen fellow, unworthy of attention. He is devoid of all originality, and I notice his existence only out of pity that a young, rich, noble and even handsome man should so keep low company and bedust himself [sic]. One can keep low company with originality, but he does it as Gros or Saëtone would.
What is one to believe? We met the Howards on horseback and they sent us a thousand grimaces and kisses.
My pavilion will be covered with greenery and joined to a rustic kiosk set on a rock by a bridge, rustic too, running from my terrace; there will be a little pond or lake. This kiosk will be near the promenade.
“This project so enchanting Sets my heart a-bounding.”

Notes

Written in Russian in the manuscript; French translation by the editor. ↩
Written in Russian in the manuscript; French translation by the editor. ↩
In English in the original. ↩
In English in the original. ↩
Written in Russian in the manuscript; French translation by the editor. ↩
Written in Russian in the manuscript; French translation by the editor. ↩
Written in Russian in the manuscript; French translation by the editor. ↩
Written in Russian in the manuscript; French translation by the editor. ↩
Written in Russian in the manuscript; French translation by the editor. ↩
Written in Russian in the manuscript; French translation by the editor. ↩