Sunday, 19 April 1874

The Howards at church invited us for tomorrow evening at a dancing-party, for children (new dress and hat). I asked several times Mama to go to Lewin; there is no time to lose, for Tuesday is the day -- perhaps if we do not go, tomorrow will be too late.
They consent to go tomorrow.
A gentleman, Mr Tchernichoff, was introduced yesterday to Maman; today he came to call.
There is a very bad story about him. His first wife poisoned herself -- some say was poisoned -- and he afterwards married the lady who caused the death of his wife by taking him from her. From despair she died.
They say no woman can resist him. Pshaw! Nonsense. He is an old dog with almost rude manners -- the genre of Sacha Lautrec; that is the best description of his person.
We go with him to the exhibition, but there are too many people -- admission is free today. Then ices at the London House.
He said poussiere in the same sense as I do; he knows what it means. I was astonished and I blushed. When we visited 55 together, he expressed exactly the same ideas as I about the cypresses and everything. Well, we shall meet another time, he said.
He thinks exactly as I do; he reads the words from one's lips; I am astonished. Sono meravigliata.
[Crossed out: In the evening I become angry; it was agreed we would go to the choral competition.]
(A story I can forget. M. Walitsky is to have a duel with another man, for having given him a slap on the hand.)
I was at the Pattons'. Nathalie showed me the house, then I was bored in the garden.
In the evening I become angry. In a few words, here is what happened: it was agreed we would go at eight o'clock to the choral competition on the Promenade -- the illuminations at night are beautiful. Before that, we go to la Musette's, where we find Viviani, who invites us tomorrow to Beaulieu. Maman sometimes has outbursts like Olga Anitchkoff -- well, without a word she left, and we stayed until ten o'clock. At the end, especially when I found myself in the street, I became furious.
Auguste told us that madame is at the London House; indeed, we find her there with Walitsky, Georges, and Tchernichoff. I was furious, and I said a few words to show it to her.
I would have said nothing if she went to the London House for supper, dinner, etc. -- I do not ask to go. I do not want to go. What angers me is that she behaves like Olga -- like a madwoman, like a lunatic!
It is still the lack of acquaintances that causes this; if one saw men more often, one would be accustomed to it and would know how to behave always evenly, and not in fits and starts.
This gentleman is a true Lautrec; he is witty like me, but he speaks French badly.
I was furious not because I did not go to the public garden, but at this erratic behaviour and mad irritation. It produces upon me the same effect as when I speak and no one answers, as Maman, my aunt, Walitsky, and Paul do -- tutta quella bella brigata di cherubini. There is nothing in the world that angers me so.
I must be writing gibberish, because I am raging. He who feels as I do will understand me.
M. Lautrec escorted Dina and me to the carriage (we left in two groups); he kept us a few minutes longer, speaking with an affected frankness but very amicably, if that is the right word; he shook my hand several times, tried to force me to admit I was capricious when I refused his orangeade, and we parted good comrades. Every time he gave me his hand, I gave him the fifth, fourth, and third finger of my left hand. He talked so much and at such length that I took him for an old acquaintance, and I said to him, tapping gently on his hand: Yes, yes -- as good comrades -- au revoir, in Paris. He is exactly like me; it is a pity he is a man, otherwise I would be his friend. But I can be, very well -- he is old and married and not at all to my taste. These manners do not surprise me, since he is exactly like me. He dyes his hair and resembles old Emile and Zenkovski.
One no longer sees the nice boy who pleases me so much -- what a pity. He pleases me greatly, young Emile. I am not surprised that Lautrec No. 2 pleases women. Even Maman lets herself be taken in.
Shall I please men, since I am like him?
He is a good comrade, and I would like him if I did not see that he courts my mother a little. However, he is a great braggart and of an affected simplicity, but I alone notice this affectation; the others take it for genuine.
But I know myself and I know him; I am better than he.
Lewin does not part from Clementine; she is everywhere on his arm. They must be engaged; otherwise it is inexplicable.
I was bored at the windows of Mme de Mouzay, but he came, and those windows -- I would not leave them. I looked below at the vile multitude of men and above at the vile multitude of stars; there is only he. The more he becomes ethereal, the more I adore him, for I long ago ceased to love him -- I adore him. When I think of him, I become so gentle, so calm, so good; I am no longer of this world when I am with him.
Time passes; he recedes, and I love him. Shall I see him one day -- how, when, where? Shall I have the chance to tell him how much I loved him, how dear he was to me?
How shall I see him? Oh, no matter how, provided I see him, that I speak to him -- no, it seems to me I could not speak.
Perhaps, seeing him in ten years, I shall find him grotesque and unworthy, but in the meantime -- may heaven protect him, may he be happy, and may I see him again; these are my wishes.
And if... one day, yes... oh no!

Notes

In English in the original.
Italian: I am amazed.
Italian: all that beautiful brigade of cherubs (sarcastic).