Sunday, 3 May 1874

I have just been walking on my terrace; it is eight o’clock in the evening. It has rained all day; only now has the water ceased to fall. The air is deliciously pure. During this walk, this is the thought that crosses my mind: I am fifteen years old and I have not written a single love letter, exchanged a single meaningful glance, a single kiss (as for the last, it is useless and wrong, but almost all girls my age have done it).
written across the page
It is my family who made me believe it by moralising at me. They stirred my pride by saying I was almost the only one so pure.
There was, three years ago, a sort of silly business with Rémy de Gonzales, but that was three years ago! That is three centuries or three days. Since then, absolutely nothing -- it is disheartening and stupid, for that makes three years wasted. All this is because we know nobody.
I am going to write instead of read, for I am the most interesting of books.
I remember at Baden, I had invited all my friends. We were playing hide-and-seek; the candle went out -- which is what I had been waiting for, having taken care to be the one seeking. Then I held out my hand to Rémy, who pressed it. But afterwards, the reckless one, that rascal Rémy tried to dare to kiss me; but by an adroit and astonishing movement I freed myself, quickly so that instead of my cheek, which he was preparing to kiss with a great sigh, it was my hand that he kissed, seizing it in both of his.
That same evening, as we were supposed to go out into the garden to give the others time to hide, I found myself with him in the garden, and he brought his face so close to mine that I had to draw back. I am pleased to be able to say that never has an unholy mouth touched my face, and that for my part I have never kissed anyone. The hand does not count. Stephan also kissed my hand.
crossed outBut this Gonzales me
Rémy guessed my thoughts, since he thought as I did; as soon as it grew dark he found me -- I do not know by what chance -- and as if to begin, pressed my hand. That is no doubt enough; but after all he never said anything to me, and yet I understood.
To finish When this boy was leaving for Stuttgart, Maman and I found ourselves at the station; I was holding a flower:
-- Give me that flower, Marie, so that I may still remember you, he said almost cry with tears in his eyes.
I held it out to him, laughing: -- What nonsense.
When he had gone, his father used to come and find me every day by the gaming table, and we would walk. That man maintained that one could talk with me as with a grown-up, and that I was astonishing for eleven.
Some time later the boy came home from school for some holiday or other, and one rainy day I was sitting near the in the embrasure of a window in the great hall -- by the last window on the left -- when Rémy came and sat down near us. At that moment I saw Berthe crossing the courtyard; she came in and began walking about the hall. And I, on purpose so that she would hear, kept saying to Rémy:
-- Say what you like, I love Berthe, and there’s an end of it (I had heard this phrase at the theatre and liked it very much). The fifth time, she came up to me (old Gonzales had introduced us three or four days before) and stayed chatting a few minutes. Triumphant, I remained seated while she stood. Rémy, a real child, turned his back on her and did not say a single word the whole time.
How satisfied I was at that moment! I was so proud. It was after the hero’s departure that I was often with Berthe, when we went walking in the evening around the Conversation House. The first day we were introduced she saw me back to the hotel -- no, it was not the first day, but the second.
It was in the vestibule, the one they put up only in autumn, that we were introduced; we greeted each other lightly, and I held my hands behind my back, leaning against the wall. Dear Berthe, how I love you, how I love everything that is Baden or from Baden!... I shall make a pilgrimage there as soon as I can! It is a happiness I shall await with impatience, with delight! I began with jokes and I end with sighs.
That lovely time! How I long for it -- the only time I have loved and longed for in all my life!
What incomprehensible sadness is invading my soul? It seems to me that my whole life is going to breathe itself out in these sighs that weigh on my breast!... I can hardly breathe... I needed to unburden myself; I stood before the mirror and sang a song without words, of my own, which ended in a roulade and a note into which I put my whole soul. I feel better after that. It is not that wretched boy who brings back these memories; it is when I come to Berthe that I sigh.
But enough, since I am no longer saying what I meant to say when I began. I cannot read this evening; I am too full of myself and of memories that I am going to untangle.
I shall say nothing more this evening, for I have so much to say that I would have to spend the night writing; and besides, one can never properly express what one thinks -- can I describe my thoughts, my memories? I see every tree in Baden, every leaf, every shop, the face of every shopkeeper, every chair, every little grain of sand... I see the shadows those trees cast; I see the English shop, that general meeting place; I see... no, that I do not want to see!...
I can only repeat, sighing and smiling through my tears: Oh, that lovely time!
Shall I ever be so happy again?
I think it is rather as a memory that I was happy at Baden
With Dina I go to the Howards’. They are just as they used to be. I gave them several more quite unmistakable lessons. But I cannot, I will not describe anything; it bores me. On the way to their house I saw Wittgenstein on foot, muffled up and under an umbrella in this rain, on the Promenade. He walked, as always, with his head down.
Mlle Durand is marrying Lewin, that is certain.
How funny it is: five minutes ago I was in the most romantic and sighful frame of mind, having begun gaily, and now I am indifferent enough to go to Maman, who is back from Monaco. She is better, and our journey is drawing near.

Notes

Marie’s word: soupireuse, [sic] (from soupirer, “to sigh”; not standard French). ↩