Tuesday, 9 June 1874

The deacon is already here; he has invited himself to come and hear Mass. This wretched priest is intoxicated with himself; he assumes airs of a spoiled child, of all that is most adorable in the world, and for all that he is one of the most tedious beings I have ever met. He even forgets himself often -- for example, he sends Paul to buy him cigarettes. I blushed ten times with anger.
This wretched deacon, with tarred boots! We are all ready at half past one.
I believe (white Worth dress, hair loose, not bad, I believe) that for the first time I was not late. The audience is very mixed, too mixed; I did not see a single Christian face except the Vicomtesse Vigier, who is painted delightfully.
What shall I say, poor little ignorant creature, about the Requiem Mass? I do not feel strong enough to criticise. It is very beautiful, extremely beautiful, admirable, but it could have been still more beautiful. I should like to hear it several more times; a piece of music so serious is not understood or judged in a single hearing. There are several passages that escaped me and that I rediscover only now.
Verdi on entering was greeted by frantic applause. It excites me like the races (not one passable face in the choir). I listened attentively to Woldmann and Stoltz, for it is known that once I had some pretensions of my own. For nearly a year my voice has been travelling like “The Three Musketeers,” but I believe that at this moment it is beginning to return. Stoltz makes too great an effort to sing; she looks as if she were ploughing a field rather than singing.
It was a memorable matinee; perhaps I shall be able to boast one day of having heard this mass of Verdi’s sung for the first time in Paris. The heat was excessive, and as soon as we returned we undressed. A telegram. What is it? A thousand francs sent by my aunt -- it is still something when one does not have too much. “Rest... rest... eternal rest!!” Maman was looking out the window, then turning: “Suppose we went to the Bois.” I was about to propose it.
So we go. I am pretty at this moment; I put on Maman’s white muslin dress -- it suits me; in the carriage the length does not show. My straw hat, hair half pinned up, some short curls on the nape (natural). I am pleased with myself, very grateful to my aunt.
But at the Bois I behave like a fool. As soon as we reach the level of the infantry post, the devil drives me; I turn, I catch sight of Fedus -- or merely his grey hat -- and I begin to blush, more from anger that I am blushing than from anything else. To avoid seeing that face I turn my eyes to the side:
-- You see, Maman, there I go blushing -- what a horror.
-- Yes, still, and how! And he is looking at you at the same time.
It is exasperating! So I promise myself revenge at the next outing. We meet Princess Souvoroff, and her daughter on horseback with the obliging gentleman, M. Zveguinzoff. We stop our carriages. She called on us at the Hotel Scribe when we were no longer there. It is a pity; she leaves the day after tomorrow, but this charming person has promised to send a little note to say when she is leaving for certain. She also recommended a tailor for riding habits, next door to us -- Alfred.
Page du carnet couverte d'un dessin à la plume : deux figures de profil, un homme en chapeau et une tête de femme, sur les lignes de la page
Page de dessins : deux silhouettes, dont un homme coiffé d'un chapeau Mon Journal, t. 3 (fac-similé) — tome03.docx image 19 (après ¶3069)
Page du carnet : une femme debout vue de profil, cheveux longs et diadème, en robe drapée, entourée d'un grand ovale tracé à la plume
Page de dessins : une femme en robe, un diadème dans les cheveux, dans un ovale Mon Journal, t. 3 (fac-similé) — tome03.docx image 20 (après ¶3072)
She was going to the Madrid to order a dinner before her departure. An idea comes to me; I shall record it at the end of the book.
I have finished “Twenty Years After.” I have had enough; I read passionately, and I do not want to read books like that any more -- after all, nothing of them remains.
So I am going back to Herodotus, Homer, and Virgil.
It is wiser.
in the margin
The daughter of one one.
We met Count Starginsky in the place Vendôme, and he bowed to Maman as low as possible and with a beaming face; seeing us so often in Nice, he thinks he knows us.
On going to bed I find an orange under the cushion; it is so sweet of Maman that I open the inkwell and the box again on purpose to say so.

Notes

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. ↩
In French in the original: Les trois mousquetaires. ↩
In Italian in the original: spogliamo (“we undress”). ↩
In Latin and Italian in the original: Requiem... requiem... Requiem eterno -- Marie’s Italianised echo of the Latin requiem aeternam (“eternal rest”) from the Requiem Mass; she uses it playfully about money. ↩
Written in Russian in the manuscript; French translation by the editor. ↩
Written in Russian in the manuscript; French translation by the editor. ↩
In French in the original: Vingt ans après. ↩
Written in Russian in the manuscript; French translation by the editor. ↩