Saturday, 18 July 1874

We get up late; everyone looks disconcerted. Dina comes back from the Pouhon and reports that she saw Basilevitch there with Gambart, then with de Tanlay and Gericke, and the Greek trailing along at a distance. Maman is angry on Gambart’s account; I am furious on everyone’s! The moment one opens one’s eyes one hears such fine news! I am jealous of that woman. She monopolises everyone; it is distressing -- so distressing that I nearly weep.
We do not go out. I take it into my head to alter Maman’s red dress and spend the afternoon on it.
Vexed I am! And with good reason. Why, it seems to me that I am neither hunchbacked nor ugly. It is true that I have no beard.
Maman complains, I complain, we complain. With good reason, I repeat.
A little before dinner the Greek comes and wants me to sing, so as to teach me how I ought to sing Si vous n’avez rien à me dire. He assures me I would sing it as well as Adelina Patti if I put more feeling and passion into it. How silly he is! Where am I to find passion? The voice leaves nothing to be desired, he says. I ask him to play; I settle on the sofa and pose -- but so little and so naturally that it is not worth mentioning. At a quarter past seven he is to come here so we may go together to Gambart’s.
He comes, but not to go to Gambart’s -- he is indecisive and insists it is not fitting that he go. Then the baron turns up; he is not going either. The reason is clear to me: Basilevitch is not going. It is abominable all the same. Gericke acts foolishly. I stay on the balcony with him; he wants me to show him my foot, and, bending down as if by accident, he uncovered it. I found this an extreme impropriety; but he says one must not be angry. He said nearly everything I say about him, and I repeated it to him, adding that I am angelically good -- otherwise I should have been angry already. He behaves as Walitsky used to behave; today, for instance, he made me chase him round the table, and everyone laughed.
It is too much; at the first opportunity I shall address him thus:
-- Monsieur, I beg you to drop these manners with me. Even the best joke must come to an end, and your ways greatly displease my mother.
If that does not stop him, I shall not speak to him again.
Maman rightly says that if anyone else did a quarter of the things Gericke does, I should know how to stop him, that is true, but and that I permit this one because he pleases me.
He does not please me -- that is to say, he is better than the others, and I am furious when I see him near Basilevitch or Row, although he is near Row only for Basilevitch’s sake; it is then that he seems to please me; but to say that he pleases me to the point of... him -- no.
This evening I went so far as to plead his cause before everyone at home; I said that he does everything in the simplest way in the world, without any intention -- in short, as Basilevitch says, he is a child of nature. In spite of that, they think, and I think too, that he must be stopped; and Maman reminded me of a remark of his about Basilevitch’s bustle, that one must do things with discretion. That convinces me, and I am resolved to tell him what I know. Maman is very well turned out, very elegant: a blue striped skirt and a blue crêpe de Chine jacket, Valenciennes lace, diamonds, pearls; I am in my white and silver dress, my hair as usual, an ugly face (I am unwell).
These gentlemen watch us leave and follow the carriage as far as the Casino; there I put the horses to a trot.
It was livelier than usual at Gambart’s; Angèle, Godefroy and Bouhy sang. Malezieux gave some comic songs in a very amusing way.
in the margin
I was watching the faces, the Danish woman with a fa. and the effect the singing produced. The Polish woman had such a face!!!!!
I spoke Italian with a Venetian count who looked like a cobbler, and so did his countess.
While the ladies were at table the gentlemen stood; I looked at them, and Gambart was the handsomest. We were introduced to a Comte de Jahal, who has settled in Petersburg. Brunet in his old age.
I rowed.
Only at eleven o’clock do they leave. When only we are left, with Body and Mme Godefroy, Body and Malézieux sing the duet: Causons de nos amours passées. In the end it all ended in chorus. Malézieux and his wife lodge in the chateau itself.
I have worn myself out; I never go to bed before two o’clock, often three. It must stop -- I am ruining myself. From tomorrow I change my ways.
We go in to the ball; there is a crowd of people and gowns. Maman danced a great deal; I too danced, but not as much. I was slightly coquettish with Papa; I do not concern myself with Tanlay and Gericke -- at my age it would be labour lost.
Basilevitch has a great sea-green Worth gown, but she looks like a parcel in it. The Robenson woman is pretty and elegant as a bird. And so she was quite surrounded! Basilevitch found herself once more between Tanlay and Gericke. But the best of it is that M. Basilevitch was there. Maman said that they need him.
How he must love de Tanlay! The Spanish duke danced with Basilevitch; he is to marry, they say -- he is a widower with two children.
He resembles Biasini.
We leave and all the men stay with Basilevitch. I come home in a mood that is easy to guess.
Later, from my window, I saw Basilevitch, her husband and her friend coming home.
Maman said that Gericke has not left because she promised him a rendezvous after de Tanlay’s departure. It is not I who say it; it is Maman. Winslow was often near me this evening. Why is it not someone else!
Every evening on returning home I think of him, and sometimes I see him. And I compare.
What I should like to say is so vague that I can barely understand it. It is that -- no. I mean that what I feel for him is something extraordinary, something I do not understand. He too is extraordinary. When I think of him for a minute or two -- the duke captivates -- when I see him -- no, it is better to say nothing. I shall never know how to write what I feel, since I can barely gather my thoughts on this point, untangle them, trembling all the while lest I lose the thread -- the thread I do not hold. Everything in me -- no, it is over! I remember nothing more.

Notes

Written in Russian in the manuscript; French translation by the editor. ↩
Marie’s French title: “If you have nothing to say to me”, a poem by Victor Hugo, popular as a song in the setting by Baroness Willy de Rothschild. ↩
Written in Russian in the manuscript; French translation by the editor. ↩
Written in Russian in the manuscript; French translation by the editor. ↩
Marie’s French title: “Let us talk of our past loves”. ↩
Written in Russian in the manuscript; French translation by the editor. ↩