Thursday, 22 April

Last evening at church I saw Mme Voyeïkoff; she greeted me very kindly, and I approach her — [Crossed out: amongst other things she says to me] — after the usual pleasantries.
— Do you know that Julie is getting married? she says to me.
— No, I did not know — and to whom?
— To Baron de Benkendorf, secretary of embassy in Berlin.
— Do come to us then — come and congratulate her.
— Of course, Madame, I shall come and congratulate her with pleasure —
— but you will come too, will you not?
— Yes, certainly, etc., etc.
She urged me greatly to come — but I shall not be the first to call.
This morning, to church again — how it tires me. The incense, the priest, the funeral chanting, the heat.
We meet Mme Voyeïkoff again, and immediately after lunch she comes to see us with Julie and stays an hour talking of the fiancé, the families, the superb family connections, the dowry (no larger than mine — three hundred thousand roubles).
It appears that the little creature is about to enter high society through this marriage — she is allying herself to the greatest families of Russia, Belgium, and France. Need I say that I envy her? And I almost have the right to — for I am pretty, educated, well-bred, while she is ugly and ignorant. Since they have started dressing her as an adult woman she looks considerably better.
On Monday they leave for Paris, and the following Monday for Brussels; there on Tuesday there will be a grand soirée at the mother-in-law's with the King, etc., etc. On Wednesday morning they are married and immediately after the new Baroness de Benkendorf returns to Paris with her husband. In Paris they will stay six weeks. Julie urges me very much to come and see her, promises I shall not be bored — I believe her. From Paris they go to London for the Prince of Wales's ball. Benkendorf introduced the Prince to his future mother-in-law while he was staying at Nice, at the same hotel — the Hôtel de Luxembourg.
You understand what impression this produces on me.
Julie insists I ought to get married at once and proposes her brother-in-law. Unfortunately I am not rich enough to buy a husband. I shall buy one only when I have lost hope of being bought myself.
A husband, as M. Beketoff says, is a luxury animal.
After Mme Voyeïkoff came Mme Angel, who arrived yesterday from St Petersburg where she has lost her mother.
I drive out alone in a closed carriage; it is raining. In the evening we go to the Passion service (hair loose and flowing, black velvet hat — good).
The church is packed; one is stifled. While the priest was reading the sufferings of Our Lord Jesus Christ — ungodly creature that I am — I was noticing the pretty Russian; he too noticed me.
On our return we have the most animated conversation about husbands, marriages, all manner of things. Everyone laughs a great deal because I hold nothing back and say everything. When Maman mentioned that Zoé had been kissing her Cross—
— Ugh! How horrible! — I cried.
— Well, my dear, says Collignon — you will do the same.
— I! Never. Just let him try to kiss me — I shall kick him.
Everyone bursts out laughing.
— Naturally, since I shall not love my fiancé. But if my fiancé were Frédéric — that is another matter.
— But if he pleased you so, why did you not get acquainted with him? asks Collignon.
— But how?
— You should have taken steps.
— I looked at him as much as I possibly could; we looked at each other — and that was all.
In truth I believe they really think me in love with this man. So much the better — he is no cad. I speak of him constantly and keep repeating that I am in love with him, laughing, but I say it no less for that. Dog of dogs! — let them think so; I think so myself.
I love to say it and let no occasion pass to shout it at the top of my voice.
All the time I am thinking of Blackprince and the devil is gradually fading. Truly, I am nothing but a madwoman — I think of everyone, and no one thinks of me. Who knows?
Who knows? — What a foolish thing.
And the Duke of Hamilton — it is you I want, it is you who would suit me, it is you who would satisfy all my ambitions.
But God has not willed it — He will not will Wittgenstein either. And yet that one too would suit me; that one I would not deceive — no — he is handsome, he pleases me.
I fall asleep thinking of him — I think of so many people. Blackprince is, I believe, on my list among those who please me; I must cross off Gericke, who has never pleased me, who is a pale, ugly creature — and of whom, and this is what sends me into a fury, people used to say I was in love.
Ugh, how horrible!