Friday, 14 May 1875

Editors’ note
[One line crossed out]
I have written to Paul and to Sacha, so that they may make clear to my father that I am going to Russia — not to stay with him.
He might well think so — and I should be furious.
I am sad beyond all precedent. The thought that I shall never be what I want to be weighs on me more than a mountain. And I miss the man so terribly that I catch myself thinking we are in 1873 and not 1875.
One thing consoles me: it seems to me that he does not love her. But I picture her very clearly, and I want to describe her here, so as to compare later.
She is of medium height, with a pretty figure and square, high shoulders — like Gioia — and she [One line crossed out] is slimmer than Gioia. Dark, with a rather deep and matte complexion, very black eyes beneath equally black brows that are severe in expression.
The mouth a little large, but pleasant — and a square chin.
I see her thus — dressed in a light unbleached garment, open-work embroidered, brown skirt, and a hat of the sort I am wearing at present.
I should like to know whether I have guessed right. Guessed or not — this creature torments me greatly, above all because I know myself to be better than she is.
I have grown pale since yesterday — small wonder. I am still astonished to be alive, not to have been burned, annihilated, pulverised by anger, anxiety, and envy!
In the evening at the Théâtre Français they are giving La Boule^[French title: roughly “The Hot-Water Bottle” — Meilhac and Halévy’s comedy (1874).] and Ravel is playing. I am in white and pretty — why?
Audiffer is below in the stalls; I grow irritated, I do not understand — the peasant. Am I already so ugly? Is he in love elsewhere?
He has such a young, fresh face that I want to look at him — that is, to talk about him; as for actually looking at him, no indeed — he would imagine a thousand things.
He is the only man here and I want him — if there were several, I should want them all. No, truly, his imperturbable behaviour enrages me!