Tuesday, 1 June 1875

Heavens above!
What weather! Wind, dust, storm.
I go out with Collignon and Dina. Maman and the others are at Monaco. At the concert we see Girofla, who only passes by.
At Rumpelmayer’s, as I was entering, he came to shake my hand. What manners!
We were at a table across from his; he was with Danis and others. I called Prater (my beloved dog) Girofla — Collignon and Dina laughed, and so did I.
I regret not having said something to the little one — a word, a phrase, anything at all. Oh! yes, I regret it. When he came to offer me his hand, saying: Good day, Mademoiselle, how do you do? — I ought to have said something other than Thank you, Monsieur. I regret it. After all, it is not a disaster.
I have arranged my hair so gracefully — it is so golden and light as to be a delight. My eyes shine and are animated; in a word, my face is luminous. I am so pretty that I do not know what to do with myself. (As I write) — a face worth painting, light, fresh, radiant, and the eyes simply grey but sparkling with mischief and contentment.
See, good people, what it means to have a hint of — how to say it — a hint of a suitor. I had one before, but I detested him; whereas this one I do not detest at all. This would therefore be entirely new — the other does not count, since I hated him and still hate him terribly.
My God, that man will do me some mischief — such a hatred is not natural.
What a pity that no one can see me. Oh, how pretty I am — not only pretty, but graceful, animated, witty-looking (I speak of my face). No one will read this — I may well tell the truth.
But, as if on purpose, I am only pretty like this in the evenings at home, in my house dress, where I always am no one sees me.
This curly wavy, golden hair sets off my beauty, especially around the forehead and temples — these last have a silvery shimmer and go in little ringlets like a halo around me. I have seen Psyche painted on a magnificent Sèvres vase — well, I resemble her like a portrait.
What a pity one cannot see me — for no one will believe what I say here; they will perhaps mock. And yet I tell the truth, nothing but the truth. They will say I think I am telling the truth, that I am deceiving myself — but no, not at all.
in the marginannotation ultérieure de Marie, 1880
[Annotation: 1880. That beauty did not last. I was not deceiving myself — so I can see clearly that my face is no longer nearly so good now: but the figure is better...]
I can see well enough when I am plain. Besides, nothing is more changeable than my face.
It is Audiffret, no doubt: by the way, he came yesterday to call on us — I found his card on my dressing table.
So I was saying — it is Audiffret, no doubt, who brings good fortune to my face.
Maman has noticed this change and told me so, and my aunt too.
My God, let my face stay in this state.
In five minutes perhaps I shall become merely passable again.
I have just looked at myself again... The eyes are almost black and the lips moist — whatever is the matter with me? But whatever is the matter with me?
The eyes almost black and the lips moist — whatever possesses me to be so pretty? It is worrying and not natural.
I am today, as every day since Audiffer’s introduction, agitated and animated. It is tiring — but I shall grow accustomed to it.
Let us amuse ourselves, let us amuse ourselves —
While we are young / Gather, gather your youth. / As from this flower old age / Will dim your beauty.
Above all, if I must submit to Miloradovitch, let us occupy ourselves with Audiffret — they resemble one another, which is very convenient — and not only that. Maman said yesterday at the theatre, with a radiant face:
— Nadia, what did she want, after all? To make his acquaintance.
— A nobody, replied my aunt, in the tone in which she might have said dear angel, looking at me.
They exaggerate — we know him not because I wanted it, but because he wanted it. No matter.
My God, I asked You for a little romance, and You seem to be granting it. Do not withdraw, be indulgent! I am impatient for tomorrow.
I am impatient for tomorrow — I am quite agitated — I rush to bed to shorten the time.
This is the third time I have pulled this diary from its box to add the things passing through my head. I am all in turmoil — and so is my writing.
If I thought, if I composed — but I write as I think and what I think, above all as I think.
I am walking on air for joy!
I see myself as beautiful and it seems to me the world is mine.
I wrote to Paul a letter with Latin quotations, to put my father in his place (I was about to say “my scoundrel of a father” — but that is not right).

Notes

In Niçois in the original: Cap de Biou ! — a southern oath, apparently a form of the Occitan cap de Diou (“head of God!”). ↩
Written in Russian in the manuscript; French translation by the editor. ↩
Written in Russian in the manuscript; French translation by the editor. ↩