Thursday, 10 August 1876 (29 July)

I cannot forgive myself for having offended the young Horse Guard who was so comme il faut. Yesterday I did not say everything. When he was already red with anger, Nina, with the greatest politeness, asked if the smoke would disturb him — and lit her cigarette.
Poor Yssayevitch came this morning to kiss my hand on the pretext of not having seen me yesterday. He does nothing but say that life at the Russian court would suit me admirably — and an instant later, that he is soon to be appointed Gentleman of the Chamber.
I telegraphed to Nina and she arrived with her daughters to take me to Bergamasco the photographer.
The evening passed in the most perfect calm — we embroidering, Nina reading. In the midst of the Sapogenikoffs, so small, and a M. Boulatzel whom they introduced to me — a very tiny man — I am quite proud of my height.
Nina sat down at the piano. Music always has a singular effect on me — Gounod's especially. Faust excites me, overwhelms me, and moves me to tenderness; I covered my face with my hands, too moved and enraptured to be able to look at the vulgar objects surrounding me. At such a moment I should like to see the sky — or nothing at all.
At supper I continued yesterday's gaiety; everyone laughed, and Boulatzel declared he knew no disposition happier than mine.
In truth I am amusing — I did not suspect it — and happy, since everyone says so.
But this evening is a memorable evening. I cease definitively to regard the Duke of Hamilton as my cherished shadow. I saw at Bergamasco's a portrait of Grand Duke Vladimir, taken eight years ago. I could not tear myself from this portrait — a more perfect, more agreeable beauty cannot be imagined. Giro grew as enthusiastic as I, and we ended by kissing the portrait on the lips. Has one ever noticed the pleasure given by a kiss to a portrait? We did as all finishing-school girls would do — it is the fashion to adore the Emperor, the Grand Dukes; besides, they are all so perfectly beautiful that there is nothing surprising in it. But I carried away from that cardboard kiss a strange melancholy and matter enough to dream on for an hour. I adored the Duke when I might have adored an Imperial Prince of Russia — it is foolish, but these things are not commanded, and besides I regarded Hamilton at the beginning as my equal, as a man for me. I have forgotten him. Who will be my idol? No one. I shall seek glory and a man.
The overflow of my heart will spill out as it has spilled — at random, on the road, in the dust — but without emptying this heart constantly filled by generous springs that will never run dry in its depths.
Where have you read that, Mademoiselle? In my mind, wretched readers.
Here I am, then, free — I adore no one, but I seek the one I shall adore. It must come soon; life without love is a bottle without wine. But the wine must be good.
The lantern of my imagination is lit — shall I be more fortunate than the filthy madman they called Diogenes?

Notes

Faust: Gounod's opera (1859), based on Goethe; enormously popular throughout the 1860s–1880s; Marie knew the work intimately from her years in Paris and Rome.
Grand Duke Vladimir Alexandrovich (1847–1909), third son of Emperor Alexander II; known for his imposing bearing and patronage of the arts — later president of the Imperial Academy of Fine Arts.
Diogenes of Sinope (c. 412–323 BC), the Cynic philosopher who allegedly carried a lamp in daylight searching for an honest man. Marie inverts the image: she seeks not honesty but the ideal man.