Tuesday, 15 August (3 August 1876)

The house is as cheerful and bright as a lantern. The flowers are fragrant, the parrots talk, the canaries sing, the servants run about. Towards eleven o’clock a jingling of little bells announced my neighbour. It was M. Hamsley — would you not take him for an Englishman? Well, not at all: an old and noble family of Little Russia. His wife is one of the Prodgers of these parts. As my luggage had not arrived (we got off one station too early), I appeared in a white dressing gown. What an immense difference between me now and me a year ago! A year ago I hardly dared speak — “I knew not what to say,” like Marguerite. Now I am grown up. This gentleman lunched with us: what would you have me say of him and of the others I shall see? Excellent people, but you can smell the provinces on them a league away.
Towards dinner, which follows very close upon luncheon, another visit: the brother of the aforesaid; a young man who has travelled a great deal and is, for all that, very obliging. The sudden arrival of my eight trunks brought us two romances sung by me, and some piano-playing. Then I took up my embroidery while plunging up to my ears in a conversation on politics in France, displaying knowledge above my... sex.
This second Hamsley, so very bearded, stayed until ten o’clock.
Until eleven I tired my poor voice, barely recovered from the harsh climate of St Petersburg.
In blessed Chpatowska one does nothing but eat: one eats, then one walks for half an hour, then one eats again, and so on all day long.
I was walking slowly, leaning on Paul’s arm, my thoughts wandering heaven knows where, when, as we passed beneath branches that hung very low over our heads and formed a ceiling of interlaced leaves, I imagined what Antonelli would say if I were on his arm, walking down this path. He would say... — it is a bit steep, writing down one’s fancies!... He would say, leaning slightly towards me, he would say in that languorous, penetrating voice he used only with me..., he would say... “How pleasant it is here, and how I love you.”
Nothing can give an idea of the tenderness of his voice when he spoke to me, when he said things meant for me alone. Those tiger-cat ways, those eyes that burned you, and that enchanting voice, veiled and vibrant, murmuring words of love and seeming to complain or to plead... with such humility, such tenderness, such passion... I did not quite understand the nature of his power over me; now I know: it was the eyes and the voice. Not the voice he used with everyone, but mine.
But it was an empty tenderness, the kind he had for everyone, and if he seemed deeply moved, it was simply his manner — for there are often people who always seem in a hurry, others astonished, others sorrowful, without really being so.
Ah! how I should like to know the truth in all this. I should like to go back to Rome married; otherwise it would be a humiliation. But I do not want to marry; I want to be free a while longer, and above all to study — I have my voice...
And frankly, to marry just to pique Antonelli... would be stupid.
It is not that... but I want to live like everyone else! Oh! to begin the same life over again! No, better that I die.
I am displeased with myself this evening, and I do not know why in particular.
So, do I love Antonelli? What an idea — I much prefer the Grand Duke. Ah, very good, my child: from a duke you have risen to a grand duke. It is consoling, and it flatters... I no longer know what it flatters. But it is better than stepping down, since I absolutely must lose my head over someone.
That poor Grand Duke, dragged along by that fury, slandered and sullied for ever. At everything said in his favour people smile with contempt and condescension. “We know what to think of that.”