Friday, 8 September 1876 (27 August)

Wretched fear, I shall conquer you! Did I not take it into my head yesterday to be afraid of the gun? It is true that Paul had loaded it and I did not know how much powder he had put in, and I did not know the gun; it might have burst, and that would have been a stupid death, or else I should have been disfigured.
No matter! It is only the first step that costs. Yesterday I fired at fifty paces, and today I fired without the slightest fear in the company of our gentlemen, and I believe, God forgive me, that I hit the target every time.
If I bring off Paul’s portrait it will be a miracle, for he will not sit still; and today I worked for fifteen minutes alone — not quite alone, for opposite me I had Michel, who dares to be in love with me.
written across the page
What a child I am, and what a Gascon braggart, all the time.
All this kept us until nine o’clock; I dawdled, dawdled, dawdled, seeing the impatience of my blasted father. I knew very well that he was only waiting for us to leave the drawing room to escape into the forest... like a wolf.
Once again I held court on the staircase... I love staircases because one goes up... Pacha was to leave tomorrow, but I carried on so this evening that perhaps he will stay — or else he will go, which would be more sensible, for it is dangerous for a country fellow, a dreamer, a brooding young man of twenty-two, to love me like a sister. With him and Michel I am on the best possible terms, which is why they are so fond of me. But when I am with stupid men I become stupid myself; I do not know what to say that they would understand, and I am afraid every moment that they will suspect me of being in love with them. Like poor Gritz: he thinks all the young ladies want him, and in the slightest smile he sees ambushes and plots against his celibacy. Do you so much as know the etymology of that word?
Cœlebs in Latin means: forsaken; it also comes from the Greek word koïlos, which means: hollow, empty.
O celibates! Hollow, empty, forsaken!
Scarcely had I heard my father decamp than I rushed to the Princess’s room, rolling about on her bed, doing Pacha’s hair, stroking Michel “on the head” and talking so much nonsense that I am amazed at it even now.
We went into the garden to let off rockets. I snatched Pacha’s watch and ran as far as the first landing of the staircase, for he was chasing me — he cannot leave without his watch — I felt myself caught, and just as he was about to tear it from me I slipped it into my bodice, crying to him with unspeakable effrontery:
Take it!
You can well imagine that he did not take it. It is absurd!
But God, let me not begin to detest this good fellow — he is so honest!
My head is terribly worked up over Cassagnac.
M. de Cassagnac, you have no idea how much you raise my value in the eyes of my lord father.
Pushkin was read aloud and we talked of love.
Ah! I should so like to love, to know what it is. Or perhaps I have loved already? In that case love is a sorry trifle that one picks up only to throw it away.
You will never love, my father tells me.
If that were true, I should thank heaven for it, I replied.
I want to and I do not want to. And yet in my dreams I love. Yes, but an imaginary hero.
And Antonelli? Me, love him? No — is that how one loves? No. If he were not the Cardinal’s nephew, if he did not have priests, monks, ruins about him... the Pope, I should not love him.
Besides, what need have I to explain myself? You know everything, better than I do; so you know that the music of the Opera and Antonelli in the club box made a charming effect, and you must also know the power of music. It was an amusement, but it was not love.
When, then, shall I love? Once again I shall amuse myself scattering the surplus of my heart on every side, once again grow enthusiastic, once again weep... and over nothing!
We get no news at all here; I do not even know what the Pope and the Cardinal are doing.
I do not read the Russian papers.
Ah! if Antonelli became pope...
By Jove, by Jove, by Jove!
It is I who shall be in a rage!

Notes

In Italian in the original: barcaccia — in an Italian theatre, the large box beside the stage, usually taken by a club of fashionable young men (literally “big old boat”). ↩
In French in the original: Bigre, bigre, bigre ! ↩