Sunday, 25 February 1877

I went out with Maman, then leaving her to go out with Dina I stayed home, tormented!!
Doenhoff came for a few minutes, paid me compliments on my person and kissed my hand. [Crossed out: after a (illegible)]. His Prussian-style gallantries are ponderous; when a German tries to be gracious he becomes wanting in delicacy. I do not say this of Doenhoff in particular — he has known me since I was a child and cannot be considered a mere acquaintance.
But that was enough to freeze me with terror.
Oh! how atrocious!
I was a child when I knew Doenhoff, and I was not mad in those days, which is why I used to put up with his manners. Now in every word I detect some contempt, some disdain. He says I am well-made — that is not delicate. I am naturally sensitive, and though I cannot always convey the [Crossed out: slightest] nuances in writing, none escapes me, and the smallest things barely lacking in the deepest respect shock me and do me harm. Judge then what it is now that I have this accursed idea!
After a long, dizzying promenade on the Chiaja, during which I blessed Princess Muliterno for her white dress, we go to San Carlo. La Forza del Destino. Merisano achieves a great triumph — he abandons the ballet at its finest moment in order to watch us leave. I was truly quite captivating this evening, which astonishes me.
Doenhoff came to our box after a grand dinner at the prince's. Doenhoff very drunk — otherwise I cannot explain what he said while I was talking about the theater.
— If your chemisette were to burst, what would happen?
I continued the sentence I had begun about the boxes at the Paris Opéra, and as Maman, who had a headache, was about to give an explanation concerning my bodice — which would have been a monstrous impropriety — I interrupted her sharply:
— No, I said, does one speak of such things? And I went on about the Paris Opéra.
Yes, he was drunk, for he was reeling, and he left early with the other pork butchers. The priceless thing is that he said: how ugly these Italian gentlemen are!
Larderei! I do not know if I love him. I know that I am sad and that I await him like the Messiah. Tomorrow will be a fortnight; tomorrow is his name day, Saint Alexander's. He is not punctual at appointments.
Whether serious or jest, everything turns against me — and so I am disheartened, and my dejection robs me even of complaints.
I am tempted to write no more — what use is it to record miseries?
Ah! Larderei — if he came I would forget everything! I am at his feet, as much because he pleases me as because I am the most wretched of God's creatures, and whoever picks me up will be too good!
Ah! Larderei... I did not want to take him seriously — tragedy has wearied me — but I have grown used to him.
This morning I thought I saw him in the street and my heart turned over, sending all the blood to my face.
I am crushed! I dare not say that I love him — it seems to me that I am unworthy, and that in return for my passion he would fling an insult at me.
But what has happened? What have I become?
God, let this be nothing but madness.