Saturday, 14 April 1877

Ah! so he wants to adopt her. I dreamt that I was holding her on my knees and that she suddenly turned into a little black dog. Ah! he wants to adopt her... we shall see about that.
What would you have me talk about, what would you have me think of!
Yesterday at the Skating I was introduced to a Monsieur Schettino, who left his cards today and who, together with Pascarola, takes us round the rooms of the Exhibition, which I am seeing for the second time. The old arms, the old furniture, the old Gobelins agitated and calmed me by making me think that Larderel had none of all that.
While talking to my escorts, I held the Sorrento handkerchief in my hand, hidden in my pocket. He has mine, but he does not care. I do not care either; now it is more a matter of pride, before my family and Rosalie.
— Well, she says to me, the Count has not come to see you.
Nothing has ever vexed me more unpleasantly than that remark.
War is imminent. He is quite capable of not leaving... they say (Doenhoff said so today) that he has so many debts he does not know where to turn. Ah! Lord, if only I had money.
Money is everything. They say I have grown pale. Would to heaven I had.
I posed as being madly in love with this man, I made an exhibition of myself, and now I am mortified.
And that is how everything goes in my life!!!!
I absolutely must see him.
Poor man, he is mad — a little like me, for that matter. He cannot stay in Rome because he detests Princess Margherita and the red liveries get on his nerves; in Florence it is Niccollini who makes his life a misery, and in Naples it is Ginistrelli, with whom he had some trouble over a wager.
France is still closed to him until August. He told Maman all this. So he is going off to Russia. It is stupid to be like me. Dina says it is simply shameful to see me like this. And indeed it is shameful and ridiculous.
Well, it is over. I want it to be over. All that remains is to see him and have it out about his senseless declaration... well founded though it was; and then to find someone else to drive this one out of my head entirely. I want it to be over, out of pride. I cannot bear to be disdained.
It is downright shameful, as Dina says; it does not even deserve pity.
No, he is mad! Why those letters, why that hurried arrival, despite the wound, despite the doctors, despite everything, why that card in the morning, that appearance in the reading room? That dinner at the table d’hôte?? And then this stupid, implausible ending...
Now I believe that no one can love me...
Do you remember how astonished and indignant I used to be over Antonelli? Now I find it all quite simple; I give things, and words above all, a more natural value.
The thing is... you see, Larderel... I compare him with no one and... he is a being apart — in vices, madness, extravagance, social position, conduct... looks, everything. And so the feeling I have for him is a feeling apart. He simply drives me wild. And I am glad, glad that he is like that. He will settle down, marry and... rot. Then everything will change. I hope that will not happen until I am settled and at peace... in my own way.
If he died, he would become my great passion, and an eternal, a delicious, an exquisite sorrow mingled with regrets and thanksgiving.