Calendar
I didn't say yesterday what I wanted to! I can never say what I think!
I have found a friend, a girl, in Hall. Just think — she drinks cherry syrup like me. I love her; she is frank and loves me dearly. This does not...
It was while laughing with Hall that I wrote that.
I am at Schlangenbad! How and why — here is the reason. Because for some reason I am miserable being separated from the others, and since one must...
Invigorating air, absolute calm, deathly silence, abominable music that ought to be suppressed in the interest of the sick.
Berthe writes to me. Her sister, Lady Paget, is dead. In the same house as ourselves lives the Vicomte de Gontaut-Biron, French ambassador to Berlin....
With boots like mine, one absolutely needs two hours a day of rest for the feet — that is, two hours in slippers. Otherwise one is exhausted; those...
I do not like Wiesbaden; we are still here because of Maman's headache.
M. and Mme Batourine lunched with us. The wife is very talkative, which causes one to forgive her for offending the eyes with her old, toothless...
Having long been tormented by the point — obscure to me — of the transition from the Empire to the kingdoms and the final fragmentation of Italy, I...
I did not speak, and this evening at Wiesbaden we learned that Shipka is in Russian hands, that the Turks have been beaten (at least for the moment),...
I am spending the best years of my life being seen by no one.
Every morning until noon, one o'clock, I roam the woods, dreaming over one of the good books on antiquity, imagining all sorts of nonsense. The...
==Life loses something out of Rome. It is only her that each day holds for us two spent thousand years.==* *In English in the original.
Simply to tell you that I still exist, that my mothers see to it that I eat and am well wrapped when it is cold — the rest matters little to them,...
The other evening's *varéniki* have given me a passion for sculpture. But do you know, this morning I walked to Schwalbach with Dina and Walitsky....
We repeated the excursion to Schwalbach, this time by carriage, and saw the same people as yesterday. I was indisposed and we came home early.
There are two things to be done, beyond which there is only adventure — which is dangerous — and chance, on which one cannot count. Either to obtain...
It is raining. What a wretched life. This Mme de Staël is driving me mad. "The sun, love and the fine arts fill life there."
It is a pity to be truly ravishing when it is truly useless — when it is too late.
In every book, new or already read, whenever someone describes catching sight of the dome of Saint Peter's, I am moved in an almost unbelievable way...
How little my journal resembles me! It is not I who writes. I use expressions, I turn my phrases with too much affectation. I am very simple.
It is our 30 August — Saint Alexander's Day, the festival of our Emperor. We leave Schlangenbad in formal dress to go straight to church in Wiesbaden.
I am following a new regimen: forced marches and the company of young ladies. I think I can make out that it was Mme Gerbel who was lady-in-waiting...
We are at Schlangenbad, where Doenhoff, Marcuard, Pietro Antonelli, Campomarino, Paul de Cassagnac and Alexandre are also staying. Alexandre is very...
I am woken by this letter. I was dreaming of Alexandre. Alexandre is a stranger, an indifferent one, and nothing more. I am always astonished at...
We go for a walk in the morning with Lisander; Lautrec appears at the *Lese-cabinet* and leads us to see a kind of panorama. The Dutchman Lanz joins...
In case Marx's *Gretchen* should please posterity, I beg it to be noted that this picture, which seems strange at first, set me dreaming for three...
We are at the Grand Hôtel. There are people from Rome, which makes me more indulgent towards Paris.
Some decorated old fool or other told my lady's maid that I had the look of an artist. There it is! I must be observed closely — I must have some...
Deep disgust with myself. I hate everything I have done, said and written. I detest myself because I have not justified a single one of my hopes. I...
I do not know how it comes about, but I believe I want to stay in Paris. It seems to me that a year at the atelier Julian would serve well as a...
Lautrec writes still. If he truly loves us, it is touching.
The two Gonzalèses, then Diaz de Soria. I spoke in a halting fashion and was ugly.
After the correspondence of Père Émile of Misery and cord, here is a real letter from Cimiez that I receive. It is a reply such as you can judge for...