Saturday, 1 September 1877

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 doryphoros Odoacer and Larderei were strangely confused together in the adventure of Cancello and the siege of Ravenna.
Have I mentioned that the Countess Benvenuti is here and comes often to see me? Neither useful nor agreeable = insufferable.
I am much alone; I think, I read without any guidance — perhaps that is well, but perhaps it is not.
Who guarantees me that I am not paved with sophisms and full of erroneous ideas?
That is what will be judged after my death!
Pardon. To forgive. There is a noun and a verb much used in this world. Christianity commands us to forgive. What is forgiveness? It is the renunciation of vengeance or punishment. But when one had the intention neither of taking revenge nor of punishing — can one forgive? Yes and no. Yes, because one tells oneself so and tells others so and acts as if the offence had not existed. No, because one is not master of one's memory, and as long as one remembers, one has not forgiven.
I spent the whole day with the others — (that is what I call the Nice pavilion) in the house opposite — where I mended with my own fingers a Russia leather shoe of Dina's; then I scrubbed a large wooden table like any chambermaid, and on that table I set about making varéniki (little pies made of flour, water and fresh cheese).
And those wretches, who give me nothing in return, were amused to see me kneading damp flour, sleeves rolled up and a black velvet skullcap on my head, "like Faust."
And then I put on a Robespierre-style overcoat in white rubber colour and went with Dina to confound the Tyrolean woman who sells all manner of small things, by asking her for Marcuard's death's-head; she did not understand; I bought her a bear and we left.