Friday, 14 September 1877

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 regarding him as someone so close. He is I know not where, and no longer knows whether I exist.
Besides, I speak of him only as a memory. A pleasant memory — that is the most absurd part. Mme Batourine stayed a long time. Going to the Picture Exhibition with Lautrec, we meet the Lisanders who were coming to call on us, and Marie Lisander is carried off to see the paintings with us.
There are some magnificent ones. One in particular struck me to the heart. The brightness of the sunlight painted there dazzled more than the real sun here. The trees and the sky had those strange tints that have some indescribable influence upon all one's senses... It was a Roman villa. It made me happy and unhappy at once.
To go to Rome and to stay there anyhow — provided only one stays there — my God.
Further on a tolerably good portrait of the Cardinal; I looked at it a long time — it is Pietro older, but it is him. And everything that comes from there does me good.
Lisander dined with us; grandfather and Lautrec were breathlessly paying her court, with a degree of raillery that surprised me in old men — I speak of grandfather; Lautrec has no age, he is plain, gouty, but he will never be old. Lisander and the Gerbels spent the whole day with us, and in the evening, Mmes Lisander and Gerbel having come, instead of going to the promenade we remained at home.
I pretended to have a sore finger so as to be freer. Marie Lisander is indeed a graduate of the St. Petersburg Institute; she still adores ladies and young women. Caresses and endearments without end. It is very sweet.
The Lisanders know everyone and Lautrec is pleased. He rolled about on the carpet while we young ladies were in my room, all seated around him cross-legged, and there were stories and games until half past eleven. I laughed a great deal and took no pleasure in it.
Lautrec tells fortunes in an infallible manner, they say. Here is the very abridged version.
He told me that everything that has been will count for nothing. That on the sixth journey I shall meet a suitable great nobleman; that there will be jealousies and vileness that will drive him away, but that he will return within seven days and that the affair will be settled within a year. I have had griefs, and nothing has succeeded for me so far.
"According to you," he added. (He is stuffed full of my triumphs.) But with this nobleman everything will be transformed into a heap of happiness. I shall live to sixty-nine.
I am tired, I am hurrying, I am bored.
Marcuard's letters — that is all that remains to me of Italy, and even those come from Switzerland! Poor Marcuard, he made me laugh with pleasure all morning.
To have only one life to spend, and to see it stolen from one like this!!
You think I accept this stupefaction because I say nothing of my rages!