Monday, 7 January 1878

I have to come home at half past nine because the Prince de Bourbon is to arrive at ten — just time enough to dress.
He is not stupid — quiet, a good artist, and talks tolerably well about almost everything. Nothing of the dandy about him. Not a single compliment.
I was charming and very lady-like — nothing of the sleepwalker.
Paul says he would very much like me to marry “to prove to Constantin Pavlovitch... for he believes in nothing.”
La Fayet was there as well, and behaved more properly.
Mme Sinanidès’ coiffure reminds me of Rome.
To believe or not to believe in an artistic future? Believe, or do not believe — there is nothing else. So one may as well try; two years are not death, and in two years one can resume the theatres, the travels... I want to become famous! I shall be.
I truly seem to have a choice, so much do I hesitate. What am I giving up in order to work? A half-Bohemian life, detestable, full of... everything you know of — and is all that sufficiently repaid by a few successes?
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Notes

In English in the original. ↩