Wednesday, 14 August 1878

The Coubes are going to Wiesbaden and I entrust them with dispatching the following note — in German.
Reply.
Doves do not consort with geese. Adored Dove.
And now... it is madness, more than madness. Schwarz could never have written anything so vulgar, and the author betrays himself by the semi-Russian spelling of my name. It is some frightful Jew with a sly, repulsive air who is learning Russian! Fortunately the word réponse will tell them it was only a reply...
How little luck I have in everything... not to have guessed yesterday!... It is clear as day... Schwarz writing such a thing! What an idea... while that Russian b (v) and that a at the end of the name, and the Jew who spends the whole day with a Russian grammar in his hands.
Truly, that is most unfortunate.
The Coubes return in the evening with Count and Countess Cancrine — the Countess is Mme Coubé's cousin.
We settle in for supper. Ouroussoff, Mme Abaza, Dourassoff... but let me first say that during the day Dourassoff comes to tell me he has spoken with the Gans and that they want to be introduced, etc. etc. So this evening, while chatting with our own party, I tease him and complain of being martyrised by his hesitations. Dourassoff works himself up and promises to introduce them... they arrive around ten, he goes to meet them and, after exchanging a few words, says he is going to introduce them. "Oh! No, thank you," Schwarz replies. Mme Abaza departs in raptures. M. Coubé receives it like a cold shower... I had heard nothing; Dourassoff repeated the word to me. In Russia one gives slaps for such things... in Soden it is I who receive them... in front of M. and Mme Cancrine, among others. Shall I always be such a fool?! Confiding in an idiot like Dourassoff and pushing this little joke truly too far... Can God not grant me a little reason, since He grants me nothing else?
I give the cold shoulder to unfortunate souls like Schenk who do not even deserve it, and on the other side... no, but there it is. I joke with wit but I never know when to stop in time; the most delightful comedy in my hands always ends in something wounding. One ought to pull oneself in, hold back — or else go and hang oneself or shut oneself away in a madhouse. I am amusing for others but despicable to myself. Poor Dourassoff went immediately to the Gans to tell them he was very sorry about the incident, which he had thought to arrange for the best — to which these princes replied that it was nothing, and gave as their reason for refusing my imminent departure and the presence of the Coubes...