Friday, 27 December 1878

My mother is at that Hottentot’s again. Paul asked her to go, because the night before last, after the theatre, Maman and my aunt had promised to spend the night at his hotel — but while he went to give orders, they came back with Paul.
The father was furious at having been played for a fool, when he had been counting on amusing himself — and Paul rightly reckoned that this annoyance would be taken out on them unless some kindness were shown the following day.
My week is lost for the atelier. I had wanted to take advantage of it to go and see a drama with an actor in it whose accent, I am told, recalls Cassagnac. But de Daillens could not go with me, and I stayed at home. I do not care to go to the theatre with my family, with whom there is always some friction.
For three days I have been wanting to write down I no longer know exactly what reflections, but, hounded by the singing of the young lady on the second floor, I began leafing through the pages of my stay in Italy, and then someone came to disturb me and I lost the thread of my ideas and that melancholy mood which is rather pleasant. What surprises me is the ease with which, in those days, I used the grandest words to paint simple adventures. But I longed for grand sentiments; I was vexed at having no astonishing, thunderous, romantic sensations to relate, and I interpreted my feelings. Painters will understand me. All that is very well, but how is it that a girl who claims to be intelligent did not better understand the worth of men and events? I say this because I was about to say that my parents ought to have enlightened me and told me, of Antonelli for instance, that he is not a serious man, nor a man for whom one should take the slightest trouble. It is true that I was told about him all wrong, my mother being younger than I am; but, all that aside, since I have so high an opinion of my intelligence, I ought to have seen things more clearly and treated him like all the others instead of giving him so considerable a place in this journal and elsewhere. But I was burning with impatience to record romances, fool that I am! Perhaps it would have been more romantic otherwise... in short, I was young and inexperienced despite my boasts of cunning; that is what I must at last admit, whatever it costs me. There it is: I wanted to help events along... Many others were in love afterwards... little Eristoff in Russia, whom one might have taken seriously if he had been further removed, not so much one of the family, and if my father and Paul spoke of him less familiarly.
Then the big cousin... I mention them so as to... in short... What reassures me is that even then I said on almost every page that I did not think I loved him.
The thing is, I always think that those who will read me are donkeys who see nothing and take windmills for Cassagnacs, and that my little exaggerations of those days are taken in earnest... There now! I seem to hear someone say: a strong woman like you ought not to be given to retractions...
That wretched Blanc... when you want information about me, ask Blanc — he holds me in high esteem and treats me as a superior woman, even for Paris... do you hear?