Tuesday, 8 June 1880

Soutzo tried to mesmerise me last evening, and I almost fell asleep, or rather grew numb under his eyes; it is an agreeable sensation, and I fear he has little magnetism. A young man in love who fixes his eyes on yours and, every time the aunt leaves, takes your hand. You let him do it under the pretext that you are asleep; this pretext also allows you to make the most languorous, the most... indecent eyes in the world. And yet he does have magnetism in his gaze — the other evening he had already unsettled me by staring at me from close up...
I had him read Balzac’s Béatrix, my aunt and I seated and he at our feet, but he cannot read it seriously. He does not understand Balzac. I do not believe he has read anything since leaving school. No, his is still not the soul that will be sister to mine. It looks like a novel, a quoted passage, an affectation, this kinship of souls — and yet it is the most serious thing in the world...
Can I converse with this fellow? But no. I can joke, ask him what he has done, remind him of his schooldays, tease him — not too unkindly — and tell him very sweetly that he is stupid. We can even join forces to make fun of others, either because they are stupid or because we share the key to some joke; but a real understanding is a long way off, alas!
“Do you think,” I said to him, “that I would not be delighted to love you? It would settle a great many things... but can one love to order!”
He thinks I am joking... in fact he may well believe I love him a little. Last evening that magnetism, and then the little ailing look my sore throat gave me... may well have suggested some tenderness.
Since he was dining out this evening, he came here before dinner. I said good evening and went off to dress for dinner, leaving him to play and go away. Wodzinski came in the evening.
I have lost my voice, my throat hurts so much I can barely open my mouth, and I have a constant cough.