Tuesday, 3 August 1880

Wodzinski comes to see us, which means I go out for a moment, and they take him to the drawing room where he introduces us to that old type, the Marquis de Barbentane, famous for his persistence in singing with the most ridiculous falsetto in the world. Wodzinski reminds me of Alexis; he was kind, that poor Serb.
[Twenty-three lines cancelled]
That is the human side, but here is the family side, which moreover requires a preface.
You know that for a long time my dream has been to go to Biarritz, and you know that since the age of sixteen I have always thought --- besides, you know how I have lived. Now, I cannot go there with my aunt, and this for a thousand reasons, not one of which is very clear, but which together make one formidable reason. First of all, it is awkward not to be with one's mother when she is neither infirm, nor mad, nor dead, and people immediately invent something. I am too exasperated with my family to bear them except out of propriety, but when I am with Maman I have nothing to say since it is as much for me as for the world. But alone with my aunt, I do not have that natural reason that makes one forgive the formidable tedium of boring oneself tete-a-tete, and then I imagine that people say such atrocities about me that I prefer to stay shut up at home. Yet my aunt is the best of women to me; she worries immediately if I do not eat or do not cover myself enough; for the rest, she is stupid or plays the fool.
She would be in heaven to see me marry anyone, just so all these troubles would end; she would have opted for Soutzo or for another. And I am stupid, but I am quite vexed to see that my family does not imagine there is nothing good enough for me. Certainly, she would not be surprised to see me marry an Emperor, but she would accept just as well a lesser lord, a Multedo. I write twenty times to Russia about this Biarritz, and they reply that I should go there with my aunt and that they will join me. Yet I have given all sorts of reasons and have sworn I would not go without her.
Here is my letter of this evening, written in the midst of a fit of tears:
You are doing nothing useful in Russia; come back then so that I can go to the waters. Do not forget that I have always spent my summers in brilliant places like Soden, Schlangenbad, and this year Mont-Dore.
You have always acted as an enemy toward me, yet I must recognize that you have always left me the hope of catching a husband in the street. Now you do not even want that anymore, for it is not at Mont-Dore that I shall catch a husband in the street, for the very good reason that there are no streets at Mont-Dore.
Besides, this is the last time I shall speak to you of this Biarritz, of which I am beginning to be disgusted just from begging for your return.
You can come back, I assure you; you have tugged at me enough, and however immense the sum of pleasure I would have from this trip, it is already surpassed by the sum of bile you make me produce.
Is it not your system to grant things at the moment when one is exasperated and no longer wants anything? In any case, I shall speak of it no more. Do as you like, and know that I shall not budge from Paris until you have arrived. And I add: I have just received a letter!
I have just received your letter, which I am sending back because I detest prose.
What affairs are you speaking of? What do your affairs matter to me, and what use are your pennies to me?
Give me a good reason for staying in Russia: I know you, you will come back and at every opportunity you will tell me it is my fault, that it is because I called you back too soon. Naturally these will be lies, but that does not stop you. I repeat: I shall go nowhere alone.
[Nine lines blacked out]