Monday, 30 May 1881

It is cold. Why am I here? My father is almost ashamed that the weather is bad — he had sworn to me it was already warm here. I need fresh air and I am shut in.
Had I stayed in Paris I would have wept at not being here. Here I am — well and good. Besides, I am very pale, barely touched with rose, eyes interesting, hands like ivory. A jabot blouse — in the negligent dishevelment of a poet or composer — leaving the hollow of my throat exposed, and a great Watteau-style cloak in white cashmere with satin flowers. Very striking — but wasted here. I have made it known that I will see absolutely nobody and will go to nobody. My father had intended to distract me with the local society.
Oh lord. Certainly not.
There are pretty things here and there — bronzes, or Meissen porcelain, enough to furnish a whole drawing room... The house is in fact very beautiful and a great deal of money has been spent on it. But it is death.