Thursday, 19 October 1882

At last we have them. They arrive for luncheon with Michka.
The elder, Victor, is slim, dark, with a large aquiline nose rather prominent, and fairly thick lips. Distinguished and rather likeable. The younger, Basile, is equally tall, much heavier, very fair, with a ruddy complexion, shifty eyes, the manner of a brawler — restless, outgoing, brutal and... well, yes, common. I kept yesterday's dress — a short white woollen gown, extremely simple. Old-red kid shoes in a child's style. My hair twisted and fastened rather low at the nape. I am not in one of my brilliant days, but not too much at a disadvantage either. As the weather is very fine we go for a walk on the hill, from which the panorama is magnificent — it resembles the countryside of Toledo.
These young men talk like men of the world and Russian officers — very pure French and all the familiar phrases learnt in those circles. They are all young; the elder is not twenty-three, I believe. I am very tired from having had to smile and talk all day, for Papa kept them to dinner by force, though they had insisted they had an important conference with the estate steward who is taking them on a tour of their properties this summer. That country habit of detaining guests is tiresome; it made me a little uneasy. An incident: their coachman got drunk — apparently this happens every time here — and, without making any show of it, Prince Basile stepped out and beat the poor man senseless with his fists and his booted feet with their spurs. Does that not send a chill down one's spine? The boy is horrible, and his brother strikes me as entirely likeable in contrast.
I do not think I shall make the conquest of either one or the other.
I have nothing that could please them — I am of medium height, of harmonious figure, moderately fair; I have grey eyes; no generous bosom, no wasp waist... And morally speaking, I think — without too much vanity — that I am sufficiently superior to them for them not to appreciate me at all. And as a woman of society I am no more charming than many others in the spheres they inhabit. Yet you will say that Lihopoy has known well enough how to appreciate what I am pleased to call my superiorities — for he is said to be still in love, not hiding it, declaring that he knows he has nothing to hope for but that I am extraordinary and divine. Lihopoy is only a poor country squire, however... In the end I cannot say, but if I were in these two officers' place I should not be taken with myself. They very nearly hissed Sarah Bernhardt on her arrival at the Petersburg station because they expected to see her tall, dark, with enormous black eyes and a mass of dishevelled black hair — the impression of being [Words illegible].
Apart from that stupidity, the judgement passed on the woman's talent was very sound, and I entirely share the view of the Russian papers which place Mlle Delaporte above Sarah. And Desclée — what of her? For my part Sarah says little to me, except for the adorable music of her voice when she speaks verse. But otherwise... But what am I doing talking to you of Sarah?