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 fleshy, 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. This is not one of my dazzling days, but I am not at too much of a disadvantage either. As the weather is very fine we go for a walk on the hill, from which the panorama is magnificent — it looks like the country round Toledo.
These young men talk like men of the world and Russian officers — very pure French and all the colloquialisms picked up from those ladies. 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 feet, spurs and all. Does that not send a chill down one’s spine? That young man is horrible, and beside him his brother seems to me thoroughly likeable.
I do not think I shall conquer either of them.
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. Why, they 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, even more so. 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?
So, to come back to our princes.
Well, there it is: they are two young men of the very best sort. And that is all Purely social conversations like these tire me rather quickly, and I had to work all day: Ah! no doubt it is not like the artists and wits of Paris... but that is only natural.
As for Michka, we keep him here after they leave; all evening he tells me over and over that he still adores me, etc.