Friday, 27 October 1882

Alexandre and Kapitan dined here yesterday.
The sky is grey after yesterday's fine sunshine, and, restless from not working, I propose going to Poltava. Maman, Paul and I — on the road we meet the Princess and Dina returning from there, and Dina comes back with us.
At the hotel we find Michka, Lihopoy and Garnitsky, and we go to the theatre. A play that confirms still further my ideas about the Russian theatre... The theatre and the novel are always more or less a reflection of real life — well, I cannot pay my country a compliment on that score. It is of a naïve coarseness and at the same time...
They kiss on the lips, as though it were the most natural thing in the world — and this between lovers or between husband and wife... Then on the neck, on the cheeks, etc., and the audience says nothing; it seems quite simple to them. And the situations that would have been booed off a French stage... Young ladies of good family, sympathetic young girls in the play, slap young men who make declarations to them and whom they suspect of loving only their dowry. Well... If all this happened in the world of cocottes or in the fantastic kingdoms or the antiquity of Offenbach's operettas, with all the gaiety and the usual follies as accompaniment — very well; but we are shown bourgeois, landowners, people like you and me, and it is all quite serious... One does not know what to say of it. This evening's piece concerns a little wild creature, an ingénue who adores a man as much married as he is mature — corrupt and witty (in the play) — and every time they find themselves alone, which happens constantly, they kiss passionately: the ingénue without any idea what she is about, and he for his own pleasure. Then in the evening there comes a moment when the gentleman draws back, and the ingénue says to him: why do you flee me, what are you thinking of — I am a living creature after all, my blood boils, etc., etc. In the end she spends a night at a young man's lodgings who loves her, and comes back to tell the older man and his wife — for there is a young pretty wife — that it is he, the old seducer, who is to blame for everything, since he disturbed her senses to such a degree that she was obliged to... [Word blacked out: speak] with someone... and since this young man happened to be there... He marries her, and calling her "my fiancée" plants so furious a kiss on her mouth that she will have a bruise all round it tomorrow, for certain. It is coarse, but in the end it is not immoral — it gives you a disgust for love and awakens absolutely nothing. And besides it was funny. We are in the ground-floor box on the left, our escorts in the front row — while these poor actors were struggling away we talked by signs, and in the intervals in the box's little anteroom. I am pretty and all those who see me go away saying so. It seems I have become considerably handsomer, and Garnitsky finds I resemble Madame Miloradovitch entirely — who was a celebrated beauty, as everyone knows, especially here.
The young Pomars have returned, one hears; Gritz Miloradovitch is here, and there is also a young man called Popoff, very rich. He is said to be handsome...
[Words blacked out: That gives a] vague hope of seeing some people — without them I had already resigned myself to returning having seen nobody, and gladly, for when art prevails I wish to be left in peace — and it prevails often... In any case I would only marry now if it were extraordinarily well; otherwise it is not worth the trouble. And moreover beauty matters little to me — no one will please me, I will love no one. I am accustomed to thinking of great Cassagnac — there is only him; whether I am at the theatre, at a ball, [Words blacked out: illegible] by a fine moonlight or in a carriage in the open fields of Russia, I always picture him there. I almost never gather myself in thought without him being with me, and if I dream, it is always with him. And he has not the least idea of it. Confess that I am romantic, pure, sweet, and that I deserve... But why do novels speak of sufferings, languors, madnesses — I am so tranquil; I live with this and do not complain of it.
Is it because it is not love — or because I feel that I shall reach it...

Notes

Cocottes: demimondaines; kept women of dubious virtue.