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Tuesday, 15 May 1883
# Mardi 15 mai 1883
True spring — almost warm. In the evening we go down into the garden by moonlight!… But there is only the Engelhardts, Tchernitsky, and Alice…
Le vrai printemps un peu chaud même. Le soir nous descendons dans le jardin au clair de la lune !.... Mais il n'y a que les Engelhardt, Tchernitsky et Alice...
There is a coolness between Alice and me since her recent stupidity — she said she couldn't come to dinner, so I told her not to visit so much; I shan't be inviting her again so readily. We meet at exhibitions and it is all perfectly civil and perfectly meaningless. I had something to say to her, but it was too hot, and I was too tired, and it wasn't worth the effort.
The moonlit garden, the sky, the stars — all of it recalled a Cazin I had seen. Only art matters, in the end. I feel quite peaceful about not leaving yet; there is time to finish the children, and then a fisherman, a boy reading on a bench, thirty sunsets. Spring does not push me toward sentiment. It makes me want to be childish — to roll in the grass and demand that the world be beautiful immediately.
The moonlit garden, the sky, the stars — all of it recalled a Cazin I had seen. Only art matters, in the end. I feel quite peaceful about not leaving yet; there is time to finish the children, and then a fisherman, a boy reading on a bench, thirty sunsets. Spring does not push me toward sentiment. It makes me want to be childish — to roll in the grass and demand that the world be beautiful immediately.