Sunday, 7 October 1883

I have seen the new moon… with my left eye, and I am saddened by it.
“Really, Mademoiselle — how dare you confess to such flat superstitions!” Why flat? Napoleon and Caesar were superstitious — to cite only those two most illustrious examples.
Saint-Amand dines here, and the princess and Bojidar, since he has posed all day.
Mme Gavini came yesterday, and the baroness.
I no longer draw Bastien’s profile on every occasion in pen and pencil — I think of him only as a painter now.
This evening, after careful reflection, I declare flatly that he will never be in love with me. Let us set that preoccupation aside. Never. I am at peace. But what a pity, my God!
I am trying to civilise Bojidar, who is entirely untamed. He knows nothing of the real world, cheapens himself God knows where — among false princesses and dubious foreign women — lays down the law, argues, attacks the most well-known figures, and commits a thousand naïve blunders. If at least he frequented second-rate drawing rooms because one can amuse oneself there, that would not be so bad; but I suspect he is a little… Saint-Amand — he was raised like a girl; he is economical, tight-fisted.
And besides, he [is spiteful] and talks a great deal about kept women, though never… I do not know why I imagine that… Besides, with Irma it went no further because, she said, Bojidar admitted to her he hadn’t a sou.
That… well. If he really is incomplete, which seems to me very probable, and if he were to become a grown, settled man, with his name…
He has always been reared artificially: he was born deformed, and they straightened him up to a certain point; what remains of it are narrow coat-hanger shoulders, legs that are too thick, hands and feet that look out of joint — in short, he does not hang together; but given the bearing of young men nowadays he can pass, above all thanks to a handsome, regular head in the style of Byzantine icons.
All in all he is tall, and merely badly made.
Only he has no bearing; he rails, he lies… he chatters.
If Bastien loved me I would have married Saint-Amand. And not him?
No — to begin with, since my misfortune I see no ordinary marriage as possible.
A Saint-Amand would never wound me, and if he meant to, it would not touch me.
But always to live with a man one loves… And love passes, and then what is left? No, decidedly, I find this arrangement very good. Thanks to this quasi-marriage, the possibility of loving freely and, above all, of not falling in his eyes. Women deceive their husbands and are not fallen in the eyes of the world… I know that, but I could never deceive a real husband, never. And I cannot marry for love. What is left? Saint-Amand, or Bojidar if… But Bojidar would be tiresome and loud and wilful… But there is one great advantage: nobody knows it…
But it would truly be a fine existence… It is as if one were a widow.
But Bastien is not in love with me. He does not even think of me, not in the least…
Turgenev’s novel makes me sentimental, and it seems to me that I am a little taken up with this little painter…
Ah! It is a pity. He pays no attention to me. And even that cook of a brother of his…