Saturday, 13 October 1883

A mad fury this morning. You know that all our affairs in Russia are settled — except one, which is this: Georges, Alexandre, and another, beat a policeman or something of the sort, and Maman and my aunt witnessed it from their windows and were drawn into the matter and summoned, in the old Russian procedural fashion. Maman was extricated from it thanks to my father; but my aunt considers it not worth a trip to Russia, and every six months these wretched papers arrive at the embassy.
Recently she and Maman swore to me that everything was finished — thanks to some arrangement or other, and on account of the coronation. It ought to have struck me as odd that at the coronation one grants amnesty to witnesses — but I almost believed it, and wrote to Russia. Naturally it was a lie; my aunt was summoned again in September, and thanks to a doctor's certificate it has been postponed until May.
So these people are truly mad. Let us hope I am not.
It is ten years I have been struggling, crying out, weeping, wearing myself down every day repeating to them — No, it is finished, it makes one want to sit down and weep. Do they not understand that it is horrible!!
My God, of late You have been good to me. I confide in You — for truly I am alone in the world.
I have been to Galzowsky, the foremost of eye doctors. I have nothing to fear for my eyes! They are not of the first quality, but they will last as long as I do! He prescribed only some preparation or other to rub above the right eyebrow. What happiness, at last! I had been very afraid going there.
That is one great, great anxiety the less.
In sum, what have I to complain of?
[Blacked out: Except] health and family aside? But nothing. All goes well, and if I did not think of Bastien — and even of… his younger brother — I would not be sad. Were it last year, the ignoble architect would have written to me already. And the real one? I have given him up, like the fox with the grapes. Given up what? Bastien. Who offered him to me? Nobody.
How could I ever give him up? I do not know — yet whatever the cause, it fills me with sadness. It seems — Julian asserts it — that all my feelings are in the head. Whatever they are, I feel them; and having no others at my disposal, they still affect me considerably.
Well then — what would give me the most pleasure at this moment? Among possible things, naturally?
It would be Bastien's friendship. A great success at the Salon — oh, that above all! — but in private life, Bastien… I never speak of it any more and I think of it always; which is to say that I think of love, and it is he I see in my dreams rather than any other. For I want you to know my feelings precisely, be they of the head or of the heart.
I speak of it no more because I am a little… how to say it: from living with him so long in the realm of fantasy, I am a little tired of it — yes, that is it. Satiety in the dream. Balzac says that can happen, and even if he had not said so, I would say it all the same.
And to think that this little gentleman has no idea… He thinks only of his art, and I would do well to imitate him.
And when I say that name, I pronounce it a little like Étincelle and a little like the nursery babies — it is precious, it has that childish hesitation, something like: Basstien-Lepage.
And it amuses me. I am silly.