Tuesday, 20 November 1883

Does he love me? One asks that of a book — a random page, the 3rd or 4th or 20th line to the right... And if the oracle gives a favourable answer, one believes it.¹ Is that not foolish? After that great turkey Léonie, who speaks of her sorrows with so tranquil an air, I go to see that great simpleton Gabriel. He does everything he can... but it will not take. He bores me, this aurea mediocritas;² there is no interest, what can I say to him, and to what end? He is as good as can be, the best of his kind; he even has warmth of heart, I believe. In any case... But he does not exist for me — and I add: unfortunately. Oh! To be stupid! To be beautiful and stupid — that is what I should wish for my daughter. Beautiful and stupid, with a few principles to keep from going to the dogs. I should like to know whether this journal gives the impression of a truly superior creature? A creature who would have the right to speak as I do, who takes in society an amiable and protective tone and suffers from the inanities she is obliged to hear... ??? I look for a comparison between the men who do not exist and the others... Two bottles identical to the eye, one weighs them in one's hand; one is heavy and the other light... And it is that surprise — felt by the hand that had not expected the difference in weight — that you understand. One takes the lighter bottle, swings it in a windmill and tosses it out the window... This evening we go to see the Invisibles³ — a great many things viewed through an enormous microscope. The family and Géry only. This young man tries to impress me by remaining seated behind me in the darkened theatre, at the back of the dark box, and as I lean forward often to see better he contrives to brush my back with his paws, his nose, or his shoulder. And as I deliberately passed my hand before his face he kissed it. So I told him I should pinch him if he did not behave. He even breathed on my neck while touching with his diplomatic lips the fabric of my bodice at the shoulder. I pretended to feel nothing. We are good friends... And so that he does not think too much of himself... I say in front of everyone in the carriage that this Géry was behind me the whole time and that I could not move without running into him, and that I even gave him a punch — which is true. And while they were showing us a piece of cheese with creatures the size of rabbits, and it was very dark in the box, and this charming young man felt that perhaps I was not avoiding him quite enough — while not avoiding him quite enough, I turned [words blackened: towards this] great seducer with a look and a grimace conveying clearly: "You know, my little one — you do not exist." He inspires me to the sort of conversations that the girls in La Vie Parisienne⁴ might have; I am tempted to appear scatter-brained, even vicious, to this young suitor. Observe to what happiness is reduced... He is a tall dark diplomat; put in his place a small blond painter... what a difference. But with the small blond painter... what I have just written means nothing. With the other it would not be like that. There is no connection. Catherine II, my dear Catherine II. For five minutes — and not even that.