Monday, 16 June 1884

This evening we go to see Macbeth (Richepin’s translation) with Sarah Bernhardt. The Gavinis are with us. Denis is becoming quite senile — how he has declined these past two years!
I go to the theatre so rarely that it amuses me. But the declamation of the actors offends my artistic sensibility.
How beautiful it would be if these people spoke naturally. Oh! the declamation! Marais (Macbeth) is good at moments, but he lets slip intonations so false and so theatrical that it is pitiful. Previously I did not notice this so much. Sarah — she is always admirable, even though her golden voice has become an ordinary one.
And then we are in the carriage, going home.
Maman: — As for me, I detest all that — first because it is in verse, which is tedious, and then these assassination stories are not of our time — it is out of fashion.