Chapter 19 1905
This winter, I have been dragged down by exhaustion, and my heart is almost miserable. This column in The Hermitage killed me.I hope this is the last column: I was not born for this kind of job.
My thoughts are dull, I don't know what to do, and my will is wavering. I can only kill time all day long.Learning English in the morning made me feel a little more at ease.In this period of weariness, what I need most is not rest, but quiet work and solitude.
Lunch with Maurice and Paul; I have very little to say.About one o'clock, I went out to see a rather mediocre exhibition of Dutch painters, which was invited by Mrs. Storm; Paul, the two Schellenbergs, and Mrs. von Reiselberg.
Learned of Schwarb's death.
Writing these down this morning is still exhausting.
Schwarbe's funeral.Apparently not; some literary workers and relatives formed a rather indifferent funeral procession. ——Only the Chinese man threw himself on the grave. This was the first time I saw him in a suit and without braids; I admired his strange and almost handsome face, the expression of solitary grief.
I returned with Grivan and Valery and walked towards the Plaza de Etoile.
Lunch with Madame von Reiselberg in Logier Street.The two of them were in the unfurnished living room (they were leaving for the South in two days).
At five o'clock, at John's house, I had a pleasant conversation with Morris and John, but the most beautiful moment of the day was the quiet night spent studying.
I read aloud to M the second part of "Stages of Madness".I have already read this collection of short stories, but tonight it seems even more wonderful.
We read Tolstoy's Tales of Sevastopol aloud.
Whispered the prefaces of Brittanicus and Andromache, took advantage of the latest edition, and read Musset's Chestnuts from the Fire, which I haven't read since my rhetoric class up.Glad I wasn't born in that period...
Stevenson's "Dr. Jekyll" is really good.This is no longer a clever construction, but the creation of genius.
I read Pierre-Louis' "Leda" fascinated again.
The character of Orestes; false masculinity, entirely at the mercy of his fate.He needs to sin to arouse remorse in his heart.
He is a kind of person who has a destiny on his head, that is to say, he feels that he has to fulfill a mission.Obviously a melancholic type.This is a helpless thing.He knows that he must go to the end and complete his task; but it is difficult, because he is dealing with his own nobility and the responsibility Greece has placed on him.Murder drew him irresistibly, and he had a holy fear of it.As soon as Hermione made a suggestion to him, he shuddered and learned that it was his fate.It was a tremor of fear, almost a tremor of joy.
It develops to the last act, to a wild joy—satisfaction, a pause—but again a pause on a crossroads.He thought he was in port.This verse is excellent, designed to fool us—
"Thank goodness..."
It hardly matters whether the words happy or unlucky are used here; it is a neurotic relaxation after a crime, like the state after ejaculation.
However, I feel a little uneasy and need to take another risk...
He was about to run away, when he was about to get rid of himself, when he suddenly went mad and had a seizure.
It was a veil, a veil of darkness, which fell around him and enfolded him, as Clytemnestra's net enfolded his father Agamemnon.He cannot escape.
I don't think the ending necessarily has to be yelling.I should like to imagine Orestes, nearly broken, struggling like a wounded bull, getting up again and saying:
"Humph! Humph! This is the blow I reserved for you."
Then, quite calmly, surrendering, "waiting" for excruciating pain:
"Well, daughter of hell! . . . "
Can I rest in this little garden?All right, so I come in, if only to sit for a moment.I immediately remembered that I sat here last year.It was summer and the temperature was very high. I was sweating and had a headache. I stayed in the garden for a while and felt very comfortable.I was going to see Arthur Springs, or had already seen it.What book was I reading at that time?Strange thing, can't remember.Probably I didn't read a few pages, because I still remember the bright colors of this flower bed in front of me, and today the flower bed is full of daisies.These are the first flowers of the year;--daisies clear my head.However, M occupies too much of my thoughts, and there is nothing but burning and exhaustion in my head.I'm so tired!The singing of the birds is wonderful!This meadow is so refreshing!
I looked through the Biographical Dictionary and looked at the entry for "Heliodorus."In the era of Pliny, the masterpiece of Heliodorus can still be seen on the colonnade of Octavia in Rome: it is a "combination", that is, a combined sculpture showing the struggle between Pan and the gods of Olympus.
Eight years ago, De Max said to me: "You smile with your eyes and the face gets tired."
"Then what kind of smile should I use?" I asked him in amazement.
"Just smile with your lips," he went on, "here, look at me."
Today I read in Stendhal's: "The stage smile (he's talking about Napoleon's smile), showing only the teeth, but not the eyes."
Hendaye, the name of a French city, is located in the Basque Country in southwest France.The Gides, Yana Drouin and their son Dominique went there for half a month.
I went uphill along the street leading to the church again, and when I arrived at Fontarabi, I heard someone knocking on the window pane on the second floor of a house. When I looked up, I recognized the one-eyed boy from the fisherman, and immediately smiled at him. ; and I had smiled at him yesterday morning on the beach.These Spanish children are all sick!The child's right eye was shaded by a leaf of black taffeta, which made his face even paler.He gestured to me from the window.Yesterday, he was shivering in the rain.His thin trousers rolled up to his lean thighs, and he shivered from time to time.
I admit that the interest and need to resume writing is more appropriate for me.Not the need to work, which has never left me, but the involuntary need to express my feelings and emotions in words immediately.I don't think I could go a whole day without writing even if I was alone today.
In bed tonight, I can only scribble these few words.Stendhal's was on the bedside table.
If I'm not too tired, of course I'll write a few pages a day, if only to praise the place.However, I didn't fall in love with any scenery, nor did I fall in love with anyone; it's just this blue sky, this nameless wild fragrance in the lush beauty of spring...
I walked the long distance of Ulugne, almost at a trot, in my sandals.I have a letter from M in my hand.sunny.Time passed without doing me any harm.On the high ground, along the slopes of the earth, asphodels grew densely, but not of the luxuriant kind that grows in the regenerated forests of the Gard region, nor of the kind that grows in the sacred suburbs of Syracuse, but a single stem holding the flower .
Near Vila the day before yesterday, we picked heather. The bell flowers are foxglove, some open alone, and some are almost attached to the stem. The flowers are also very large, as if bending the branches.
On rocks and road slopes, there grows a particularly lush climbing plant with blue flowers (that kind of dark blue, I have only seen the same as gentian, and Yam said it is a kind of gentian), in the grass A night cave is formed.My eyes wandered in happily.
In San Sebastian square, we had Spanish cocoa tea, it was very strong, with a lot of cinnamon, and it was poured in small cups, not to my liking, the cups were too small.Jana said she couldn't drink Spanish-style cocoa and wanted a "French-style" one.The waiter brought it to her almost immediately, yes, the same cocoa tea, but in a much larger cup, which Jana said was excellent. Em agrees to drink Spanish cacao tea, but hates cakes.The two of them were so reluctant (or determined) to use only their eyes, at most only their lips, to taste the local flavor a little bit. I was very annoyed when I saw it, so I ate this oily and rough orange pastry with big mouthfuls, thinking that It's eating Spain; it's terrible.
From the age of thirty-five onwards, a little tiredness can easily be attributed to the relationship of age, and even help to continue this state, rather than seeing it as a temporary discomfort in the first place.
Been in a sluggish state lately (it's been going on for almost three weeks) and I'm really starting to think that I'm never going to pick myself up again.
I have accommodated the fait accompli and determined for myself a gentle way of life; for me, writing has become a labor driven purely by my own will; life has no fun at all.
Gide accompanies Jana and Dominique Derouin to Bordeaux.
I write to pretend to be writing, in this little barber shop where the summer heat can't get in; sweet moments; the barber is busy silently; a fly harasses me from time to time.
This is what I am, not what I am: different from what I could be.
Return from Bordeaux.Arrived at seven o'clock this morning.It would be much more enjoyable to go home to my house at Auteuil.And in the house on Rue Raspail, every book, every page added, added chaos.Here, my thoughts have nowhere to go.At eleven o'clock I went out into the street, and saw Volmorer again, who was my date.He has not grown in relationships.Of course, he had a good memory, however, he was an idiot.I am no longer willing to take two hours out of my precious time, nor give two hours to one person just to please him, as Wilde said, "listen to him with my eyes".When I am not physically tired, I am very good at this kind of people-pleasing way.
(He has the advantage that no one can take anything away from him.)
This situation was not considered at all in advance: I listen to people's speech, and once my attitude is no longer arrogant, it must be flattering.It is admirable to listen thus, to get stupidity from fools, and so to get essence from wise men.
I'm so glad I didn't have lunch, but went into the little gallery, where there were thirty or so good pictures on display for the day, and auctioned off tomorrow.An informal Renoir, an amazing Monet, a very calm and "decent" Sisley; a treatment from the Berthe Morisot collection.I met Louis Roire in a gallery; he complained passionately, murmured affectionate words.
Wouldn't it be easier and less obsequious to shake his hand instead of saying "nice to see you again"?Absurd ah, the words have blurted out.
heavy rain.
I rushed to Auteuil's house, and it was like coming out of the water.In my opinion, everything in the new house is so small, so small... However, Auteuil in the heavy rain, and the surrounding wet flowers and blooming gardens, I find it even more charming.
Last night was spent at Charles Gide's.As I went in, I bumped into a group of customers, quite a number.After a while, however, my aunt said she was sorry, left her guest, and took me to the office alone.Blame her sister, her son Paul, her husband sadly.She wanted neither advice nor approval, only to be listened to.
Paul came: From the pleasure I felt, I felt that I was mainly here to see him, to take him out to dinner.It was not too difficult for us to win this point, but his two cousins were obviously sad.I don't know who deduced that the sister (at least the sister) fell in love with Paul.It's very possible.However, it is also quite possible that she herself is not aware of it; she is very natural with Pavel.
Did Paul fall in love with Wang Dura?This is exactly what I tried to figure out through the long conversation between the two of them.I almost thought that his pursuits were exactly the same as those of sports, mainly attracted by difficulties.However, it is undeniable that Paul has changed, a lot.Even if he is not in true love, at least he wants to please others.With a little more effort, he will be able to achieve his goal.His eyes no longer look like a child's, with a lingering expression, and he can pretend to be deep.
Had a long conversation this morning with my architect Bonnier.He felt that he was talking with a literati.As I inquired about his brother's deplorable madness, he replied: "...we thought: it's a fissure...you know...Alville's Sonnets." No doubt he thought Sully-Prudhomme's poem "The Broken Vase", and Madame de Ranze called "The Broken Vase". ("Hey! Monsieur Manuel," she exclaimed, "please recite to us that wonderful "Broken Bottle", you recite it very well!")
Paul and Morris came to lunch.I'm going to Copper's for an hour, and then I'll be with M for the rest of the night.What a dangerous need I retain to exhaust my pleasures.
I came out of there with an empty mind.
Copper told me that he had been disappointed by Claudel's "Ode"; and that I had so far only had a cursory look.Jam's bounty got in my way.
Copp, with the quick mind of a Jew (I really thought he was a Jew at first): "I don't worry much about you," I said to him, "I think you are well armed." He smiled and replied : "Yeah, that's what I thought; and yet, I still can't do anything. You know what I lack? An environment. Yes, I don't have an environment."
This view, in reading Stendhal's, can also be confirmed.Well!Really, you have a point.But in just a few months, the so-called "environment" will not allow you to live in peace!I was about twenty years old, and when I was young, with long hair and a sentimental look, I wore a tailcoat that fitted me by a tailor, and I was still in the salons of Madame Boule and the Comtesse de Janzat. Much attention.If I had been in and out of these salons all the time, I would be in the circle of "Two Worlds Magazine" today, and it would be impossible to write.I'm going to run away soon, because in this circle, I have to be very careful in order to appear proper.
I tried my best to attract Paul to Liana de L; her love might be easier to win than to Wang Dura.But it was useless, Pavel thought it would be an insult to talk to him about another woman.Maurice Schellenberg thought he was really in love.
Write in the morning—or try to write.
At about two o'clock in the afternoon, a man named Marinetti, manager of a sleazy art magazine called Poesia, called.He's a fool, very rich, pompous, and never keeps his mouth shut.
Luxembourg Gardens, nine o'clock in the morning.The weather is fine.I'm going to take Ronsard's poems with me, and I don't think Stendhal's is as good a read on a rainy day.
If last night, I hadn't... how excited I would have been this morning!After three weeks of bitter wind and rain, the first day was sunny and warm.Thanks to my stupidity (yes, to myself) last night, I am now blind-eyed and mind-numbed.
At eight o'clock in the morning Pavel came to see me.
He wants me to help him get Wang Dula.As soon as the two of us finished our morning tea, we went out together.Time passed.
While he was registering at the law school, I stayed in the Luxembourg Gardens, sitting on a chair and waiting for him, savoring this quiet quarter of an hour, which was probably the best and only pleasant moment of my day.
Watched "Golden Belly" last night. (At half an hour last night at the Hermitage magazine, with Ducourt, Gurmont, Jacques Copper, the kind Villiers, and two unbearable young men, One of them, named De Pax, could write poetry and knew Francis Jam, who looked like a bath boy.)
I went to a performance of "The Golden Belly" with my wife and von Reiselberg's lovely niece, Marie-Anne Weber.Mrs. Melish, who had only been in Paris for two days, was also at the play, and came towards us during the intermission.I should have gone up to her, and introduced M to her with feigned gallantry; but instead of doing so, for fear of displeasing M, I waited and waited until Mrs. Melish could bear it no longer, and at last exclaimed: "You Can you introduce me to Madame Gide?" Besides, the conversation was always so lively that it was embarrassing to have to wait for an introduction.Anyway, I spent the rest of the night beating myself up and being in a terrible mood.
The play, though a secondary work, I found brilliant, with a pervasive wit throughout.There is no place that is poor and weak, without a little emotion, alas!Or the so-called poetic trace.Surprisingly, the last scene is the best.
I feel the great joy of writing again, regardless of the form, and I just write it down in this book.In the busyness of the day, I look forward to being alone with this notebook.
I saw a large atheroma on the right brow of Andime Armand-Dubois.Barayul wore a black wig.
After Paul registered, he came to the Luxembourg Gardens to look for me again.He wanted to rely on my zeal, on my shrewdness, on everything he could wrest from me in order to get Wang Dulla.
We went to the Athens Theater together and booked a box on the side of the stage for tonight.
Hoffmannsthal came to visit and walked with him in the Luxembourg Gardens.
The role of Esther, Wang Dula played perfectly one day, but she didn't like it very much.These days, actors, like writers, don't agree that taste takes precedence over what they think they can do.
Saying a fairly simple thing in a very complicated way.Maybe I was tired last night...I sat here and worked for five minutes, and I can't express it more clearly.
As soon as this notebook started, it taught me to write more freely.
I'm still lying down writing these words, while the sun is shining outside.At one o'clock in the afternoon we set off for Couverville.Hoffmannsthal would be here at ten, Paul at nine.When we parted last night, he said to me, "In an hour's work you've ruined a month's work." I did not understand such inscrutable words, and begged him to come and explain to me this morning.
The lady sitting across from us has a beautiful forehead without wrinkles, and her hair is very black and grey. She took out an Arabic book from her small bag and looked like she didn’t feel my surprised gaze—I want to be with her so much. Chat!A striking resemblance to Augustine de Rotemale, and a resemblance in spirit to Anna Shackleton.
(During a conversation with Gourmont yesterday at the Hermitage, I rediscovered something about his book that particularly annoyed me: (for example) he said: "I only like newspapers without literature. ’ The implication is to say to you, “I know full well that you don’t, but I don’t care, I have a point anyway.”
"I want to cure you by the method I have always been successful in," said Vanderlt to Pavel, "that is, to allow you to see me often."
Paul reproached me for recalling to Vandura's consciousness during the conversation of the previous night an image of Max which, according to him, had faded and disappeared.
Thinking of the days of my youth, when happiness was like a god, resident in my heart.
Soaked in the garden all morning, unable to go back to the room to write.When I went back to have lunch, I still looked intoxicated, and Em also thought I was "excited".What did I do to be so excited?It's just that I caught bugs on the rose branches in my garden.
The light blue sky filled the air, moistening the horizon like milk.I wasn't very excited to get there, and it wasn't much fun seeing a few more kids.I think the scenery there is beautiful, and I enjoy the sweet fragrance of rapeseed flowers, but I can't bear the idleness of my thoughts.
On May 14, return to Couverville.
In this difficult intercourse, I thus assisted Paul, not only out of affection and consistency, lest I should lose my friendship, but also to satisfy the need of vanity: I am an indispensable role.However, as soon as I was alone and no longer overwhelmed by emotion, I immediately opposed and resisted; I did not approve of this adventure at all, thinking that it would destroy people step by step.
She (Wang Dula) has two cruel fine lines at the corners of her mouth, which are almost imperceptible, but if I were Paul, I would have to be more careful about this.
I'd love to talk about Hoffmannsthal.It's kind of weird that after talking to him for two hours, I still have nothing to say... By all accounts, he's very likable to me.However, the "dark" part of him, in my opinion, is not very big, and there is not much sacred thing.I'd rather talk to him, especially if he's almost always talking all the time.I am very happy to see him again.
I'm in the gallery (in the sculpture hall), sitting on a chair and waiting. M and Gaion arrive at about ten o'clock. (They were together this morning.)
I arrived in Paris on the evening of the 14th, had dinner at Mrs. P's house, and talked with Paul for a while, not very speculatively.I couldn't hide from him that I didn't approve of his association.However, seeing his extremely depressed appearance, I promised to see Wang Dula again.Where would this lead him?Certainly not leading to happiness.Besides, he knew it in his heart.what is the relationship!Is happiness what we are after?No, but the free expression of the latest emotion in our hearts.
On Monday morning, I also wanted to go to the art gallery to meet M, Gaion and John; Paul insisted on staying with us, which ended up disturbing our interest.Five of us walked from one exhibition hall to another.Then there was lunch and the atmosphere was sombre.Undoubtedly, it was going to be boring (I always thought it was unnecessary), and I didn't want to be with M either.This is neither fair nor interrupts our continued happiness.I am more and more determined to "only give happiness to M, and only get happiness from him".I use the word "happy" in its fullest and fullest sense.When I say "pleasure" here, I mean: happiness, enthusiasm, virtue, health.
I wrote in my journal this morning just not to wait for them to get tired and annoyed, and to think sadly of them all cursing this date...and here they are.
After lunch yesterday, Gaion and I left the others to go to the Whistler exhibition.Our visit lasted almost two hours, and we especially admired the last group: figures drawn in pencil on brown cardboard and painted with woad dye, and some houses (among them a candy store) seen from the front.
Calm dinner.I read the wonderful first act of "The Golden Head" to Em.
Such a total occupation of my time, even for a brand new pleasure, wears me down.I hope that in the course of the day, there are gaps and intervals; feelings pass through me, I don't compress them into thoughts, I don't do any processing, and I can only benefit from chewing.
I expect this house to give me strength to work and talent.All my hopes have been placed here.
I only saw Pavel face to face.He was going to see Wang Dula again tonight, and he immediately regained his energy.His health depended entirely on the success of this fornication.He already said to let me not interfere.
I resumed the habit of taking a nap around one o'clock.
I first went to the "Western" magazine office to pick up Claudel's "Ode to the Muse", and then went to the square of St. Sulpice Church to join Gaion and M.As I walked and watched, I just read a few sentences, and my thoughts were completely caught.It was a shock to my whole being, like a warning that I had been expecting to happen soon for a month.
I was almost annoyed at leaving Helicon in the poem for Gaion and M; to bring my thoughts back to this, Gaion must at once relate the secret words he had just spoken to Griffin. .Yes, after lunch, he told the whole story of a secret by leading the conversation, and soon went to Bray to look at the "materials", and it was complete.
Then I left them again and went to the baths, trading my excitement for my sorrow.
Gaion came to find me for dinner, and the two of us went to find M on the main road.We walked into the Naples Hotel and chatted comfortably over three glasses of Roman punch.The least I can say here is that this conversation gives me pleasure, and that pleasure is deep and intense, and I am sure to share it with others.When it was time to get up and leave them, I felt that this kind of happiness had been completely drunk, so I couldn't help but feel a little bit reluctant, so I had to exaggerate my passion and excitement a little; , and then said goodbye with a smile.
As things became more and more certain, my friendship with M became intellectualized, or, so to speak, desensualized.Nevertheless, this friendship has only strengthened, from my body to my head.I value his mind more than his body.
I saw him again, and he came in the evening.I re-read mine with him.Yes, I'm not bad at writing it down.All this is impossible to tell.That's what I want Marcel to see; he'll understand why I've been so hard on him in Bordeaux.
Now that the situation has changed, and looking at the text of the description, although I am still very excited, I have changed the eyes of an outsider. "You Muse of temperance, you will never forsake me!" Now I shall mount myself.
Kessler came to pick me up in a car.We arrived at the Mirabeau Hotel, together with the Hoffmannsthals and my brother-in-law, five of us took two carriages and drove to Lisbon Street. Half an hour later, I left in front of Papa Roval's Corot shop. them.
Monsieur Simon died last night, and I hurried to Albert's at once.Madeleine was at his house today, returning from the Avenue T, to tell me the sad news.
Albert was at home, looking dejected.But because of his wife, we can't say anything yet.For a while, just a little while, she left us.Immediately I approached Albert with the same impulsiveness. He grabbed my hands with sobs, and hurriedly murmured into my ear in a panic-like voice: "Only you, only you can understand, with him I will lose my life." How many things. This afternoon, I said to Madeleine: 'Only André, now only André can...'"
At this time, the cousin and sister returned to the room again, we separated quickly like two criminals, our faces returned to normal, and we began to talk about other things again.
I had a boil on the side of my neck that swelled up and had to stay at home.I used this time to write an article on Barres, and I practiced the piano for an hour a day, and I didn't play the piano for nearly a year.The willingness to sacrifice a few hours each day may be essential to the balance of the day.
Hoffmannsthal is here again this morning and I couldn't be happier to see him.He speaks in a high-pitched voice and lacks secrecy, yet there's nothing stupid about something that knocks your ear a little.Clothes and ties are tasteful.As soon as he sat down for a while, he immediately stood up again, strode back and forth, stopped, raised his steps again, bumped into chairs and tables, smiled slightly, and put on the appearance of an older child.
I passed by Charles Gide's house on my return, took Paul away, and let him accompany me all the way home.Wang Tula was the only topic of conversation.He regained ground he thought he had lost too quickly.
I came home to receive Paul Laurent and then his brother.Impossible to have a pleasant conversation with both of them at the same time!Pierre's rhetoric made me defend something I didn't care much about.I confessed to him that I always regretted it later; I made the same mistakes almost every time, but neither he nor I knew how to repent.
I worked hard tonight, but my thoughts were so disturbed that I couldn't find a single thought in place.
Having read the chapters on the Habits of Scorpions with great interest, I would like to write a preface to J. H. Fabre's book. (—However, this writing is relatively flat.)
Count Kessler took me to lunch at the Almnonville Restaurant with the Hoffmannsthals.
The culture of these Germans baffles me.I have not been able to find any deficiency in them in any point of our literature.
Tonight I feel nothing but discouragement and sleep.Reciting Oscar Wilde's "From the Deep" in German and English aloud made me feel at ease.
I can see all the reasons why I can't write anything, and I really want to hold on tightly and kill them one by one.All these negations in me are what I have deftly cultivated.Now I wrestle with them, and it's easy to divide and conquer, but they're subtly interrelated, so tightly intertwined that they form a web from which I cannot escape.How can a diary help me in this respect?In the midst of things that are fleeing, I hold on to the pages of the diary as if I were holding on to something fixed.I force myself to write anything, but I have to persist every day...Even here, I am still looking for words, I am still groping, I write your name: Loxias (Loxias)!
Went to Bonnier's this morning to fight for the ceiling of my study, I don't like the way it is.Then went to see Werner again.
Immediately after lunch I went to see the doctor for a boil which was hindering me and which was making me very tired.I hurried to Copper's, and stayed a quarter of an hour; I no longer begrudged anything with him, so I was willing to see him.
I went home to wait for Kessler and Hoffmannsthal, to go with them to Leroll's house.Madame Lerolle was very beautifully dressed, her smile was rejuvenated, and she was obviously excited by the visit of foreign celebrities.
I went alone with the Lerolles to visit the astonishing Gauguin collection (Fayet's).
I went to see the Whistler exhibition with Em again.The impression is not so vivid, but I think a lot about the subtraction method in art.No matter what Paul and Pierre Laurent say, I can only and only want to regard portraits and colors as "expressive techniques".Lines and colors express nothing, they are useless; and in art, what is useless is harmful.etc……
What exactly did I do during the day? ... (I write this on Thursday.) Sleeping? ……wrong!I went to Guibert de Houisin's and the master was away.I wanted to ask him where he could see Negro or Spanish dancing, because Kessler and his sister, and the Hoffmannsthals, were going to see it tonight.
I went to the "Hermitage" magazine to meet, and then went to Auteuil, at the house of the Marquise de Brion, to reunite with some German guests.The big living room is quite luxurious. I wear a bonnet, a gray jacket, yellow leather shoes, and no fake collar (I had a small boil for five days, so I had to replace it with a white silk scarf, but it was quite tight. Cleverly, beautifully fastened with a Dutch gold pin that Em lent me), dressed like this, it was a bit difficult to walk into the living room at first.I mustered all my will to appear completely at ease, and with the helpful assistance of the Kesslers, after a while my behavior became almost natural.Fortunately, I don't feel too tired.
Several minor guests arrive.
We decided I'd go to the Ritz where they were having dinner, but I liked to eat alone and only joined them when dessert was served at the end.
I wanted to go crazy at night, but I didn't have much interest in it.We first went to the Marini Theater, saw a stupid show, then went to the Maxim's Hotel, but we arrived too early, we didn't see any dances, and it was almost half past one in the morning. After leaving, a dance performance was arranged.Everything was not going well, and we were already sleepy from boredom, so we just wanted to go back to sleep.
Needless to say, we're all bored and a little annoyed with other people, but it's not obvious.I'm almost certain that Hoffmannsthal has something to blame.Therefore, he took my farewell to me indifferently.
Fortunately, at the Maxim's, I had the courage to talk a lot with Mme. de Brion, who was sitting next to me, and we were both relieved of boredom to some extent, but it took a lot of effort.She was very grateful to me, and insisted on seeing me again with the utmost enthusiasm when we parted.
I pretended not to be tired, persisted for two hours, and came home exhausted.
I spent the whole morning looking over my house at Auteuil.I joked, "I'm going to order a fireplace from Maillol"!Bonnier was astonished.I tried not to laugh.
I fell asleep at one o'clock in the afternoon, and got up to go first to Albert Demarest's and then to Copper's for dinner.The cousin-in-law just doesn't believe that Mr. Simon left nothing to Albert; she thinks that some materials must have been destroyed... and so on.Albert was dejected, gentle and forbearing...Excellent performance.
It's annoying not being able to see him alone all the time.
Delightful dinner at Copper's.The little girl who just got up from the bed is no longer afraid of me, she is so cute.There was also his friend Spike at the table.After dinner Mrs. Copper went away.Talking slowly, reminiscing about my childhood, almost confessing my heart - the friend just listens and doesn't intervene.
I passed the Odéon Theater on my return, saw John the Younger again, and chatted with him a little longer, which had never happened before.I was filled with deep pity for the boy, who seemed the very embodiment of love and tenderness.If there is one person I can "do good" for, I'd rather do it for him.Already five times, I've walked all the way to Odéon with the sole pleasure of seeing him again.One night, I didn't see him at first, but I waited for him for nearly an hour.幕间休息时，他终于来了，不知是从哪儿出来的，他又见到我，也显得很高兴；他那笑容十分可爱，因此我不能相信仅仅是为了我给他的铜子。
我要离去还真费点儿劲，如果能知道他去哪儿，离开他也就不会那么难过了。
上午，去P饭店短暂拜访。关于我的精神状态或者我的思想，一场虚惊。一种紧急需要满足就行了。过后就不再去想了，我所要求的，无非就是这一点。
我又办了几件事便回家，精神果然充沛，可以工作了。
保尔来吃午饭，又审查他那故事，弄得我有点烦；他原地踏步，只分析而不行动。害怕输掉赌局的心理，反而使他不敢赌了。deserve it.
我呆在家里阅读和工作。同Em高声读王尔德的《从深处》，好极了（英文和德文对照本）。
平静的夜晚，非常渴望在勤奋中度过。这一切还缺乏贪欲。
卡莱尔出色的传记（布雷恩，“自由之页”出版社）。读这书，我恍若又回到十五年前的情景。然而，不那么容易了，热忱也中辍。我还有，但是又增添了许多别的无用的东西；惟一的一样东西还是必需的吧？对，不过条件恰恰是的。
“这幅，”他说道，“是一位上流社会女人的肖像。您注意她这猥鄙的手吗？您知道为什么会这样吗？就因为她的手往前探。瞧一瞧照片就明白了。”我注意到这一点： 一个女人手放在前面，喏，您会看到，手就显得太粗大了。马奈立刻明白这一点，他立刻明白了！喏，不是在自然，不是的，而是在自然中。马奈，就是。
“哦！一个女人穿着低开领的衣衫，就活啦，就轻松啦！这胸脯……这胸脯引起欲念……人们喜欢袒露的胸脯。”
这几句话是佩勒兰先生讲的，他对着马奈和塞尚的精彩作品发表了许多看法。我和凯斯勒伯爵还要去看他的收藏品。
匆忙去若望家。在楼梯上却同他父母撞个正着。本来我上楼去找M，他却不得不随父母他们走。红着脸，讲了几句含混的话。跟若望费了很多唇舌，解释我面对M的状态。
灿烂而炎热的一天，第一个名副其实骤热的夜晚。如果我已经动笔写一本书，今天晚上我一定会写出精彩的篇章。我头脑十分清醒，不是特别兴奋，身体舒泰，内心也很踏实。今晚我可以成为一个出色的情人，我一想到保尔，怜悯之情便油然而生。我真希望昨天才结识M，今天才能同他交谈……
今天夜晚，我若是从阳台上跳下去，也会说一句：“这非常简单。”
四年前碰到这样一个夜晚，我肯定要通宵游荡。
如不能保证次日写下去，我就不肯认真动笔。
霍夫曼斯塔尔对我说过，昨天雅克·E·布朗什又对我说： 霍夫曼斯塔尔、埃尔维厄、巴雷斯和布朗什，应邀在德·诺阿伊夫人府上共进晚餐，霍夫曼斯塔尔对坐在旁边的布朗什说：“要承认，布朗什先生，我知道您是安德烈·纪德的朋友，要承认他的一页文字所表现的才华，要超过这些先生的所有著作！”他隐约指着客人，说话声音很高，布朗什非常尴尬，就这样回答：“不管怎样，在座的无人苟同。”
霍夫曼斯塔尔把这话传给我时，我不相信他真说过，就开始对他有了几分怀疑。昨天，布朗什又把原话对我说了一遍；再也无法怀疑了，也不能怀疑同样高声对德·诺阿伊夫人讲的别的话：“您何不邀请维勒·格里凡和安德烈·纪德陪我呢？”德·诺阿伊夫人则提高嗓门答道：“邀请安德烈·纪德！他就没有把我放在眼里！”霍夫曼斯塔尔还寻开心，佯装不知道在《蓓蕾妮丝的花园》后，巴雷斯还出版过什么。他一再问埃尔维厄，如果说他“不欣赏我，又是为什么”？毫无疑问，这客人有点儿给人难堪，因而这次晚宴反倒死气沉沉了。
晌晴薄日。我穿上夏装，去奥德翁剧院的拱门下与M相会。
我们一道朝夏特莱宫走去，盖翁说定十点钟在那里同我们会合。
我们三人又穿过卢森堡公园，去若望家里聊了半小时，再去拉沃努小餐馆用午餐……
（这些记事，不知以后对我有什么意义： 大部分时间，我仅仅干巴巴地标出我一天的活动。然而，我不愿意中断，要以这种方式坚持，直到一周后动身去库沃维尔。）
我心情轻松地放他们走了，又赶往拉洛街，去找在莫里斯·德马雷斯特家吃午饭的玛德。
在夏尔婶母家坐了一小时，我想找到时间和思想状态，讲一讲贝特拉加茨的布罗姑妈的遭遇： 她半疯了，被婶母带回巴黎。这个不幸的矮小的老太婆，在单元房里挨屋游荡，好似少年女侍从，要逃避她那可恶的不安。她害怕发疯，就差不多已经疯了。这是人类悲痛的一副新形象。夏尔婶母向我们讲述了她的全部经历，讲了好久，也怀着深厚的感情。我婶母讲得棒极了，按照她的口述写下来，就是一个Chtchdrine式的故事。
去看欧特伊住宅。自从砌起墙之后，这是玛德头一次到现场瞧瞧。我们一同乘车离去。
阿尔贝夫妇来用晚餐。可怜的阿尔贝，稍微离开他妻子一会儿，就露出一副犯罪的神态。
夏尔婶母从这儿出去。大家在策划将布罗姑妈送进精神病院。这件事很讨厌，但又是必要的。近三天来，我所见到的，惟有凄惨的情景和无望的状况。
我想象老太婆一旦明白了，该有多么惶恐不安。她会跪到夏尔婶母面前，用她始终保持的美妙声音，嚷道：“安娜！我这么信赖你，你为什么出卖我？”
在我这年龄，又经过吉约、鲁瓦尔等人的教育，我到了无法抵制一个的诱惑的地步。事情一过，我就干脆要再次行动。
昨天上午，我带若望·施伦贝格，去雷东的老师，那个不幸的雕刻家布雷斯丹的女儿家。车行驶到儒尔当大街二十二号，停在一堵墙、一扇矮木门前面；只见门上方有一个洞，是用手在木板上弄出的洞，从洞口里吊出根绳子： 那便是门铃。墙对面是老城墙。我们在门前拉铃，按喇叭，实在烦了，就到蒙苏里公园兜一圈，然后就决定等待，等待有人从这扇神秘的门出入。二十分钟过去，门终于半打开，走出一个相当高大壮实的年轻人，我们急忙冲上去。他不大情愿，但还是把我们引见给他母亲，罗道尔芬·布雷斯丹小姐： 她穿着短上衣和短裙，人还相当漂亮，肌肤鲜艳，头发有点散乱。儿子离开我们。这间画室兼为卧室。墙上安了挂武器用的盾形板，靠玻璃窗摆一架古钢琴-管风琴，是槭木造的，当作阅读台、写字台和万能桌用。透过窗玻璃看得见树木和花草。小花园非常狭窄，连着围城时毁掉的一所房子的颓墙。罗道尔芬小姐不住嘴地讲，就像一年也只有三次说话机会的人。她讲述他们受穷受苦的长长的故事。她从五屉柜的抽屉里取出一叠版画，没有付梓的作品，废弃的校样，全是她从父亲散失的作品中拯救出来的。
刚刚同菲利克斯·保尔、格雷夫共进午餐；午餐很累人，也没有什么特别的兴味。我不想克制，多多喝酒，多多吸烟，以便填满过久的冷场，离开餐桌已醉意醺醺。我在公证人的事务所里，等待布尔日里时写下这几行文字。我来替可怜的拉佩鲁斯咨询，那可爱的老人有些担心，希望立一份附加遗嘱，以利于他的孙子。我在最好日子完全清醒的状态，也根本弄不明白这种事务，今天感到头脑一片模糊，遇到这种复杂的事务便不舒服，几乎产生身体上的不适；我出了汗，开始偏头痛，真想跳进埃夫罗塔斯河洗浴。
弗朗西斯·雅姆将手稿《诗人和妻子》托付给我，由我支配，刊登在这期或下期杂志上，一次刊出或分期连载均可。他给我写信来，说他要我一回来就立即全文发表。布瓦莱斯夫的文章关于雷拜勒，要占二十页。杜科特的秘书维里埃写信通知弗朗西斯·雅姆，说他们非常遗憾，不得不分期刊登。雅姆绝不肯通融，要么将手稿寄还，要么一次刊出；他还说“这样斤斤于细节受够了。六十页的杂志，这一期不得不扩到八十页”，“斤斤于细节”让杜科特多支出了一百五十法郎。
天气特别热，又特别好，尽管十分疲倦，晚饭后我又出门。今天晚上，毫无不安的情绪将我驱逐到外面，出去是“为了避免呆在家中过后又感到内疚”；这句可怕的话，是Em对我讲的，是她亲口催促我出去。
首先在香榭丽舍大街，靠近咖啡音乐厅一带十分美妙，我一直走到圆点，再从爱丽舍街回转；人群像过节似的，越来越拥挤，越来越热闹，一直到王宫街，这是西班牙国王从爱丽舍宫返回要经过的路，在圣奥诺雷街和王宫街上空，沿路都拉了彩灯，形成蔚为壮观的凯旋门。这种夜景，我不能独自欣赏，便急忙回去带Em来。然而进屋一坐下，身子就觉得散了架，我们只好推迟到第二天再出去。
这种日记的最大弊病，就是不断拉我后退。况且我已过了适合品尝现时滋味的年龄。今天早晨，我到处吃闭门羹： 维尔特家、《水星》社、贝玑家，本来要见贝玑谈事情。我的状态很好。真不该借口给马塞尔写信，就在苏夫莱咖啡馆露天座坐下，无所事事，又吃了味道不大好的一片奎宁，弄得脑袋晕晕乎乎。
我是在地铁车厢里写这些文字。我乘地铁去杜科特家，要同他共进午餐。我没有给马塞尔写信。假如不是在卢森堡公园的椅子上随意坐一坐，假如不是在一个正派的，但衣衫褴褛的怪人身后跟随一刻多钟，我就能像在《牧歌》中那样，享受暖暖的空气和热热的阳光，头脑就能保持我上午出门时那种欢畅的状态： 思想既平静而又活跃；还有，我也会做得稍微像样些，而不是干巴巴地记录这三天的时间表。
星期二，吃罢午饭，Em和我，我们就赶到西班牙国王要经过的香榭丽舍大街。我望见他一路向人群致意。假设国王不那么年轻，不那么英俊，我的喉咙也不会发紧哽咽。他那张脸绷得很紧，动作局促地行军礼致意。
两小时之后，我们看见他从爱丽舍宫返回，那副笑容就极大不同了，面颊不再绷紧，而是喜形于色，那表情完全是一种惊喜，几乎还带着孩子气。在国王往返之间这段时间，我们参观了两个画展。看这类画展，比什么都令人气馁。
晚间，我们乘车逛大马路和灯火通明的广场。Em回去了，我又独自去香榭丽舍，再去歌剧院。没有遇见一个值得注目的人物。空气充斥尘埃，像火一般灼热。西班牙国王看完招待会演出，要经过歌剧院大街回外交公馆，看热闹的人越聚越多。我有几分不安，还是离开那里，绕了几条街，到了法兰西喜剧院广场。这里人群稀薄一些。快到午夜了。法兰西喜剧院人已走空。国王护卫队很快就要通过。我登上剧院一根廊柱基座，挨着几个孩子等待。我从这个广场清楚地听见爆炸声，并不像人们所说的那么响。我身边好几个人都断言是一声炮竹，我则以为是一声枪声。我又能看出自己很难“严肃地对待”事件。我非常开心，更有甚者，群众惊恐情绪几乎一刻也没有离开我，引起我所有感官一阵兴奋，引起我的心快活地跳动。第二天报纸说，随即“大乱，场面难以形容”。恰恰相反，我却惊奇地看到，众人听了爆炸声，都一动不动。约有四分钟的工夫，群众都呆若木鸡。继而，警察出动了，才引起波涛汹涌的场面。过了一会儿，保安骑警一阵冲击，才使我的心充满恐惧，也充满一种兴奋的情绪。不过，我还能完全控制住自己，只是眼里漾出泪水而觉得有点难堪。然而，就是不能“严肃地对待”我目睹的事件，就好像那不是真实的生活。演出一结束，演员就会重新登台谢幕了。
保尔的这场恋爱令我厌烦透了。况且我也看出我所积存的好感大大缩减了。现在我表示好感，大部分时间是为了继续一种不慎开始的举动，对自己已经隐隐不满，有时也对我所惠顾的人十分恼火。
我刚起床，一想到同保尔的这次约会，心里就不胜气恼。我晚到了，还啧有烦言。我头一件事就是辞掉他昨天给我预约的出租车，这就给他省下七十多法郎。他的恋爱故事若说还有点意思，也只是因为发生在他身上。
玻璃杯底剩下一层稠稠的奶油，几乎像蜜似的，麦管吸不上来了。我的焦渴和贪食比倒胃口还强烈，可是过后很长时间，我的心口还堵得慌，舌苔也很厚。我记下这种感觉，而在别人看来，这样细腻纯粹是文学手法，但是我完全清楚，记忆就是要围绕这一点聚拢起来。王杜拉不喜欢我们的奶油咖啡，要了一大杯清咖啡，而我非常羡慕她那沫子冒到杯沿儿的冰镇清咖啡。
谈话死气沉沉，我们每个人都缺乏激情。
在圣拉扎尔车站咖啡厅，保尔和M就已经耍了孩子的骗术，把我和她单独丢在那儿——有充分时间穷尽这个话题，并且热切盼望他们回来。我死死守住自己的看法，认为这事无计可施，我也越来越怀疑她嘴角那两道细纹。
我们从圣拉扎尔乘环城火车，一直到布洛涅树林，再换乘两辆出租马车，驶向塞纳河附近美树下的“周期”餐厅。我和王杜拉单独乘一辆车，对她已经没有什么可讲的了。我衣冠不整，头发凌乱，胡子也没有刮；我根本不考虑取悦于人。I.
保尔打发走了他的马车，我们四人同乘一辆马车返回，车篷放下来了。天气这么好，放下车篷未免惹人注意，但是很难看清我们。
M和我找个借口，在巴蒂尼奥勒同其他两人分手，步行到圣心教堂，其实我早就想拜访毕加索了。到画室（蒙马特尔山脚下，拉维尼昂街）没有找见他，我就从门下塞进一张名片，又单独同M一起走了，我们短暂参观了大教堂，便步行到圣拉扎尔，M方始同我分手。
分了手，我又哀怨起孤单，决定不等Em，明天就动身，星期一在埃特尔塔过夜，星期二在库沃维尔迎候她。
由于炎热，空气都发黑了。
我受极不正常的好奇心的驱使，守在百叶窗里面，窥视街对面窗户里食品杂货店的伙计。在这种大热天，他们的窗户全敞着，目光能直探进去，而店铺半明半暗，还隐约看得见。在上床睡觉之前，我多次在窗口守望；甚至睡到半夜，我还起来过一次……
为了平息这种不安情绪，我还是出去了。走进Bufflo音乐厅，随即又出来，不合我的口味。在香榭丽舍大街、大马路上，漫无目的地乱跑，直到跑累了。
王杜拉对我说，她同加斯凯闹翻了。我也希望这样；同他“处好”太累我。他是个阴谋家，愚蠢而又相当卑鄙。
不知道为什么，我观看了他的剧本《狄俄尼索斯》的排练和首演。第二次幕间休息时，我陪德·夏尔姆瓦夫妇到后台。我想把昨天写的便条交给他，向他讨回我的《普罗塞耳皮娜》的一部抄写稿，我手头没有了。
“嘿！”我对他说，“芒代斯一定会给您写一篇出色的文章。”
他了解我对芒代斯的看法，一时不知道该怎么接我的话茬儿，便颇为笨拙地问道：“为什么？”
“我看见他了，”我接着说道，“他就坐在我对面的包厢里，津津有味地欣赏。”
“弄得我很烦，”停了片刻，他又说道，“我的男主角，演第一幕就漏掉一百五十行诗。”
“唔！”我对他说道，“我亲爱的加斯凯，谁也没有发觉呀。”
尽管如此，我原以为人还算聪明的德·夏尔姆瓦夫人，却对我说：“喂！您很善于赞美。”这话令我恼火。如果她非想听粗鲁的话不可……当时我真差一点讲出来。现在我成了一个庸俗的吹捧者，吹捧的还是加斯凯！ !
我在火车上写日记。终于有了头！
昨天，同保尔进行重要谈话，谈完我挺满意，心里也轻松了。我对他说，王杜拉并不特别性感（我在这里的意思是：“引起情欲”）。他一听就高声说：“正因为如此，我对她才没有多大欲望！”而且，这里面我丝毫也没有夸大。王杜拉所引发的是大脑的冲动，这是最糟的，无法满足。我还对他说，王杜拉不见得“那么令人感兴趣……”等等。可怜的小伙子！他最终能从自己的黑洞里走出来吗？
同玛德乘车回家，我中途到美术展厅停下，看看瓦莱里对我说过的鲍里索夫-穆萨托夫的两幅画。毫无疑问，两幅画很好……
回到家中，我又不怕疲劳，整理文稿，收拾箱子。这箱子同我的书籍、我极短的语句、我的整个生活一样，我要塞进去的东西太多。
“别人以巧妙的恭维，能从我这儿得到一切。”X说道。我既不相信自己，也不相信我请教的人，情况该有多糟啊！
正如虔诚的伊斯兰教徒高喊“上帝就是上帝”，我也要高喊“艺术就是艺术”。现实摆在眼前，但不是为了控制艺术，反倒是要为艺术服务。
价值啊！缓慢地起始。
我在这里又发现去年十一月中断的这本日记。在此期间，还有一些开了头的日记本丢在巴黎。尤其有一本（蓝封面），是逐日认真记的，自我从昂代回来写起，一直到我动身回库沃维尔为止。
今天六月十三日，第一个好天儿，我到户外写日记，坐得不舒服，又受到我的狗很大干扰。自从我们回到这里，雨就几乎下个不停，毁了花园，倒也有助于我的工作。我的，每天都能增添数行。这样勤奋写作，今天对我来说更为可取，要胜过最好的灵感。
这期间，我还阅读德文和意大利文的作品（《维特》和）。今天早晨，《帕吕德》的译稿寄到。
...
看望拉佩鲁斯。他迅速地问了我和别人的情况，但是也不听我回答，话题突然一转：
“必须承认，人身上有魔性。尤其在女人身上。我和我的女人，刚刚就大闹了一场。请原谅，先生，现在我情绪还很激动。（在一次争论中）我责备她一件事，那还是六年前发生的，她却一口咬定，说她没有干过。她讲这话口气很硬，一点儿也不脸红，也没有慌乱之色，真叫我惊讶不已。是关于在法兰西喜剧院订包厢的事。”
“对，”我说道，“这件事您对我说过。”
“可是现在，她却矢口否认。”
“怎么！她会否认在喜剧院订了包厢？”
“不是。她否认要我帮她付款。真的，若是牵涉到利害关系，把这张椅子，就是这张椅子，说成是一双拖鞋，她也干得出来，还会坚持己见。假如上帝要依照我们的意图审判我们……我猛然转身离开房间；我的双手直抽搐，真想掐死她。您知道她对我说什么吗？她对我说：'您的子孙鄙视您。'”
“她一定是气极了，说话只想伤害您。”
“想伤害我，对。我简直疯了，把她的话看得这么重……她对我说：'而且，先生，所有人都嘲笑您，鄙视您。'”
我碰了碰他的胳臂，对他说道：
“您完全清楚，对不对，这话不是真的。”
“我清楚，我清楚；我甚至感到惭愧： 有些人向我表现出友爱和敬重。”
“在任何人身上，”我又对他说道，“对您的友爱和敬重，也不如在我身上这样鲜明。”
我们沉默良久，他一直握着我的手。我们彼此不敢互视，只因无论他还是我，都未能忍住泪水。终于，我贸然问他一句：
“您娶她的时候非常年轻吧？”
“对……当时我很年轻。”
关于布卢瓦写了几条。创作《窄路》，修改《帕吕德》的译稿。又怀着极大的乐趣拿起波德莱尔的作品。
.very important.
雅克·科波夫妇十一点钟离开我们。现在是下午三时，过两小时我也动身，明天去冯·赖塞尔贝格家用午餐，同他们夫妇一起再看看房子。
同雅克·科波谈话的兴趣极浓，直到临行的两天前，也许我有点儿苦恼，不敢进一步同他谈了，而他也不引我的话头，不知道如何引我的话头了……他主要还是激动，而不是打扰我的写作。昨天，我给他念了写成的部分。我很不满意；我所能作的评语等下面再写。差一点儿我就付之一炬。科波的见解很高明，他从我给他读的部分里，看出这无非是一件更好东西的初稿。这若是在前几年，要念的自以为已经完美（或者近乎完美）的篇章，其实还不成样子，我准得灰心丧气。没有神仙一般的耐心，就什么也创作不出来。
科波今年二十七岁，倒显得还要大上十岁。他那张脸的表情过于丰富，已经因痛苦而显得倦怠了。他的双肩高耸而坚硬，好似一个担子很重的人。他的声音那么温和，有时几乎令人不安；有时他刻意诱惑，就能自然而然地吸引人。他表达得无懈可击，反倒令人心存疑虑；他的声调随意变化，一举一动从来不是无意识的。老实说，我用了一段时间才接受，这可能是好品质。人们甚至要怀疑，他那完美无缺的言辞是否真诚。他身上的一切，哪管由他本人体认、解释，也能突显出不凡来。
前天从巴黎返回——绿皮小箱的钥匙丢失，里面装有我的日记本。
星期三午餐相当有趣，是在圣日耳曼大街莫里斯·德尼家，在座的有冯·赖塞尔贝格、阿里斯蒂德·马约尔、冯·德·维尔德。
马约尔说话带激情，亲切而又天真，那样子好似在土鲁兹城的一个亚述人。但愿米尔博不逼他“思考”。
毫无疑问，德尼没有得到西班牙的很大充实，不过，碰到什么事，我的反应像个希腊人，而他的反应则像罗马天主教徒。
冯·德·维尔德不喜欢水果，而且，他还声称从未吃过，也不赞成品尝如此美观的东西。然而，他照样让人上水果，每次他的餐桌都摆上，只是不让人动，至少他不去动。自不待言，他还造出一套理论，证明不吃水果自有道理；当然是一种美学理论，主张水果的美能引人观赏造型艺术。总之，他不喜欢水果。
乘车从伊夫返回，我想给保尔描绘一个“肖像”，然后寄给他。这一肖像不会合他的意。他对别人既然缺乏仁慈之心，那么至少还应当有自知之明。我以刻薄对他的自命不凡。
昨天七月十四日，顶着大太阳骑自行车（到埃特尔塔），天黑返回克里克托看烟火。
烟花放得不好，又跌落到观众的头上。
放完烟花，便有彩灯游行，然后是舞会。我的目光越是无意，就越能更好地赏玩这些彩灯： 沿着一条条街道，拥挤的人群头顶彩灯五颜六色，在时而燃放的烟花的烟雾中，逐渐走远而变得朦胧了，而烟雾变浓的同时，又映成粉红色。
刚才为彩灯游行开路的吹鼓手，都坐在镇政府的台阶上，现在他们演奏起一支波尔卡舞曲。那些独奏者有时不知所措，还未演奏几个拍节，就一片乱吼，惟有弯形号保持一段时间节奏，接着嘀嘀嗒嗒的单簧管突然蹦出来。跳舞的人也时时绊着石子，因为就在空场上跳舞，而场地甚至没有打扫。
“动起来，先生们，不要胆怯！”公证人兼镇长利夫里先生在舞曲声中说道。“上前去邀请别人跳舞。”
只有四五对大着胆子上场。而镇子的其余居民和农民在他们四周围观，觉得看跳舞比跳舞更有把握开心。
再过几年，我写出来的书要逊色些，——但是读者会更加欣赏，因为他们更善于读了。
今天，我知道何谓等待了；不是那种焦急的等待，像马那样劳碌一生，而是这种可怕的等待，心惴惴不安，一阵又一阵狂跳，就仿佛要冲掉血栓块。在路上，就在那边路坡上，我顶着烈日等待，等X的马车经过。车迟迟不见影儿，有可能驶上另一条路……
我身上还保存一大部分快乐，尚无机会发遣。
难道什么也不能平复我这颗心的狂跳吗？是整个夏天在压迫着它。昨天骑自行车，跑了很远路，天气炎热，累虽累，但是更加兴奋。到洛朗家，接待倒是相当热情，不仅亲热，甚至友好，可是又怎么样呢？我已经感到和皮埃尔之间，距离比以往更大了。我的全部好感集中到保尔·洛朗身上，集中到他年轻妻子身上，每次都觉得这个妻子越发好，越发可爱了。皮埃尔的谈话充满恼恨，将恼恨周围的一切扫荡殆尽。我可能讲的任何蠢话，事先就感到会遭遇他现成的讥讽，而蠢话我又非讲不可。同他在一起，惟一的办法，