Thursday, October 20, 2005


The morning: Shall I boldly shake him off as I fear I cannot be moderate? How long must I suffer? How long must I do? When I see him next, shall I be indifferent to test him? Or shall I prefer to inspire him with MY flame? Is it not beneath me to be made uneasy by him?
The afternoon: In all day. Practised my brother's new sonata and inserted a downward run at the end of the third movement. Prestississimo.
The late night: Ate half a trout and passed the evening with Katharina Gilowska before a game of cards with Papa. I was, he said, his model for the Queen of Hearts, which he painted in triplicate for the Widow Von Durst, Mama and me. Feel myself quite calm and indifferent. Am I grown dull already? Or is it a calm confidence in a fixed reputation? The truth is I am inconstant and fickle and never sure of myself for two days together. It is as much as I can do to remain warm in this cold weather. I require more than one flame for this, Count Anton, or I shall become an old maid. For what woman can bear to see a man so long an admirer, and yet so cautious as to guard against the least advancement except by promises? I suspect at the base of his heart there is nothing more, which means we are both great pretenders and will laugh off our passion in time for Lent. N.


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