Saturday, 12 July 1873

Today, four and a half hours of piano; the Mendelssohn concerto in G minor is finished. I shall study it further to get up to tempo.
After dinner we went to the Pattons’. I found Bébé in tears; the cause was that Mme Patton had scolded Miss Catherine, and Bébé and Catherine had both wept. She is a very good little girl, but in love with Paul. It is so droll to see this in children. Paul offered her his arm; when he speaks she listens so intently, she seems afraid of losing a single one of his words. It is so ridiculous! We were sitting in the garden: Paul, Bébé, and I. I played a stupid part there — I could not help smiling; fortunately it was dark. They lit fireworks; there again Paul wanted to show himself a hero, holding the thing in his hands, and Bébé truly believed him a valiant knight. At last, when the smoke hurt his eyes, she was anxious. She runs after him like a little dog. It was very droll.
Paul lit a cigarette in the garden that evening, and... I am ashamed to keep returning to the same thing... I imagined that he was there, smoking too, beside me. I am mad — but I can write what I wish; no one will read this nonsense. Before myself I am not ashamed to confess that I love him a hundred thousand times — I love him! Who can prevent me? No one in the world. I am free to love him. If he does not love me, I shall die! No — I shall love another. I shall no doubt regret him.
It is decided that we shall wait another week or two; there are epidemics of every sort in Vienna. I do not believe it. Prudence is no harm; we do better to wait. And then I entrust myself to God and the Blessed Virgin. They will keep me; I shall pray; They will keep me from all misfortune. They are merciful to me.
I come back again to the Duke of Hamilton; I am vexed at having let myself be carried away like this. I love him very much now; to rid myself of it is nearly impossible. I have strength of character — I could have rid myself of it at the beginning. But it is so beautiful to love; I let myself go. I knew I must not, that it is useless, that he will never love me... And who knows? He may marry, or drop dead somewhere, drunk! What should I do then? Well, he is a debauchee, a bad sort, a drunkard, a good-for-nothing — it is not worth weeping over him; he is not worth it. I shall console myself very quickly over the death of that nasty beast; I will speak of him no more; he may take himself far away. Ah! no — those words may bring him ill luck! I do not wish it! I want him to live. And with my stupidities I may perhaps bring him ill luck. Forgive me, my God, and keep him!
No, truly, if he leaves me aside I do not know what I shall do! Yes I do — I shall pray to God, and He is so good; yet one must deserve His goodness. I do not do all that I ought; I want to work doubly hard to deserve something from Him. I write this at my table in the bedroom, one evening.
Editors’ note
[Undated, at the top of the penultimate page of the notebook]
A bodice in the shape of a rose or other flower, front and back fastened at the shoulders by garlands of small roses.
At the costume ball.
Editors’ note
[Undated, at the top of the last page of the notebook]
Heart’s ease “in 2 volumes”
Bombay and son
The last days of Pompei by Bulwer [Lytton.] Mrs Haliburton’s troubles by Mrs Henry Wood. Mabel Vaughan by the author of the Lamplighter The select works of Oliver Goldsmith.

Notes

In English in the original (Marie’s reading list, titles as she wrote them). ↩
In English in the original. So in the text: Dickens’s Dombey and Son (1848). ↩