Sunday, 31 August 1873

Maman is nearly well — so much so that she wants to go to Monte Carlo; she and my aunt come back at six. While they were away the princess, Dina, and I went to the Var, to the country dance. We do not stay long; it is boring. Only yesterday I saw lights at Gioia’s, but today I saw her. The first time only Dina saw her, so I ordered the carriage to turn around, and still I saw only her hat. I turn back, and this time I see this famous creature. Seated on the side balcony, surrounded by foxes that bark like mad. She reads. As we passed she raised her head, then lowered her eyes again. She likes to keep her eyes lowered. She is a witch, perhaps.
But she is far from her portrait. It is true she was not dressed up, and wore a straw hat over her forehead. She has a spot on her left cheek that gives her a little roguish, charming air. All I can say is that today she is not beautiful.
Fool that I am! Truly stupid — what does it matter to me, beautiful or ugly? She pleases, and that is all. I make myself ridiculous with all these observations, and contemptible. I ought not even to know who Gioia is. What is Gioia, and whose is Gioia?! But since I do know, one must not play the... fool before me. She is quite happy, this woman, but I do not envy her. I envy no one entirely, because I find almost no one worthy. Towards the end of dinner the Pattons arrive. Madame and two daughters. The grown-ups stay in the garden; Dina and I take the girls upstairs. But halfway up the stairs I turn back — the duck is so tempting that I have not the courage to abandon it. Not even for the Shah! I go back up once the duck is finished. Then we go to the garden, then again to my room. I cannot speak freely, for the name of a dress or a hat, a horse or a theatre might sully their chaste ears. And these little rascals, these goody-goodies, are the greatest devils in the world.
In the evening we go to the sea. Poor Maman cannot hear my plans without distress. She grieves when I say I shall spend one hundred and fifty thousand francs on my wardrobe.
We go to the London House; the princess treats me to an ice cream. I have paid for her for two months. Maman comes to fetch us by carriage. I order the driver to go to the promenade. It is there that the conversation about poor me begins. They start by saying I must make a wealthy marriage. And in that vein, Maman speaks to me of G. Miloradovitch. As she says I shall marry him, her mouth stretches into a smile — like mine when I speak of the Duke of Hamilton. She so wants this marriage.
But I declare, repeatedly, that I do not like small men, or thin ones, or dark ones, but on the contrary — tall, large, fair. Then they speak to me of Wittgenstein, but he is white-blond; that is yet another variety that displeases me. I do not like it when they speak of W.; I consider him a brother. Then Dina, the rascal:
“You like Boreel — and Hamilton?”
In the family, as a rule, one never says Monsieur, or the Duke of, but always Boreel, Audiffret, Hamilton.
Maman says that Hamilton is spoken for. When I said that Miloradovitch is too poor — seventy-five thousand roubles a year — she tells me that is enormous, and then:
“But Hamilton has only twenty thousand pounds sterling.”
“As for me — well! That is five hundred thousand francs.”
Then she says:
“No, only ten.”
Then I say:
“No, Maman, only five — three, if you like. How you make me laugh!”
The princess then:
“I said from the beginning that Moussia must marry the Duke of Hamilton!”
I had not tongue enough to protest on every side. I am vexed; I did not want Hamilton to become public. For what a humiliation if nothing comes of it! I am very, very cross. The whole promenade, the stupid princess calls me “Duchess.”
Every time, I cannot help a smile that encourages her, much against my will. (I receive Le Derby and have the pleasure of often seeing the Duke’s name in it; apart from that, I shall learn a great deal — it is an instructive journal, especially for me, since I want to have horses.) I had the imprudence to say that from this journal I shall know everything about horses, races, etc., all the expressions and the substance too. Dina then says in her little voice:
“She is studying for Hamilton” — one word too many!!
How she annoys me!
I do not want them to speak of Hamilton; Maman does not like it either, but for other reasons. The princess is mad; she does not leave me a minute’s peace:
“The Duke of Hamilton likes German; you must know German, and English too; he likes people to sing. Especially German — he gives his horses German names” — and so on the whole evening.
We return; I stay a few more minutes downstairs. I make the mistake of saying that my neck is sunburnt. At once the princess:
“He will wash it — he will take a cloth and wash it, is that not so, Marie Stepanovna? He is so big, so red.”
All my misfortunes come from my frankness. If I had not said that I like the fat, the red-haired, and the tall, all would be well. Maman listens to all this with annoyance; she prefers her deaf Russian. I declared that I do not want to live in Russia. Maman said that even if the Duke asked for my hand, she would refuse. He has a... and it is impossible.
Walitsky began a series of caricatures, of absurdities — how I shall be a duchess in my drawing room, my servants, etc. He said something rather vulgar that made everyone laugh. To mock my drawing rooms and matching liveries, he says the servants will have their backsides painted. And that in the morning I shall hold inspection: blue backside for the red drawing room, yellow backside for the white drawing room, etc. etc. I find it so vulgar, but Walitsky cannot say a single word without some vulgarity — one forgives him, he makes one laugh. In a word, the Duke of Hamilton is popular. What a nuisance!
Towards the end I said what drawing rooms I shall have, etc.: in a white shell drawing room, two Black servants will attend. Then the poor princess said that her own room was a shell of pink satin and all the curtains were of Brussels lace. But her worthy husband carried off a curtain every day and ended by stripping the room bare. She tells me this as an example. Could it be that her husband is a vagabond and a wretch? — never.
Between Maman and me there is now the Duke of Hamilton. She hears me speak with apprehension; she even says she would refuse for certain. But he does not ask for me, and perhaps never will. Oh no — that would be dreadful; I do not want to think of such a misfortune. God is too great to punish me so! And now I am deprived even of the pleasure of speaking of him! They will torment me. No — I want to try to put everything back on its former footing! It is devilishly difficult!
I wish I could write everything that was said yesterday. It is too long, alas! We spoke of the Duke of Hamilton. And I never stopped smiling, against my supreme will.
Ah, how I should like to be his wife!
Maman wants to diminish him in every way; she thinks I shall change my mind if she tells me he has ten, or five, or three thousand pounds.
Alas, no! I shall not marry him if he is poor, but I shall love him always. I cannot marry a poor man; it is against my nature — it would make us both unhappy. If he is poor I shall marry another whom I shall not love — Miloradovitch, perhaps. I shall see him three times a day and I shall be the greatest flirt in the world — but flirt is not the word. I shall be a flirt if I am happy.
But I shall behave like a courtesan if I marry a man I do not love. I shall always have a lover; I shall deceive my husband — who will also be my lover, if he is clever enough to understand me and to be my lover. But if he demands that I be his wife, woe to him! I shall amuse myself and be happy, in my own way. But if I have the happiness of pleasing Hamilton, he shall be my lover all my life. I despise jealousy. If a man who loves me thinks of another woman, that means he no longer loves me, and it is ridiculous to be jealous, or to reproach the man for it. It is not his fault: so long as I hold charms for him, he loves me; but if I no longer please him, nothing can remedy it.
There are people who say a husband and wife can allow themselves diversions and still love each other greatly. It is a lie — they do not love each other, for when a young man and a young woman are in love, can they not only think of but even look at someone else? They love each other and find quite enough diversion in one another.
A single thought, a single glance spent upon another woman proves that one no longer loves the one one loved. For, once more, when you are in love, you love one woman — can you think of loving another? No. Very well, what use are jealousy and reproaches? One weeps a little and must console oneself as for a death, saying it is over and nothing can remedy it. When the heart is full of one woman, there is no room for another; but when the heart begins to empty, another enters little by little, and the moment she has put in a little finger, the former mistress has nothing more to hope for and must give up all her claims. A man cannot help it — he cannot force his heart. I am a philosopher, as you see. Thus, let us suppose the Duke is my husband: he loves me, but if he begins to love me no longer, I shall say nothing, for it was for me to make myself loved. If there are not enough charms in me to keep his love, so much the worse for me. It is neither my fault nor his; it is natural, and one must bow before nature. Such are my ideas.
Inserted itemannotation de Marie, 1875
[Annotation: March 1875. I reasoned fairly soundly then; only one can see that I was a child — the word love, used so often, proves my youth. I do not correct the mistakes in French; everything would need correcting. I think I write better now, but still not well, not as I should like. Into whose hands will my journal fall? So far it can interest only me and those close to me; I should like to become such a person that my journal would become interesting to everyone. Meanwhile, I go on for myself. And would it not be a fine thing for me to look back over my whole life?]
ankle boots 76 ditto 100 buckles 9 varnish 3 dish 20 paper 21 parasol 17 necklace 4.50 white crêpe 8 journal 28 Paul 10 gloves 123 419
purse 22 riding crop 40 bird 30 two bottles 18 a flask 20 blacking case 4 balls of “jockey” wool 90 a dress 208 bracelets 39 buttons 1 rue Scribe no. 11 ankle boots rue Montmarte, 44 hatpins
coral-red outfit; outfit: brown velvet underskirt, pink crêpe de Chine tunic, trimmed with red feathers and straw fringe; Leghorn straw hat, turned up in front with brown velvet cockades and two or three pink feathers.
Black faille dress, lined with orange faille, and revers. The black embroidered in orange silk with leaves. On the head, a little orange and orange blossom, absolutely.

Notes

In English in the original. ↩
In French in the original: saintes nitouches — girls who feign innocence (from sainte n’y touche). ↩
Black footmen, often in Oriental livery, were a long-standing luxury of royal and aristocratic households; the Russian imperial court still kept such araps as ceremonial doormen. ↩
In English in the original. ↩
In English in the original. ↩
pelotes jockey in the original. The sense is unclear: a pelote is a ball of wool or twine, or a pincushion, and jockey may name a make, a pattern or a shop. Ninety francs is a large sum for wool. ↩