Tuesday, 28 October 1873

Oh, what a sad day -- never, it seems to me, have I been so bored. Miss Hitchcock, my new governess, writes that she will be in Nice on Saturday.
Brunet, for some reason I do not know, does not come, and I, delighted, go off to shoot with Paul. I fired several times but without result. However, once I wounded a bird in flight; I miss the second shot because of Paul, who was pestering me tediously and tugging at the gun every time I wanted to shoot. This time he takes the gun back -- I was thinking of reloading it, but the traitor fires himself to usurp the bird I had started. Then, to punish him, it cannot be found, for it has rained -- a dark and ugly day.
Maman is no better -- those butchers of doctors! They applied a blister that causes horrible suffering. The best remedies are fresh water, or plain water, or hot tea -- natural and simple. I have no faith whatsoever in medicine; doctors are poor fools who stuff other poor fools with all manner of horrors and filth. If a man must die, he dies with the help of all the doctors in the world; if, on the contrary, he is not to die, he will not die even if he is all alone without any help.
Inserted itemannotation de Marie, 1875
[Annotation: 1875. It appears I was a fatalist. Am I still? I do not know precisely.]
And yet I myself should be the first to blame the lack of help -- but I would not blame calmly; it would be in my grief, through a want of fortitude, through human weakness.
But reasoned out calmly, I find it better to do without all those pharmacoetical [sic] horrors. I cannot play the piano; consequently, complete freedom, and I avail myself of it. We go with Bete on foot (green dress, waterproof, good). It is raining, but I have my coat and the umbrella-parasol. We go to buy grapes at the London House for Maman. I propose going to the promenade -- there is no one; it rains a little; the promenade is delicious. We were about to reach the end when Nadia grew tired. Oh, how I dislike children! The Villa Gioia is open; they are selling it, says Auda to Bete, and Bete to me:
“Gioia,” she says, “found herself beset by debts several times; she betrayed Hamilton at every step. He -- Hamilton is married by now.”
That is what Auda told Bete. She also said that Gioia is adorable at home, without a hat.
So he is already married -- it is certain, it is true.
The Princess proclaimed herself, during our walk on the promenade, my most sincere and steadfast friend, and I am truly charmed. We were forced to take a cab, for the wind is blowing and the rain grows heavy. In a few minutes we go out again, but in the landau. My hat is good, but I am in such a wretched state of mind that I can understand nothing.
I am heart-broken; never, never have I been so miserable! Nothing interests me, to the point that I took Nadia’s crochet hook and wool and knitted without raising my eyes the whole time we were on the promenade. I let out a groan; Bete asked me ten times why. We ordered a dress at Auda’s with Bete, for her.
“Gone, Bébelle, gone. Ah!!” says Bete, passing the Wittgenstein house.
Me: “Oh you, Bébelle -- you may well go!”
“She and he,” I added.
In truth, this Wittgenstein is not even worthy of jest.
How I wish I were twenty at this moment! I would go and find him; I would pursue him everywhere, with his wife. He, married!!! The stout redhead, Duke of Hamilton?! The finest drinker in the world! Poor woman, I pity you -- a drunken husband!
Drunkenness is the vice I prefer in a man. And it is the one I should wish my husband to have rather than any other. Let him get drunk as a swine, provided he loves me and is a man when he is sober. I should be happy with Hamilton, but another woman will be very unhappy. He was made for me; I loved him -- I love him so. What does it matter to me that he is married? I do not expect to cease loving him within the hour. And having a wife on his back does not make him any less the same Duke of Hamilton. But truly nothing equals my sadness!
They have stolen from me
My Eurydice --
Nothing equals / My sorrow / Cruel fate / Nothing equals / My sorrow!
“I am nothing but a dreamer, insensible, without a future and full of ambition, but I love you to adoration; to live without you would be impossible!” There is a truly poetic song for you, and it comes from Madame Angot’s Daughter. I have exhausted my repertoire of words and have run dry trying to say how miserable I am to day. But time only can cure affliction.
Inserted itemannotation de Marie, 1875
[Annotation: 1875. Pah! Time can cure affliction. What nonsense! Have two years cured me?]
The thing is, my affliction is my whole life turned upside down. I had prepared it, arranged it, and built it, and now in an instant everything crumbles!
In short, I am becoming stupid!
“Thy grief, du Perrier, will it then be eternal?”
Yes, I repeat to myself ceaselessly that I had arranged everything, foreseen everything, prepared everything, and in an instant all is shattered -- and I shall repeat it long yet, even when I love another (which seems to me more than impossible). I shall repeat the same thing to myself.
God has wished to put a curb on my audacious tongue and to prove to me that one does not do what one wishes.
[Annotation: 1875. That is perfectly true.
1880. All this is the inane childishness of an artificially exalted mind.]
Never shall I love another as I loved this one. I shall love that other as much, perhaps more, but not as I loved Hamilton. It is a love apart, poetic and mad, built in the air and held up by columns made of imagination and adorned with fictions.
But if he were willing to put into it But if he loved me, it would be the most beautiful, the most solid, the most poetic, the most lasting and the most enchanting love on earth.
But I am broken, unhappy, wretched!
I hope to see him again one day, and I pray God to allow me to explain myself.
At dinner Papa not only said the most dreadful filth but dared to attack my name and my family; I answered him as rudely as he spoke to me. He is an old fool, worn-out, corrupt (morally), unfeeling as stone and as irritating as all that is most irritating, maddening and abominable in the world -- an ass.
How can one lose one’s reason to the point of saying the most frightful things, sullying my young ears without the slightest scruple, and driving me mad with rage!
I forgot that I had promised not to answer back; another time I shall leave the room, for this old horror, this block of wood, makes me weep with rage and exasperation.
On top of all my misfortunes, I have the company of this old stone!
I have a new craze: I knit. I am going to begin a woollen band that I shall continue until my death; I want to see how long it gets. Each year I shall take a different colour. I begin with green in 1873, 29 October, Tuesday -- tomorrow.
written across the page
I forgot the band.
Rehberg finds that Maman is comparatively better.

Notes

In English in the original. ↩
In English in the original. ↩
In English in the original. ↩
In French in the original: en-tout-cas -- a sunshade strong enough to serve as an umbrella. ↩
In English in the original. ↩
In English in the original. ↩
Charles Lecocq’s comic opera (Paris, 1872). ↩
In English in the original. ↩