Saturday, 3 October 1874

I take a walk with the dogs and without a hat, as far as Villa 77, in the morning.
I do not go out but stay all day at Maman’s, where the excavations continue.
They talk about the furniture — badly, no doubt; Maman especially.
Walitsky is always inventing some nonsense; he never stops sending letters to Makaroff, who is each time very disturbed and comes running to ask Papa’s advice.
It is Ogarev, the socialist, who writes, and this time treats him as a friend, telling him that in a fit of anger he bit Turgenev on the ear. That fool believes everything and makes us laugh. In these letters there are verses, composed by supposed enemies of Makaroff, in which he is regarded as a conspirator and writer against the Russian government, et cetera, et cetera.
I go to bed, followed by Maman and my aunt. But as soon as I am in my room, I do not know how the conversation falls upon the villa, and I begin to lament the loss of my pavilion. I have never ceased to lament over this, but tonight the lamentations changed into sobs, into tears, into bitter, heartrending complaints.
I weep, not for the pavilion — because I no longer care for it — but because they have turned me from it, disgusted me with it.
Silk dresses from Garach and ribbon bows do not interest me, as they interest the Howards and the like. Few things please me, and these few things always consist of great things. This villa, this pavilion, pleased me from the first day, and I made a thousand plans in my head — how they would be furnished, how my study would be downstairs, my chambermaid close at hand, my bedroom with its balcony, its two terraces, its view over the Promenade and the sea, its five windows, its little entrance where my shell-shaped bath was to go — all of this pleased me and amused me. Now they have spoilt everything, ruined everything! I know very well I can, if I wish, do as I wanted — but I no longer want to. They have disgusted me with it, they have arranged things so that I no longer want it, that I no longer know what, but that I would not take those other rooms if they forced me, and it is for this that I weep.
I weep no longer not because they have overturned, disturbed, and ruined all my plans, but because they have disenchanted me, because I no longer want it, because they have disgusted me and turned me from all of it, and because I am forced to recognise that they can thus ruin what I desire — by words said the wrong way, and by the smallest things.
I weep because they have contrived it so that I no longer want, despite the most my great desire, to have what I wanted.
Seeing me so desperate — for I am so desperate that I want refuse to cancel at Duval’s — seeing me so desolate, they will come and offer to dislodge everyone. (I was obliged to throw down the pen to weep! Have mercy, have mercy, have mercy!) But I no longer want anything, I want nothing. I shall not speak of the horse for fear they ruin it for me. I am foolish, but that is how it is!
They can make me uncertain with a single unkind word! They poison all my pleasures and then give them to me. Those wretched shooting matches and races — how many tears did they cost me? In the end I went, but disgusted, disenchanted, desolate, no longer wanting to look at anything, with a heavy heart, praying God the match or the race would end.
What an adorable way of granting my wishes, of spoiling me!
crossed outEverything, everything.
Now I myself no longer want those rooms; Grandpapa would be grieved too. And then to trouble him at his age, to disturb him — it is not right and I do not wish to do it. The only thing that appeals to me now is an apartment in the annex they are going to build. But when! There is no money; the furniture costs fifty thousand francs and the annex will cost as much, and then there is the furnishing.
Well then! There is no money and there is no annex, so that nothing appeals to me. And on top of that, no horse, for once again there is no money.
Always money! I rage! Because I myself understand that there is no money and that, as I had planned to do, everything was agreed and in order and there was no need to spend, and that now everything is overturned, poisoned, poisoned, poisoned!
The scene of today has by itself lost everything. One must no longer dream of the pavilion. Even as I write, I weep, I sob, and I look at myself in the mirror — a fine face indeed! Eyes swollen, nose shining, swollen, and red; cheeks wet and dulled; lips disdainful, trembling, and red as cactus blood — and over this admirable face tears flow in such abundance one could have a shower in them.
I weep because I no longer want what I wanted so much, because they have disgusted me with it, because they have poisoned my pleasure. Sometimes a single contrary word poisons it for me so thoroughly, and then I no longer weep because I want what I desire, but because they have poisoned it for me and turned me away from it.
And today I am in despair because the pavilion is lost to me, within me. My aunt alone is good; she poisons nothing for me, she loves me, she looks after me, in deed and not in words. She has me take iron in secret, whereas others would announce it with a trumpet and glory in it! She is good to me, and for that I love her more than anyone in the world! She has just hung tulle curtains for me so that I shall not be wretchedly eaten by the mosquitoes; in Paris she had a bath brought for me, while the others only talk and proclaim me ill, dying, fainting, and I know not what else!
My God, forgive me if I am unjust. I say if because I am so distressed that I can no longer tell what is just and what is not. I seem to myself the most miserable of the miserable, and at the same time I think how many unfortunate people there are, truly unfortunate, beside whose misfortune my vexation is an incomprehensible folly; and then I pray God to forgive me, because I am guilty, I am capricious.
Forgive me, Lord!
But the annex is not the pavilion, which is so near the Promenade, which is so pretty, so graceful inside. I wanted to join my terrace to the cypress terrace by a rustic bridge, I wanted... I wanted so many things; I had thought it all out so well and pictured myself living in that pavilion.
Losing it is for me like losing the Duke of Hamilton; it is very nearly the same grief.
Ah, my God, nothing will replace the pavilion for me, not now. I liked it, and they took it from me as if on purpose.
written across the page
It is very nearly the same grief, with the difference that I no longer think of the pavilion and do not regret it at all, whereas I think of the Duke and regret him more and more.
Forgive me, my God, and calm me. Forgive me, and grant that I may live as I like!
Page manuscrite de Marie, écriture penchée barrée de longs traits obliques ; on lit notamment « duc de Hamilton », « Mon Dieu », « pardonnez-moi »
Page du manuscrit du 3 octobre 1874, barrée en travers Mon Journal, t. 4 (fac-similé) — tome04.docx image 26 (après ¶3818)

Notes

In the original: Triple Miséréré ! — the Latin Miserere (“Have mercy!”), opening word of Psalm 51, which she “triples” for emphasis. ↩