Friday, 16 July 1875

I fell asleep shattered and I wake up feeling quite strange. I cannot account for what I feel. I am furious, sad, vexed.
Can it really be the departure of that creature?
No — here is what it is. I had arranged everything in my own mind: he would fall in love with me; I would receive him with gentleness and commiseration, yet without driving him to despair.
I would depart for Paris on my way to Russia; he would follow me as far as Paris and speak to me of his love; I would let him speak. I even went so far as to have him set off for Russia. He — a submissive dog; I — a benevolent queen.
See where it leads. “One should never make plans,” says this same Audiffret — “it serves no purpose.”
He is devilishly right; he is a man of wit.
How he must have rejoiced yesterday at the concert, watching me change colour!
What joy it would be for him to read these thirty-six pages! I would never forgive him for it.
If he were going away on business — but no, to visit a friend!
Truly, there is nothing like dogs.
By virtue of the transmigration of love, all that I contain of that noxious fluid is concentrated for the moment on Victor. I eat lunch with him opposite me, his good big head resting on the table. Let us love dogs — let us love only dogs. Men and cats are unworthy creatures. And yet a dog is dirty; it watches you eat with greedy eyes; it wants to be fed; it attaches itself to you in order to feed itself.
And yet I never feed my dogs, and they love me. And Prater, who abandoned me out of jealousy of Victor and transferred his affection to Maman.
And men — do they not demand to be fed? Are they not materialistic, voracious and mercenary in every sense one might give to those words?
Merjeewsky was a dog. Ugh! The horror — I cannot think of it without horror.
My aunt has gone to send the following telegram:
Copied letterDépêche de Marie à Étienne Babanine, 16 juillet 1875
— Russia, Chernigov Province, Kanatap. Étienne Babanine. You are disrupting all my plans with this abominable delay! It is dreadful! Had I known, I should never have counted on you. I am furious! Marie.
In September they will celebrate Michelangelo’s centenary in Florence. I want to be there.
I must go to Russia. I shall never have time! This thought, combined with all my joys, makes me quite mad with rage.
O you who are furious and aggrieved — write, write always, pour out your complaints to your paper. He whom hope has deceived has reason to complain.
Had I not written, I should have withered away.
Writing has calmed me — calmed me, that is to say, a little.
I could barely eat, so eager was I to write, to complain. Courage, my soul!
How foolish of me to take everything to heart! I bore the Hamilton affair well enough — I shall bear this setback too.
written across the page
But there is no setback, you young idiot!
I bore the Hamilton affair — but I have not forgotten it, and each time I think of it, it is as dreadful as on the first day.
There, at least, it was worth it — but here! And for whom!! My aunt watched Girofla depart from the château; I was writing, and she was keeping watch with her lorgnette.
Editors’ note
[Three-quarters of the page removed]
The shutters are closed, the great château is empty, I am sad.
I go out with my aunt, who tells me I was abrupt and unkind to Girofla — that had I wished, he would not have left. For a moment I regret not having asked him to stay, but I check myself immediately: had I begged him to stay, he would have bridled and I should be even more miserable. Yesterday I behaved like a statue; I was as if in a dream. I regret it. Yet the thought that I was cold, that I vexed or repulsed him, gladdens my heart — and if I were sure of it, I should regret nothing and be very happy.
in the marginannotation ultérieure de Marie, 1877
[Annotation, 1877: Yes — if I am sure of it!]
He was worth one’s attention. He is a man of doubtful nobility, or at least that is the rumour — but rich, independent, young, incontestably handsome, very handsome. He has wit; he has good manners; association with a woman who had moved among men of the highest quality has given him the bearing of a grand seigneur. Moreover, his father looks like a duke — anyone seeing him would ask who he is. He (Girofla) is amusing, gay, agreeable.
Certainly such a conquest would be flattering. But he is bold, cunning, a womaniser, a spendthrift.
He is in love with no one and treats women as I wish to treat men. That is what makes him attractive, and that is why I would have given a great deal to bring this ambitious creature to heel. He is capricious and extravagant — further qualities that make me rage at not having known how to catch him.
But the thought of having been unpleasant and cold to him makes me glad. At least he will not think himself quite so much the conqueror. I came, I saw, I conquered.
written across the page
Yes, this thought consoles me. He did not think himself the conqueror at all, I suppose.
But have I truly been unkind to him? Is it true? Ah! If only it were so — and above all, if it meant something to him! How glad I should be.
At the baths, a shower of young men. Saëtone, Danis, Pépino-Gautier, Smirnoff, Bihovetz, the commandant, Count Laurenti, who has just been introduced, and my adorable Désiré, dressed like an angel, who comes in saying he is out riding but his horse has cast a shoe. A pure lie: he was riding, true enough, and seeing our whole party at the baths he came in. He wore a dark-blue cravat; I shall have one just like it tomorrow. I asked my teachers whether he would pass his baccalaureate.
Brunet said he was conspicuous by his absence at the lycée, and Leclerc covered his face with his hands, with a look that boded no good. I deserve a thrashing for not having prepared for the baccalaureate this year. It is as disgraceful as Audiffret’s departure.
The Sapogenikoffs are with us by the sea; we make a very lively little circle. I lead the conversation, chatting and laughing as if nothing were the matter. I even speak of the unworthy absentee, and without the least affectation.
Danis seems to admire my ripostes, and when Marie said something clever — I no longer remember what — he exclaimed that it was charming, that it was just like Mlle Moussia. It is true that my retorts are sometimes quick and original.
We know all the young men of Nice. But alas! the principal one is missing.
From the baths the Sapogenikoffs, ourselves, Bihovetz and Smirnoff go to the café; there is nothing to be had but chocolate and ices, not a single cake, and we were hungry. We have the place to ourselves, and we laugh and sing.
Giroflé is sad; we tease her about Girofla, and I say he is a monster to leave ladies like us, that his departure is unspeakable. To leave us to go and see a friend — why, if that friend were an emperor, Girofla would still be inexcusable. Then I sing the tune of Malbrough, putting in place of Mironton etc. how my heart, how my heart aches! — which sends Bihovetz into raptures.
I am behaving well.
The moon is already shining when I sit down to dinner. I go up to my room and, bathed in that divine light, in a long white gown, I sing a serenade to Phoebe. But, seized by a great sadness, I go back inside and write?
I feel like writing verses. Ah! Audiffret! He has made me fret.
Just imagine — I feel remorse! I am absurd enough to regret my conduct. I believe I have hurt him. Mad and stupid.
Your conduct matters little to him, and if it does matter, it is a blessing to have served him so. He deserves it, I swear. He deserves it.
And besides, the colder one is, the better — especially at the point we had reached.
Pursue love, and love will flee;
Flee from love, and love will pursue.
I am convinced of this truth, and at the same time I reproach myself. It is always like this — and if I had been amiable, he would have bridled, and I would be furious and humiliated, and would reproach myself for it, and could never remember it without anger. I did right to act as I did. For if he had wanted to, he would have spoken.
But why everything he said to me, why that sad air, why those eyes, why all the things he said to me the other evening at the ball — why, why? I ask you. If he loved me, he would not have gone away.
To live far from one’s love — is that not to die every day? They say he often has notions, incomprehensible fancies, that he is the most capricious creature on earth.
If he was only passing the time, why that look? He never seemed very serious, and in the most sentimental moments he never lost his gaiety and seemed to say everything as if laughing. Besides, that is his manner; that adorable boy will never have the ways of a dying dog. And people like him and me have far more feeling than those who languish and murmur like flowers.
He told me just enough to tease me.
Well then, what more do I want? I wished for a light intrigue. Yes — light for me, but not at all for him.
It is a paltry thing, the impulse a romance barely sketched.
Ah! how I regret his departure, and how sad this great château, closed and empty, makes me.
I am beginning to cool down and to regret the things I have written. I am vexed and slightly in love, but stung in my pride more than anything else. And that is the most terrible part.
I have a notion that admitting to myself that I love him would be a talisman that would bring him to my feet. It is like that Russian tale in which the hero has an enormous nose; he is in love with a princess who will be given to him only when he has acknowledged the defect of his nose. And he acknowledges it only when, one day, seeing the princess at a window, he tries to kiss her, but his nose keeps him from getting near.
And yet I cannot, then, admit to myself that I love Audiffret. I wish it with all my soul; I am slightly in love with him, but I do not love him.
I suppose that if I loved him I would have wanted to marry him. Well, I do not want to at all. But — not at all, as he says himself.
If he were part of my programme, I would gladly be his wife. I was quite willing to have Doria, who does not please me a hundredth part as much as he does. None of that is a reason. In marrying I am not looking for the man; I am looking for a position and a fortune. If I find the man along with them, so much the better; if not, we shall do without.
No face in the world will make me neglect my programme. The man is only a moment’s passion, but position and fortune are real goods that every woman who cares for her good name and has ambition must seek. I wanted everything to be perfect, but God did not will it and took from me the man who could have given me everything.
I foresee, with sorrow, repentance and fear of offending God, that if I marry nothing but a title and a fortune, I shall have my diversions. I am sorry for it in advance.
I ask nothing better than to do right. But I will not answer for myself if I marry Doria and see Girofla again.
I am escaping my fate, for I shall probably not go to Russia, as I would not miss the Michelangelo centenary for anything in the world; Russia will be just as good next year. But for the centenary one would have to live another hundred years, a hope I do not entertain.
And besides, if I do not go to Russia, it is because God wills it too.
Whatever happens, happens for the best, says a Russian proverb. There is no escaping one’s destiny, says another.
Once again I am going to say to the moon: Moon, O lovely moon, show me in my sleep the one I shall marry in my lifetime.
And then we shall see.

Notes

In Latin in the original: Quem spem delusit, huic querela convenit. (Phaedrus, Fabulae V). ↩
In Italian in the original: tanto eró in fretta di scrivere, di lagnarmi. ↩
In Italian in the original: Anima, coraggio ! ↩
In Latin in the original: dubiae nobilitatis — a phrase indicating uncertainty about his aristocratic lineage. ↩
In Latin in the original: Veni, vidi, vici. (attributed to Julius Caesar). Marie applies it ironically: he came, he saw — but he did not conquer. ↩
Malbrough s’en va-t-en guerre, the French folk song whose refrain runs Mironton, mironton, mirontaine; Marie substitutes the line que mon cœur, que mon cœur a de peine (“how my heart, how my heart aches”). ↩
Michelangelo was born on 6 March 1475, so 1875 was the fourth centenary of his birth; Marie’s “centenaire” is the celebration held in Florence in September 1875, centred on an exhibition of 12-14 September (Casa Buonarroti, “Michelangelo in the Nineteenth Century”, casabuonarroti.it). ↩
In Italian in the original: E poi vedremo. ↩