Wednesday, 18 August 1875

We spend the day admiring me. Maman admires me, the princess really does admire me: she keeps saying that I look like her or that I look like her son.
Now that is the greatest compliment anyone can pay, for no one thinks better of anybody than of oneself. Walitsky admires me, and finally I admire myself.
The truth is that I really am very pretty.
In Venice, in the Palazzo Ducale, in the great hall, the ceiling painting by Paolo Veronese shows Venice in the form of a woman, tall, fair and fresh. I am like that painting. My photographic portraits will never be able to show me properly; the colour is missing, and my freshness, my matchless whiteness, are my chief beauty.
I am completely in love with myself, with my beautiful golden hair. All my features are gracefully rounded; I ought to be painted as the Fair Helen. I am not beautiful like Juno, but I have the grace and simplicity of Venus.
But let anyone put me in a bad temper, let me become displeased with something, let me grow tired, and farewell to my beauty. Nothing is more fragile than I am.
Only when I am happy and at peace am I adorable.
Unfortunately I am at a disadvantage in full dress; I must be as little dressed as possible: a long white garment like the goddesses of antiquity suits me best. I know no one with so much grace. Full dress and a great many ornaments embellish plain women, or regular beauties. I know what suits me, and I dress as much as I can like a goddess of Olympus.
I boast of my beauty, but if anyone does not believe me, let them ask those who have known me. From this day on I discard the little that remained modern in my dress, and we shall see.
What a pity that one can dress like this only at home or in the evening; to go out by day one needs those detestable dressy clothes. I speak of myself as of a stranger, and I do it for posterity, for if I become famous I do not want people to be lost in conjecture, as they are over so many famous women; there will remain a great many portraits of me, and descriptions besides.
When I am tired or cross I am not beautiful, but rather ugly.
I blossom in happiness like flowers in the sun.
Few people have seen me at my best advantage — I was foolish enough to dress up elaborately. But I shall be seen; there is time enough, God be thanked. I am only beginning to become what I shall be at twenty. From that moment on, all who know me will say I spoke the truth.
In the street, I am at a disadvantage.
After writing that I find myself much less well and begin to be bored. I look through my photographs for the hundredth time, then drink three cups of milk, then look at the photographs again, then sigh, then make the round of the room, then settle into an armchair and do not stir again, overwhelmed by idleness and the fatigue of resting without cease.
We receive a letter from my aunt. “Tell Marie that Girofla came to Nice, sold an estate, and departed.”
What do I care? I half-expected him here even before the letter — I am also waiting for Saetone, I am waiting for anyone at all; I am like Hagar in the wilderness. I wait and I long for a living soul.
During supper, the military attaché from Berlin comes in to have supper — we call him simply “the attaché.” He comes with a lady and a gentleman; the lady is elderly and lame. He is suggested to me as an amusement, but he is not handsome and above all pays me no attention whatsoever.
Ah! How bored I am!

Notes

In Genesis 21, Hagar is cast out into the wilderness of Beersheba with her son Ishmael. Marie invokes her image of utter abandonment and longing. ↩