Saturday, 9 October 1875

crossed outSaturday, 9 October 1875
Why can one never speak without exaggerating? My dark reflections would be sound if they were a little calmer — their violent form robs them of naturalness.
There are great souls, there are fine actions, there are honest hearts — but in bursts, and so rarely that one cannot confuse them with everyone else.
People may say I have these ideas because I am thwarted by something. But no — I have my usual vexations and nothing particular. Do not look for anything beyond what is in this journal; I am scrupulous and never pass over in silence either a thought or a doubt.
I reproduce myself as faithfully as my poor mind allows, and if I am not believed — if one looks for something beyond or behind what I say — too bad! One will see nothing, for there is nothing.
My head is heavy and my eyes are closing — yet at the same time I feel like writing on; the pen glides well across the paper, and even if I had nothing to say I would go on for the pleasure of filling blank pages and for the agreeable sound of my pen scratching.
crossed outMy head is heavy and my eye is closing, And yet I keep on writing To tell what my heart holds within it — But I cannot... and I have so much, so much to say!
Serious verse does not suit me.
Ah! Ha! Ha! What was I thinking? I had lost my mind entirely!
That man to please me! Me to love him! Fie! Me to stoop so low as to concern myself with a man before he concerned himself with me! What was I thinking? It wasn’t me — I was in a fit of madness! If I didn’t have my journal here I would think I had dreamed it.
My pride revolts, and I stand before it in a humble posture, for I know I had forgotten it, neglected it. How ugly!
This is what comes of not looking inward more often. I shall not forgive myself... stop! I have nothing to forgive myself for — I did not love him, and I find that word out of place here.
He pleased me, he interested me; let us not confuse the two, if you please.
In truth I would be unpardonable if I were at fault — for rightly or wrongly I believe myself an archduchess, and more. Had I been born a Bourbon princess, like Mme de Longueville; had I counts for servants and kings for relatives and friends; had I from my very first step in life encountered nothing but bowed heads and eager courtiers; had I walked on coats of arms and slept beneath royal canopies; had I an entire lineage of ancestors each more glorious and more proud than the last — had I all that, it seems to me I would be neither more proud nor more arrogant than I am!
Understand then — imagine if you can, but you cannot — what it is for me to be so inferior to others in society, to endure Galula! As for him, he is so far beneath me that I feel no annoyance — he is a thing, a piece of furniture, a nothing; let us say no more about him. I am kind to him as I am in general with all inferiors — the lower they are, the more familiar I am: witness mother Georges and the shopwomen in the rue de France.
You understand that, placed as I am, it is unnecessary and impossible for me to love a scoundrel. Enough that I have humiliated myself before the Duke of Hamilton, who is at least of good family and royal blood. A Hamilton was married to the sister of King James III of Scotland, if I am not mistaken. And I feel keenly that this adoration thrown beneath his boots is a humiliation for a great queen like me — as queen and as woman!
Nothing is as contemptible as a woman who loves first — especially when she is not loved in return. Nothing as contemptible as me on this occasion.
O my God, how I bless You; these thoughts which come to me from You will always keep me on the right path, and will not for an instant let me take my eyes from the luminous star towards which I walk!
I think at the moment I am not walking at all — but I shall walk, and for so little one does not spoil so fine a sentence.
Ah, seriously, I am weary of my obscurity — soon I shall be seventeen! I am withering from inaction, I am mouldering in darkness — the sun, the sun, the sun!
From which direction will it come? When? Where? How!
I want to know nothing — so long as it comes!
In my moments of delusions of grandeur, all objects seem to me unworthy to be touched; my pen refuses to write everyday names; I look with supernatural disdain on everything around me, and then say to myself with a sigh: Come now, courage — this time is only a passage that leads me where I shall be well.
Am I mad, am I predestined?
One way or the other, it makes no difference to me. I am bored, I am impatient. When will that day come!
In the evening I read with my Graces.

Notes

Anne de Bourbon, Duchess of Longueville (1619–1679) — celebrated beauty and intriguer of the Fronde, who had great princes competing for her favour. Marie identifies with her as a model of a woman of high rank who attracted powerful men. ↩
The Hamilton family had royal connections through marriage to Princess Mary, sister of King James III of Scotland (reigned 1460–1488). ↩