Sunday, 10 October 1875

First day of rain, first day of autumn.
I am not well — a slight headache, tired eyes. Oh, how anxious I am! So long as it doesn't last.
My dresses at Laferrière's are all ruined! I am done for — no dresses, no me. If in a week she doesn't send me something decent I shall go to Worth; he at least serves me with promptness.
That wretch, that dressmaker for kept women, dresses Gioia and sends me anything at all!
My custom is not to be dismissed.
I was at church with my aunt and Marie; it is two o'clock, my friend Barnola is announced, and I rush to dress. I am pale. After an hour with Ricardo — I pronounce his name in the French way because grand-papa, jealous of Collignon, used to say it that way — after an hour with Ricardo we walk in the rain, quite typically Niçois rain, then we go to Nina's where we stay until half past six.
We speak of the quarrel with her Coco and laugh about it, as one would speak to Marie about Cima. She is truly original.
As for me, I am tormented and in despair.
I am no longer going to Rome! I have found that in all the world there is nothing beautiful, nothing captivating, charming, great, superb, adorable — except my city of Paris!
"It is there I would wish to live, "To love, to love, and to die.
Never to die — anything but to die — what a dreadful thing, dying!
Maman has not arrived — another delay. I shall have to arm myself with all my tears and display a wild despair in order to get them to leave.
Those who do not know them as I do will never form any idea of their maddening, murderous, atrocious character! Slowness, dithering, inaction, inertia — merely thinking of it makes all my blood boil, my heart beats twice as fast, and I become rabid and frantic!
When I think we shall stay in Nice in this little house with no furniture, no servants!
That we shall see no one, that I shall spend another winter alone with my dresses, that for my sole entertainment I shall have the wretched opera where I shall be alone, alone, alone. When I think I am sixteen and a half! When I think I am more alone than if I were an orphan. No one to think of my future, of my life, no one to take care of it, no one to help me! No one, no one, no one! Around me, stupid creatures who love me, who close the windows to keep the draught away, who bring me my coat in case I'm cold, who see to it that I go to bed early, who make dreadful faces when they hear me cough or sneeze!
Oh, my God! Not a soul in this world can understand my situation! Utterly alone everywhere, alone in everything, always alone — from the smallest matters to the most important. From the choice of a dress to...
But I'm complaining, I think! Of what? Of being independent and perfectly free! Well no — I am neither the one nor the other.
I am free to order a dress; in small matters I am in charge — but in great ones, how much I must seethe, groan, weep, shout. Not to overcome their will — they have none! — but their absurd torpor. Imagine a reasonable man obliged to talk to a madman, or to a donkey: he exhausts himself pushing and pushing, he wears himself out with entreaties, he weeps, he shouts — and the madman turns upon him his unseeing eyes, looks at him, and then looks away at something else, just as he has looked at him! And the donkey twitches its ears and fixes its stupid gaze on him; neither of them has understood. Let him dash his skull against a stone!
Good God, gentle Lord! Will you not take pity on me! Will you not lift this curse that weighs upon me? What must I do to make this heavenly anger cease? Ah, if only I knew! That is the sole, the true interest — powerful and serious. If anyone had seen my contemptuous smile as I sat at my dressing-table with my head hidden in my arms, saying to myself: they'll think I'm thinking of Audiffret. If anyone had seen my smile they would understand how little I think of him! I am weary, weary, weary of waiting.
At the very moment I have just written this, my aunt comes in and carefully closes my curtains.
— You know, I said, that we must leave Nice.
— Let us leave.
— When?
— Whenever you like.
— I've been telling you for two years — don't say afterwards that you were taken by surprise.
— Say when?
— You always say that, and when the moment comes you find a thousand obstacles. I warned you long ago that this winter we would leave here, that I would go into society.
At these words my dear aunt raised her eyes to me like the madman, twitched her ears like the donkey, took her cigarette box in one hand and her handkerchief in the other, and calmly went out. I ran after her; I bolted the door; I raised my arms to heaven and threw myself on the floor, biting the bed-curtains, in the grip of such a wild rage that my teeth chattered as though I had a fever.
Then that fury turned into a rending despair; I began to weep and moan softly, as one does with toothache — I have never had it, thank God, but Dina has, and I remember her pitiful expression.
Frédéric came to console me; he put his paw on my shoulder, and then, when this caress failed to move me, he brought his head close to my face and looked into my eyes, and finally stretched out full-length to play — and then I, unable to hold out any longer, lay down beside him and rested my head on his chest, murmuring: there is only dogs, there is only dogs!
But all at once I got up and threw myself into an armchair facing the great mirror, lifting my arms and then letting them fall back onto my knees. When I opened my eyes I saw myself in that armchair — my face white between my arms, my arms bare and rounded, my whole figure scarcely dressed in that desperate posture — and I found myself very pretty; this contemplation of a few minutes restored a little calm to me and allowed me to write at this moment.
And now let us re-read from the beginning to see whether I have explained myself well. Yes, if you will — but no human pen will ever approach reality! One can create, but copy — never.
Ah, my God! Take me under Your holy protection, do not abandon me this time! I prayed to You so earnestly in the days of the Duke. I was about to go and speak to my aunt just now — but why? Why pray to men — what can men do! God alone can — but God does not hear me! Righteous God, Holy Virgin, Jesus! I am not worthy of being heard, but I beseech You on my knees, I pray to You so ardently! Is not prayer a merit — however small — and do not even the most unworthy obtain their wishes by force of praying!
To believe and to turn to one's God — is that nothing! My God, my God, my God. Oh, if I were to write until tomorrow I would say nothing else but these words: My God, have mercy on me!

Notes

"Point de robes, point de moi" — one of Marie's most striking formulations, equating dress with identity. Worth: Charles Frederick Worth (1825–1895), the most celebrated Parisian couturier of the era.
Frédéric is Marie's dog, not a person.