Wednesday, 15 December 1875

In the morning I was in town for various things for my rooms, and I ran into Markoff.
I dreamed that I was no longer going to Rome — that I was taking teachers here and occupying myself with arranging my house. What if I made the dream a reality? But when I say as much, my mothers exchange a glance and say I shall leave on Sunday.
You see!
Miss Robenson, grown thin, faded, aged, painted, looking ill, in a blue-and-gold hat, is out walking with Prodgers. Seeing the Pointed but pretty American in this state I become a little more cheerful. We go with my Graces to Rumpelmayer’s — but passing the Cercle de la Méditerranée, I see a hundred carriages near the door. It is the first afternoon dance today. I tilt my head to one side and, taking advantage of the dusk, weep.
Maman stays at Nina’s to avoid the storm.
I go up to my room and, in passing, tear the door-curtain from the staircase and fling it the devil knows where.
No one believes in my grief, my despair — because I weep and laugh at the same time.
I wanted to write immediately on returning home — but fortunately I thought better of it; I should have had to lament for thirty pages, whereas now I am numbed. I shall say only that at dinner I sat with eyes closed, overwhelming everyone with my ill-humour — weeping, laughing, doing silly things — at which Papa, who understands nothing, and Dina, who tries to cheer me, laughed. My aunt says nothing — or else says impertinent things to me.
That seems strange to you, doesn’t it? Impertinences in this sense — that is how it is with me.
After flinging myself about in every direction, standing with my forehead pressed against the wall, eyes shut, face in my hands — in a word, in every one of Napoleon’s poses — I take a cup of tea.
“Look,” I say, “I am going to break this cup. It is not enough for me to break things; I have to say so, then break it, then say so again.”
And I break the cup, then, shoving the door open with my shoulder, go back upstairs to my room.
The Robenson girl was there, and so was he. I so wanted to be there, to see everyone!
Understand my pain! Understand my grief! Put yourself in my place for one moment and you will not laugh!
To be the greatest writer in the world, to exhaust all one’s eloquence, all one’s knowledge, all one’s heart, to use the most desperate, the most striking, the most dreadful expressions — it would not be enough to paint my state!
An actress might perhaps do it in a drama, but then it would be like watching something very near to reality.
Before, I had bright days and happy hours; now my whole life is nothing but a tearing apart, minute after minute! It cannot go on like this: either it will change, or I shall fall ill or go mad. I read in Le Figaro:
“The Duke of Hamilton, back from Germany, arrived in Paris yesterday.”
O my dear dreams, my childish hopes, my innocent loves! All of it ground down, crushed, mingled with the mire of humiliation, watered with bitter tears!
Have I a single clean thought left in the world? No — everything is soiled, spoiled, killed!
And I who believed I was in the world only for joy!
Yes, it is better to go away! At every soirée, every reception, every grand promenade, I shall lose a month of my life and gain a wrinkle on my face.
My God! Heaven, earth, hell, paradise!

Notes

mes mères: my mothers — Marie’s habitual plural for her mother and aunt together. ↩
In Italian in the original: Vedete ! — a rhetorical appeal to the reader to witness her situation. ↩
Marie notes that she uses “impertinences” in a particular personal sense — not rudeness in the usual manner but something more specifically wounding to her. ↩