Thursday, 16 December 1875

Maman met Mme de Lewin yesterday, and she spoke to her of my marriage with the Surprising One.
“But why do you conceal it, Madame?” she said. “Everyone knows it — they wrote to me about it in Sweden.”
See how far one can believe what people say.
I drive about as I please with Giro; behind us come Dina and Marie; and Maman and my aunt follow in the landau.
I am very gay; there is a great crowd; we come across Audiffret several times.
Loftus was with Leech, of whom I am growing very jealous. Loftus is not a man — he is a demi-god. I have never seen a complexion like his. He recalls Hamilton; I adore him.
This evening the première of The Daughter of the Regiment.
I expect to see the Pointed One and everyone — for we have taken the only free box, which is No. 2, next to the Surprising One’s.
À propos of the Pointed One — I saw her on horseback; she seemed beautiful to me; I let the reins go slack and nearly wept. Olga shook me — otherwise I should have driven into a blue coupé.
Expecting to see that girl at the Opera, I dress in the complete opposite of what I suppose she will wear.
White barège, upswept and simple coiffure.
We arrive after the first act.
There are only foreigners and men — for this evening Mme Francia is giving a grand soirée.
I exchange a bow with Audiffret and the Comte de Tournon. Simiane, who is with him, bows to me also — but let me explain. This gentleman was introduced to Maman some two years ago when she went to balls. He was deeply in love with the fair-haired little Nathalie Galitzine; he followed her to Russia, where she died in his arms a few months ago — but that is merely a detail.
This Comte de Tournon — I had never met him. Five or six days ago I saw him on the Promenade; he looked at me a great deal; I paid no attention, being accustomed to being looked at — and my white dress explains everyone’s looks.
The following day the same — and he seemed to be asking who I am.
Finally — the day before yesterday, I believe — he saw me with Maman and bowed, recognising her. Since then he bows to me — what can I do but bow in return? This is merely an explanation; let us come to this evening.
“Now that is more like it,” says Audiffret. “This is the box you should always be in — this is right.”
“Bah! And would that please you? I do not think so.”
“Oh! Mademoiselle — you do not say what you think!”
“I always say what I think.”
“Oh! no,” says de Tournon. “If you did, you would be neither woman nor Russian.”
And the conversation begins. Tournon is not handsome — but perfectly correct, distinguished, and charming.
He says so many flattering things that there would be enough to fill a sack. The blasted Nice men have not accustomed me to such ways, and I blushed several times. But it does no harm.
I began to train my opera glass on someone opposite — and I felt Audiffret nudging Tournon while looking at me.
“What do you do, Mademoiselle,” he says, “to have such small ears?”
“But — nothing,” I say, blushing. “Is it the first time you have seen them?”
“No — but truly — is it not so, Tournon?”
And both of them go into raptures over my ears — their shape, their colour, their smallness.
Is it Bibi speaking? I am quite astonished at these two amiable phrases, and at the two other things that are to follow. Truly, he gains by spitting on me, for when he is polite I feel it all the more.
I was holding a box of those Russian candied fruits, cranberries. As Tournon was quite close and talking to me, I offered him some, and he passed one to Audiffret.
“Well,” I asked, “is it good?”
“It is bitter and sour.”
“That,” said Tournon, laughing, “is because I was the one who gave it to you; if it had been Mademoiselle, you would find it excellent.”
“Perhaps you are right.”
“As for me,” I said, “I find it very nasty.”
“And there is no way of making it better,” said the Surprising One.
“Alas! no,” I said, “it is impossible.”
“Yes, alas!” he repeated. “It is distressing, distressing.”
Then, after a while, he asks me for some sweets.
“But you yourself,” he says, “give them to me yourself.”
I gave him some from my hand into his; I even brushed his hand.
“And for me?” says Tournon.
For him too. And both of them — but Bibi in particular — found them excellent, adorable, and stuffed themselves with delight.
Then, leaning towards Tournon, and very softly:
“Isn’t she charming?”
Well then, if I am charming, you boor, why spit on me!
Tournon went looking for us at the Villa Acqua-Viva; he asks at what time we are to be found at home.
“Until three o’clock.”
“No — since you go out then; but at five or six, are you at home?”
“Yes, at five or six we are always at home.”
He talks to me of riding — in short, a heap of things; but what would you have? Everything outside the Surprising One seems to me too long, too tedious and too useless to write down!
Jarochewsky is in the box next to ours. Gros and Saëtone come to Audiffret’s box. And ten minutes before the end they all leave. My heart tightened when I thought that in a moment Audiffret, whom I saw looking so handsome, would have a woman in his arms, would talk to her, talk to her of love — and that this woman would be someone other than me. I cannot calmly bear the thought! I do not want him to talk to women, I do not want anyone to touch him, I will not have it! I will not have it!
If I loved, I should be sorely tormented; I could not endure my man speaking to anyone whatsoever. I would want to lock him up and carry the key away with me; I would not allow him even to go near a woman, or to look at one.
He is dancing now with the Robensons, the Buenos; he is telling them that... Misery of miseries! Thunder! Hyena and jackal! Tiger and lion!
He was as handsome as an angel this evening. Does he find me as I find him? No — if he found me as I find him, he would adore me...
Oh! ho!
Too bad — I have said it!
If he has drawn away, I know whom I have to thank for it!
To those accursed Sapogenikoffs and their disgraceful scheming!
Listen: Antonoff comes into our box and tells the following:
A Russian family here took it into their heads that he was courting their eldest daughter, because he came often; they thought the matter was settled and nothing remained but to pray to God, and they set about gathering information everywhere on the gentleman’s fortune.
He is deeply wounded at having been looked over like a horse, like a piece of merchandise; he says it is petty, it is dirty, it is boorish. He no longer bows to the Sapogenikoffs and no longer calls on them.
It is a great scandal, caused by Nina’s absurdity and imprudence.
If a man looks at her, she already thinks him in love; if he speaks to her, it is a passion; and if he is amiable, it is a proposal of marriage.
It is the family madness — a madness that goes as far as the most enormous grotesquerie. Yesterday a beggar of fourteen or fifteen came up to Nina and asked her for a sou.
“Did you see,” the lady asked Maman, “that boy is already grown — and the way he looked at me! He followed me as far as the corner of the street.”
From that one can imagine the rest.
Everyone knows how much talk there was of Audiffret this summer.
Well! I am sure he knew about all that dirty scheming with the servants, all those ridiculous inquiries that were pursued even into the privies; and naturally, if an animal like Antonoff drew away, naturally it shocked Audiffret, it disgusted him. And he is afraid to go near people with such vast imaginations.
That is what comes of stooping to riff-raff, peasants and shopkeepers! All their filth falls back on us!
Oh! Damnation!
And their tittle-tattle about Saëtone as a go-between, etc. That is why Saëtone seems to be sulking with me.
Oh! listen — it is to them, those dirty tradeswomen, that I owe the estrangement of my handsome Niçois!
Damnation of damnations! This is no joke: I would give anything in the world to clear the whole affair up before my Niçois; I would let them cut off one of my toes so that he might no longer think ill of me, so that he should not lump me in with the mud, so that he should not believe us capable of such filth, of such petty villainies!
No, he does not love me — that is the great reason, the great truth. He does not love me! Do you think that is pleasant for me to say — and above all, to know?
He was so handsome this evening.
And at this moment he is with other women — tiger, hyena and jackal! I do not want anyone to touch him, I do not want him to court other women; I would like him to be always at my feet, telling me over and over that he loves me — and even then I should be neither satisfied nor at peace. I would like to shut him up “in a dark tower” and have him guarded by a six-headed Cerberus.
Is it not deplorable!
That he should find me ugly — very well; but that he should think we had designs on him, that we were making inquiries — it is dreadful, dreadful, dreadful!
That he should think us capable of such filth! Certainly he has drawn away, and he is right to, if he believes it. And how could he not believe it? We were so intimate with those dirty Russians; we were as one.
Is it possible that such a misunderstanding should go unexplained? I must find a way of explaining myself — adroitly, indirectly; I shall try.
I do not want him to lump me in with filth; I do not want him to think me a young lady speculating on marriage; I do not want him to think ill of me.
I should like him to believe me an angel from heaven.
When one sees such misunderstandings on the stage, one does not believe they could happen in real life; and I am as tormented over a comedy as over a true story.
Imagine my torment.
Audiffret thinks ill of me, of us; he is drawing away. Is that not distressing enough, ugly enough, black enough!
I must, I must, I must explain it. It will be difficult — but since it must be done! Is it better to let dust and dirt tarnish the opinion this man had of me?
I do not want him to think me wicked — he least of all.

Notes

Opera by Donizetti (1840). ↩
barège: a light wool fabric from Barèges, France — fashionable for evening wear. ↩
In French in the original: des airelles. ↩
In French in the original: moujik — the Russian word for a peasant, here a class insult. ↩