Sunday, 19 December 1875

Collignon seriously alarms me by assuring me that he knows where these letters come from. The last one is abominable — and if he knows it is from me... I am very, very anxious.
I was at church with Dina; the day is grey. On the Promenade I am greatly afraid of encountering Audiffret — it seems to me that he knows, and you must understand my dread.
But his bow is as usual, and I breathe more freely. It was that Collignon who frightened me.
I said I wanted to attend the next afternoon party. I am answered with tears that it is impossible — we know no one, we are attached by no bond to society — it is impossible.
Maman dissolves in tears; seeing which, I restrain myself and say nothing. Not that I claim any credit for it — if I said nothing, it was because I was weary, weary, weary!
Princess Galitzine has sent us sweets and Russian things through the Countess Galenichtchev-Kutuzov, who called on Maman today. Poor Princess — she was already accused in advance of forgetfulness, of ingratitude. It is not her sweets that please me but the kindness of the attention. I always defended her: she is a charming woman, well-born, well-married — and her blood is not the blood of a hussy.
As soon as dusk falls and the Promenade empties I let myself go. I close my eyes and weep.
Tomorrow there is a concert at the Cercle de la Méditerranée for the benefit of the free School of Fine Arts — I go to the Cercle to collect tickets. I entered through the main door, then was conducted through a kind of antechamber and corridor — well-heated, well-lit — to reach the secretary, who gave me the little booklet containing all the rules, the members’ names, and so on.
How fortunate these men are.
The Club made a charming impression on me — there reigns in it a fraternity, a sense of home, that recalls a convent. I am no longer surprised that these gentlemen flee their ill-lit, ill-heated, neglected houses — the domestic drudgery, the undisciplined servants, the wife in her dressing-gown and ill-temper — for a place where everything is well-ordered, calm, comfortable, elegant. In a land “where the orange tree blossoms, where the breeze is gentler and the bird more light.”
Oh, women! — do not complain, but attend to your households. One might give lengthy instructions; I content myself with saying: Make your home as closely as possible resemble a club, and treat your husbands as Mesdames Laura, Clémence, Maria, and so forth would treat them — and you will be happy, and your blasted husbands too.
Loftus already seems to me less handsome — he was in a carriage with Leech. I am jealous.
To attend the afternoon party, one needs an invitation from a permanent member. The only one I know is Audiffret — I go to the Opera to ask him for it, to beg him for it. Faugh! I clench my teeth at the thought. And if he refuses? But on what pretext? Am I not worthy to go where everyone goes?
Oh, wretched creature — you go only where one pays, yes, there you will go! Where one pays, where one pays, where one pays. Nowhere else!
And they want me to look fresh — is it possible! I blush deeply when I see Audiffret enter his box with Belle-de-Jour. He is no longer a man to me — he is an afternoon dance.
Galula bores me for two acts and an interval. Audiffret rises and takes his hat.
“There goes Audiffret — off to the Willises’,” says Galula.
“Where are they?” I ask, looking around the house.
“Not here — they are receiving this evening at their house.”
“A soirée?” I ask, stung.
“Yes — a little informal dance, I believe.”
There it is — the blow has struck home. Everyone receives — the Willises, whom I thought so little of, also. We alone, we alone, we alone! It is my nightmare, my misfortune, my approaching death!
Before such thoughts my petty vexations vanish. For a moment I was annoyed to see the Surprising One go into Mlle de Gonzalès’s box and then train his glass on her. As I came into the theatre I heard a servant say to the box-keeper:
“For Mlle de Gonzalès, from M. d’Audiffret.”
What could that possibly have been? But I do not take fright over so little; he will do with her as with the others — every lady and every young lady has had her turn with him.
Still, he is fairly often with the Gonzalès girl’s father. But let us leave that; it is all very well when I am cheerful and calm.
He did not know the Willises. He is at their house now; this summer he used to come to ours. No doubt in summer one is bored, one has nothing to do, there is no one about, only a few familiar faces, very familiar ones; I was there, brand-new and fresh — I was a diversion. There is the story of this story in two words. And I imagined something else — naive, innocent, simple, new, inexperienced child that I was!
A family of no account, received nowhere, outside everything — one goes there in summer for a laugh, but not in winter; that would really be too silly.
As for us, we are treated as the riff-raff we are, and there you have it.
So he has left; I did not ask for that invitation — perhaps I have spared myself a mortal humiliation.
Belle-de-Jour spends an interval in our box.
Once in the carriage I begin; the lighted windows of the Willises crown my exasperation, and when I get home I explode.
“But you don’t look like yourself any more,” cries my aunt. “You are ugly, pale and old!”
“That’s it, talk to me about my face, go on, talk about it! How can I be beautiful when I cry from morning till night, when I have been seething all my life! And what good is a face to me! You are forever talking about it, you are! instead of helping me, bestirring yourselves, doing something for me. When I weep, when I wither, when I am dying every day!”
“But where do you expect to go with a face like that? If at least you were fresh and pretty, then....”
“Don’t finish, I know: I am rosy and pretty, I dress, I go out, a Prince Charming meets me, falls in love with me, prostrates himself — and there you are. That is what you are waiting for, that is how you think!”
I still wonder that my eyes did not melt, that my nose did not fall off, that my lips did not shrivel up — truly, I wonder at it!
I spoke gasping for breath at every moment and bursting into tears. My aunt looked at me with wide, grieved, frightened eyes.
“My face,” I went on, “my face will mend itself! Give me what I want and I shall be calm and I shall be pretty!”
“But what do you want? You don’t know what you want!”
I nearly choked with indignation, exasperation and rage.
“What — you don’t know, and I don’t know what I want! But I have been telling you every day for five years.”
“One does not go into society at eleven.”
“No, I know that, but you have not known me since yesterday; at eleven I thought as I think now. I told myself: I shall start now, and after four years of furious effort I shall obtain something. You told me: wait, now is a bad time, for we desire nothing, nothing interests us, we do not care for society; but when you are sixteen you shall have everything. Well! I am sixteen! I have nothing!”
“But what do you want!”
“What I want!” I said, quietly from sheer anger. “You want me to keep repeating the same thing — very well, I shall repeat it. I want,” I said, choking, “I want — listen carefully, and don’t say that I don’t know and that you don’t know. Listen: I want to go out into the world, I want to enter society, I want to go everywhere and to receive at home. I want to give balls, to hold receptions! You heard? You know now? Good, I shall repeat it as many times as you like!”
“But how is it to be done?”
“As others do it.”
“And the money?”
“Mortgage, sell, ruin me, but give me a life! What good is a fortune to me if I have nothing, if I am so unhappy.”
written across the page
Money! That was a pretext I argued over like a child.
Then my aunt begins to complain.
“That is not delicate, Madame; a man with poor sight does not complain in front of a poor blind man!”
“It is envy that is gnawing at you,” she says, “it is envy; you envy everyone.”
“No, it is not envy, no, it is not envy! When a beggar who has not eaten for twenty-four hours, and has not a sou to buy himself a piece of bread — when such a beggar sees through a restaurant window a gentleman comfortably settled at a well-laid table, and longs to eat as he watches that gentleman, he is not envious! No, it is not envy, just as it is not theft to steal a loaf so as not to die of hunger!”
“But you are leaving, after all!”
“Oh yes, as if you were making me leave! You keep me here. And last year, was it not the same thing!”
“Last year you were studying!”
“Ah yes, and you think I was not tormenting myself every moment!”
“And what good did those studies do!”
“Exactly! They served to murder me. If I were ignorant and stupid, if I could not speak a single language, I should be content with a Galula, a Saëtone with his bald head, and an Audiffret in a white tie, and I should be delighted, enchanted! But I am not! That is not what I want!”
“You scream because you do nothing!”
“No — I do nothing because I scream! I warned you in advance, I begged you to prepare everything, I gave two years’ notice. I said: I shall go to Russia, I shall come back here, we shall go to Florence for the holidays, and after three weeks’ stay in Nice we shall go to Italy for the whole winter, for I want to study one more year. And you have kept me here for four months, hanging in suspense!”
“Nice is not the only town, and since in Nice, as you say, we cannot...”
“Enough, for pity’s sake. Why do I want to leave? So that during two years’ absence we are forgotten and the gossip stops! And then to come back and live here...”
But I did not finish; I made a face and burst into tears.
“Well then, you shall leave!”
“Yes, to live in Rome as we live here!”
“No.”
“Then what are you telling me! I will not live like this, I will not, I will not, I will not!! If I go to Rome, I want to live in society there, or if I come back to Nice, I want the same thing! I will have it no other way — understand that, have pity on me. Three years ago I made these scenes once a month; two years ago, twice a month; last year every week, and now...”
“And now,” my aunt broke in, “now every day.”
“No, not every day, but all my life, from morning till night; I have not an hour, not a minute of rest!”
“You will die!”
“You would like that, I know, but you shall not have that joy! I do not live for you but for myself, so I shall not stay here all my life; a day will come when I shall climb out of this mire! I shall not die — I shall suffer! But what is that to you!”
“Every scoundrel, every nobody, every low creature has made herself a position! You must have known I would not be four years old for ever. You should have left me with my father when he carried me off, or, if you took me back, you should have thought of me, and not lived from day to day like dogs!”
“My God, my God! Listen: bestir yourselves, mortgage, sell, throw money about, make a stir, and give me a life! I swear to you, Madame, I cannot bear it any longer — as indeed you can see perfectly well for yourself!”
I have just reread this day, this conversation; I have given only a faint idea of the scene. I am in despair. Once alone I become like a madwoman: I talk to Victor, I look at myself in the glass, I lie down on the floor and stay lying there a long while, which dulls me a little, so that I can write. Then I get up and write what you have just read.
Now I am calm. I think. I think it is dreadful to live as I live. I am made of pride, and this life will kill me! Is there anything in the world more terrible, more atrocious, than to be outside everything, rejected, disdained! One hesitates, one is afraid! To ask for that invitation I tremble, I fear, I doubt!
But what have I done! what have I done! what have I done! Why am I pushed away?
No one has refused yet. But what if they refuse? What pretext will the permanent member Audiffret (Emile) give for refusing me!
O misery of miseries, O humiliation, O despair!
What I write expresses only a tenth of what I feel.
My God, have pity on me.
Good people, do not laugh at me; I may be a figure of fun, but I am to be pitied. With my character, my ideas, to lead such a life... I shall never express what I feel, I shall never give any idea of my unhappiness. The thing is that even while expiring of spite, of rage, of shame, of humiliations, I have the courage to joke.
Truly, I have good health and a good temper. I only hope that saying so does not bring me bad luck.
I have found a way to put an end to my torture. I shall tell my mother to go and live with her husband; that way I shall have an assured position, and no one will dare say anything any more! I shall lose my mother this way. I cannot bear anyone to come near her; I am too jealous. I shall be tormented, but differently; then I shall grow used to it. I shall have my aunt’s fortune, so as to owe nothing to my father, so as to do as I please, so as to bear no yoke, submit to no one’s will.
It is an immense sacrifice I shall be making, but I must save my life; if I go on as I am now, I shall die. I do not want to die! I am afraid!
I still have a great many things to say, but I am tired; I shall write in very large letters:
I AM UNHAPPY! and then in still larger letters:

MY GOD, COME TO MY AID! HAVE PITY ON ME!

Those large letters represent an hour and a half of lamentations, of anguish, of rage, of tears, of wounded pride — and two hours of prayer.
I have exhausted all words; I have exhausted my energy; I have neither patience nor strength left.
This day shall be the last such turbulent day. I shall be calm; I shall execute the plan that God has suggested to me.
And then I have still one resource — my voice; to preserve it I must spare my health. Another week like today and farewell to singing.
No — I shall be sensible; I shall pray to God. I shall go to Rome. I am desperate — I shall ask the Pope to pray for me. In my madness I put my hope in that.
Tomorrow I shall speak to Maman of my idea.
Help me, my God!

Notes

“Where the orange tree blossoms...”: a quotation from the aria Connais-tu le pays où fleurit l’oranger? (“Knowest thou the land?”) from Ambroise Thomas’s opera Mignon (1866), sung by Mignon, who yearns for her Italian homeland. ↩