Monday, 27 December 1875

We have unpacked our silverware from Russia and our crystal from Paris.
Maman sent me to Countess Koutouzoff to invite her for this evening, but she will not be able to come, having been invited to old Lucie Dolgoroukoff's. I don't know why, but I felt ill at ease at that lady's house. My instinct tells me that enemies have been at work there.
Do you know what calumny is? Don Basilio will explain it to you.
Now that it is two in the morning and I am shut in my room, in a long white dressing gown, barefoot and with my hair loose like a virgin martyr, I may well indulge in any number of bitter reflections.
A princely supper, magnificent lighting, an adorable gown, a charming face — all of it for Bihovetz, Ricardo, Varpahovsky, Pepino and Galula! It was certainly worth the trouble!
Gautier arrived first.
— You must forgive me for appearing in this attire, but I thought it was for tomorrow; I was just entering the Théâtre Italien when Audiffret was coming out and he told me:
— What, you are not going to these ladies' this evening? All the gentlemen are going. And Audiffret is ill and will not be able to come.
I must say I had expected as much.
Tournon and Bergerault have not come either.
Charming evening! Twenty times I felt like screaming and throwing myself on the floor, but I thought: be patient, my girl, perhaps God will reward you for this torment — be patient! And I was patient from nine in the evening until two in the morning. [In the margin: Pepino was charming, though.]
Around ten o'clock Maman received the following letter, franked from the Cercle de la Méditerranée.
Madame, Despite my keen desire to spend the evening at your house, I find myself unable to do so, as a severe migraine which causes me terrible suffering deprives me, etc. etc. E. d'Audiffret.
Little Émile with his little migraine. Charming.
Everything disagreeable that happens to me I owe to my dear mother. A hundred times since my return from Paris I have told her not to invite Audiffret; she, thinking to please me, invited him. I asked her not to invite him because I knew perfectly well he would not come. In reality Maman has done me a great favour — so great I do not know how to express it.
I think I am drunk — I drank rather a lot at supper.
I have nothing to say but: the same old song! Woe is me!
One must be obstinate to want to remain in Nice.
Tomorrow I shall leave. Not tomorrow — Thursday, after the première of Sapho.
I shall leave bearing in my heart all the bitterness and sorrow that it is possible to carry!
I had a strange dream. I was flying high, very high, above the earth, a lyre in my hand whose strings kept unravelling, and I could draw no chord from it. I kept rising and rising; I saw vast horizons, clouds of fire, blue, yellow, red, blended, gilded, silvered, torn, strange — then everything went grey, then dazzling again, and I kept rising still, until at last I reached such a height that it was terrifying, yet I was not afraid; the clouds seemed frozen, grey and gleaming like lead; everything grew indistinct; I had my lyre in my hand still, with its slack strings; and far below my feet was a reddish ball — the earth.
If you think this evening was entertaining.
And what a figure I must cut before the servants, before the guests — for every one of them seemed to be saying, Barnola as much as the others:
— And Audiffret? Well, well, well — what, is there no one else coming then!
You understand me well, my gentlemen — you understand, I am sure of it.
If you think that in all my being, were you to burn it through, there would be found one single atom of wounded vanity in love — you are very much mistaken.
Have I room for that kind of wounded feeling? That sort of wounded feeling is agreeable in its way — neat, pleasant.
I am a wretched, unhappy, accursed creature.
There is God.
And what would you have me ask of God? That He make me live as I love — I am as weary of it as He is.
My whole life passes in asking and desiring and meeting with nothing but disappointment and rebuffs, in small things as in great.
One grows weary in the end. Very well, here I am weary — and then? By God! Then I return to where I began, I pray and desire again, then once more I reach the requisite pitch of exasperation, then begin again — and as the leaves return each spring upon the still-dead trees, so too in my poor little heart after its great tribulations spring up again hope and confidence; let us try once more, I tell myself, perhaps this time... but I have barely thought it before it is brought home to me harshly that I am a fool to believe in any change, in that something I await as... the Jews await the Messiah, and which never comes.
My whole life now is in this journal; my calmest moments are those when I write — those are perhaps my only calm moments.
To burn so, to seethe so, to weep so, to suffer so — and to live! And to live!
Why am I made to live?
Ah! I am impatient — my time will come... I am quite willing to believe it, but something tells me it will never come, that I shall pass my whole life waiting, waiting, ever waiting, and waiting, and waiting, and waiting.
I prefer to give myself over to despair entirely, for after these burning moments there always comes a little calm — as after the rain comes the sun.
It is not this spoiled evening that makes me grieve — this evening is a pretext, a word one seizes upon to speak of what one truly thinks. I remember the invitation to the Cercle de la Méditerranée; I remember everything.
I want no public pity, but I should like a single soul — to read me, to understand me, to pity me, to weep with me sincerely, knowing what it weeps for, understanding me, seeing into the most hidden corners of my heart.
If I die soon, I shall burn everything; but if I die old, people will read this journal. I believe there is not yet a photograph — if I may express it thus — of an entire woman's existence, of all these thoughts, of everything, of everything. It will be curious.
If I die young, soon, and if by some misfortune this journal is not burned, people will say: poor child, she loved Audiffret and all her despair springs from that.
Let them say it — I have no wish to prove otherwise, for the more I say, the less I shall be believed.
What is more stupid, more cowardly, more vile than the human race? Nothing! Nothing!
The human race was created for the perdition of the... well, I was about to say, for the perdition of the human race.
It is three in the morning, and as my aunt says, staying up will gain me nothing.
I am angry, I have not wept, I have not thrown myself on the floor. I am calm — that is a bad sign. It is better to be furious.

Notes

In Italian in the original. From Rossini's Il barbiere di Siviglia, Don Basilio's aria "La calunnia è un venticello."
In Italian in the original: la vecchia canzone! Misera me!
In Italian in the original: partiro.
In Italian in the original: Capite bene signor imiei, capite, voi capite ne son sicura.