Thursday, 30 December 1875

The letter signed Alfeda-da-fe was not sent; in its place, Maman sent the following telegram from Monte-Carlo:
Nice, Émile d’Audiffret, Tour Audiffret.
The outside is in bloom, The inside is in rot. Have mercy! Alfeda-da-fe.
By telegram it is far better.
“Hast thou ever suffered? hast thou wept? ‘Hast thou languished without hope, ‘The soul in mourning, the heart torn? Then, thou dost understand my suffering!
(Mignon)
It starts at the Ade shop. While we are there, Mme Tutcheff comes in. Maman tells me to go and greet her, but I blush and do not move, so she herself goes up to this viper and speaks to her.
Every time I cried at home, Maman would say to me:
— Go and live with Aunt Tutcheff. And recently she spoke in earnest about a reconciliation.
But my dear aunt is as cold as possible. She was not alone — Mme Meynek, another sister of my father’s, was with her.
That one spoke more as an aunt — she did not look like a yellow, hissing serpent!
But let us pass over this dry and disagreeable incident.
I went to the Sapogenikoffs’ to invite them to come and sit up with me tomorrow and tell fortunes.
This evening, Sapho. I wore a sort of Neapolitan blouse in blue crêpe de chine and old lace. The front is white, the sleeves wide — well, it defies description, but original and as charming as possible. With a white skirt and a white satin reticule.
We arrive at the end of the first act and find ourselves next to the Prodgers woman, and with her is Miss Robenson, and I hear the voice of the Surprising One. It stopped me short like a bit stopping a horse in full gallop. I stayed throughout the entire interval without moving, listening to what was being said next door.
It is not for nothing that the Pointed One is known as the Beautiful American. There is nothing to be said against her face — she is young, fresh (genuine or otherwise, what does it matter?) and adorable. One might say she is too thin, which is true, but so ravishing a face silences that objection. Her hair... Ah, as for that, I cannot say — at Spa she was blonder than I am; here she is darker. No matter: she has very pretty eyes, and her hair is beautifully dressed. Looking at her I immediately felt my eyes too pale, my nose too large, the little curls at my temples ill-arranged. There is nothing that makes one uglier than feeling inferior to others — one’s eyes grow dull and one loses all assurance.
Maman and my aunt did nothing but shift their eyes from the American to me.
— Marie has a pretty mouth, says Maman after a long scrutiny.
As soon as the curtain rises I hear the Surprising One leave, and I see Miss Robenson take his hand. How he must have pressed it — and how happy she must be!
He went off to an English lady who, having recently arrived here, has attracted all the men. Tournon, Bergerault and several others are at her house.
Seeing him there I recover somewhat. From a distance I see poorly, and he looked rather wretched — standing there as if reluctantly, without a word.
— He looks rather dull when he says nothing, doesn’t he? I asked.
— No, replied my aunt, but he looks fierce — there is something of the wild beast about him.
You will understand that nothing could have been better calculated to make him more attractive to me.
Miss Robenson... (note how, since “the Pointed One,” I have progressed to saying “Miss Robenson”) — Miss Robenson, then, is perfectly pretty.
I simply acknowledge my inferiority and, crushed, do not move and desire nothing. Only I was burning, and every moment I had to bite my lips — both because they were dry and to keep from weeping like a brute in the middle of the theatre.
The Surprising One stays one act and one interval at the English woman’s box, then comes back to his own and poses melancholically — not as before, not in an exaggerated way, but one can plainly see he is not doing it on purpose.
Prodgers and the American leave before the end — well before the end — and Audiffret cannot be patient enough to stay more than ten minutes longer than they do. At the moment when Miss Robenson rose and turned her back to the audience, I saw a glance from the Surprising One fix itself on her quilted back — an involuntary glance that said quite enough.
For a glance like that I would give a day of my life — if it came from anyone; and if it came from the Surprising One, a week.
As if anyone would take that week of a life as miserable and wretched as possible.
As long as I am animated, happy, I am pretty — but if I am as I have been of late, goodbye to all of it.
I become — and above all I feel — ugly, confused, miserable enough to bury myself underground.
By now the American, safely home, is no doubt sleeping a happy, tranquil sleep that will preserve her complexion and maintain her twenty-seven-year-old skin. While I lie awake, and this wakefulness is wrinkling me, ageing me, drying me out.
I did not speak in the carriage — I felt that with words would come a flood. Only a minute or two before arriving did I feel strong enough to say this:
— Truly, M. de Tournon and Bergerault have behaved like extremely rude people. They were invited, they did not come, they paid no call afterwards, they did not even come to the box. Oh! it is truly treating one’s acquaintances like riffraff — like absolute riffraff.
— They have not been anywhere, says Maman.
— Do not say that, I beg you — people only do such things to us.
— To everyone, said my mother and my aunt together.
— If they did it to everyone, nobody would receive them. No, it is treating people like riffraff. I think I shall end by quarrelling with the whole world, I added, following a thought of mine: I had thought of swearing never to receive those people, but I changed my mind at once, for then I should have to swear to know no one at all, since the whole of Nice is included in those people.
— Then why stay in Nice! cried Maman. Why torment ourselves!
— I am leaving on Sunday at three o’clock.
— You have been saying that for a month.
— I am leaving on Sunday at three o’clock!
— Nobody knows what you want.
— I am leaving on Sunday at three o’clock!!
— What is the use of seething and tearing yourself to pieces?
— I am leaving on Sunday at three o’clock!!!!
It could have gone on for a long time, but we had arrived.
I went up to my room and ordered tea.
— I’ll come and have it in your room, said Dina.
I made no answer and began to poke the fire in the grate, watching the wood burn and thinking of absolutely nothing, which saved me from a great scene.
It is, comparatively, a happy state.
Dina came in and asked me why the tea had not been served yet. I heard, I turned towards her and said nothing, but I thought I had said something.
She tried several times more to make me talk, but I did not answer her questions, as though under a spell. The bellows, which had begun to burn, so long had I held them in the fire, made me smile, and I showed them to Dina, saying softly:
— I don’t know what is wrong with them; I think I’ve broken them.
Then I had tea, I ate, then I wrote.
But at the first line I stopped: the stupor was lifting, the fog was clearing, and all at once I felt the whole baseness of my position, as someone long shut up indoors suddenly feels the fresh air outside.
Could anyone be treated more offhandedly, more like riffraff, than we are here? But I need not say it — it is plain enough from the facts I record so scrupulously.
I am cold, my mouth is burning; I know very well that it is unworthy of a strong mind to give way to a base grief, to gnaw one’s fingers over the disdain of a town like Nice; but to shake my head, smile with contempt and think no more about it would be too much for me. Weeping and raging give me more pleasure. Ah! what a charming pleasure.
My nerves have got into such a state that every piece of music that is not a galop makes me cry. Reading Mme de Mouzay’s letters I cried; in every opera I find myself, and the most ordinary words strike me to the heart.
Such a state would do credit to a woman of thirty. But at sixteen — to have nerves, to cry like a fool at every stupid sentimental phrase, and where, too? Not at the Théâtre-Français, but at the Opera! It is true that Pasqua is a marvellous actress.
What would you have? I do not do it on purpose.
Only a little while ago I fell on my knees again, sobbing and imploring God, my arms outstretched and my eyes fixed before me, exactly as if God were there, in my room!
It seems God does not hear me. And yet I cry out loudly enough.
I believe I am being impertinent to the good Lord.
So there it is: they mocked me, then they spat on me and turned away! I do not say this of Audiffret, but of everyone;
Mme Sabatier is going to give a masked ball, Gambart is going to organise a Flemish tournament. Everyone will enjoy themselves... and what about me? What about me?
And what do I gain by rolling on the floor, moaning, howling, wringing my hands, dissolving in tears! Wrinkles on my face, bags under my eyes!
Oh! at this moment I am so desperate, so unhappy, that I desire nothing! If the whole town of Nice came and knelt before me, I would not stir!.. Yes, I would! I would give it a kick! For after all, what have I done to them!
“To see the last man of Nice breathe his last sigh, ‘Myself the sole cause of it, and of pleasure die!
Come now, perhaps I am ugly, stupid? No, no — but I am so humiliated, so fearful! I am like those wretched street dogs which, even when one strokes them, cower down until they are crawling on the ground, or run away trembling!
Quite unlike other people, what costs me the most trouble gives me the least pleasure. Now, if I were invited to the Cercle de la Méditerranée, I would not go. Now... There, I am sobbing again fit to frighten anyone! What was I going to say — now?
The things I obtain with tears and groans are, so to speak, spoiled and tainted for me; I am disgusted with them at once;
My God, is my whole life to be like this!
On Monday there is to be pigeon shooting; I do not even care about it. And before—!
I should like to possess the talent of all the authors put together, to give a true idea of my deep despair, my wounded pride, all my shattered illusions, all my thwarted desires. I have only to wish for something for nothing to happen!
Shall I ever find a street dog, starving and beaten by every urchin, a horse that drags enormous loads from morning till night, a mill donkey, a church mouse, a mathematics master without pupils, an unfrocked priest, any poor devil at all who is crushed enough, wretched enough, sad enough, humiliated enough, dejected enough to be compared with me!
I have dresses, a house, good food, a carriage, boxes and seats at every place where one pays to go in!
How many there are who have nothing and who, seeing me drive by in a carriage in a beautiful dress, envy me and think me happy!
“With my laments I wearied heaven” — and I weary it still!
But what is to be done, what is to be done! Where is my pride, where is my noble dignity, where is my firmness! Crushed, everything is crushed!
What is dreadful in me is that past humiliations do not slide off my heart, but leave their hideous mark!
To make it clear how far gone I am, I will say that I desire nothing at this moment, that everything irritates me, that all I want is to shut myself up and lie in some corner with my face to the ground!
It is astonishing how little I think of the Surprising One as Émile, and how much I think of him as M. d’Audiffret — that is to say, as I think of Tournon and the others.
The fact is, you see, that in a state of mind like mine love has nothing to do with it. No doubt I am wounded, even grieved; I would gladly wring the Robenson woman’s neck, but the other torment prevails, gnaws at me, kills me!
But what do I gain by howling? Wrinkles; I make myself ugly, while she takes care of herself, for she knows that her beauty is all she has. And I have nothing! I have nothing to take care of!
Have I the heart to think of my looks, dejected as I am and rebuffed on every side.
In our dreadful position I do not even have the consolation of thinking that I please someone! Neither as Mademoiselle nor as a woman!
Nothing, nothing, nothing! Mockery, contempt!
Oh! rage! Tiger and hyena! Why does not a torrent of lava and flame come down from heaven to swallow everything up and reduce it all to nothing!
I would not want anyone to think that in saying this I am accusing Audiffret.
If it were he who made me cry and rage, I would simply say so, as I have said it ten times. I do not hide that his... no, his regard would make me bear a great many things and spare me a great deal of grief. But only think — I have nothing to make me love life, nothing, nothing, nothing!
The amusements of my age are denied me! I do not even have what every American girl with her skirts hitched up has, what every ordinary girl has — I do not even dance.
Carriage drives and dresses!!!!!
Never will you understand, never will you form the least idea of my existence.
You will read me and you will laugh.
Laugh, laugh — but perhaps there will be someone who will weep! No, nobody understands me! A life like my life, with a character like my character!!!
My God, forgive me! Holy Virgin Mary, pray to God for me, that He may look upon me for one moment, that He may not be a God without mercy, that He may forgive me! God, God, hear my voice! I swear to You that I believe in You. My God, my God, have pity on me! Jesus, Lord, Son of God, have pity on me! You alone know the extent of my sorrows, the depth of my wounds; You alone know — no man can know — so have pity on me!
I promise You, my God, if You take pity on me, if You raise me up, if You let me live as I wish, I promise You to walk from Kharkov to Kiev on foot, like the pilgrims. And if, besides, You satisfy my ambition and make me entirely happy, I promise You to go to Jerusalem and to do a tenth of the way on foot!
Is it not a sin to do what I am doing! Saints have made vows, yes, but I look as if I were laying down conditions — no, God sees that my intention is good, and if I do wrong He will forgive me, for I wish to do right.
My God, forgive me my sins and take pity on me! Grant that I may keep my promises! My God, Lord Jesus, and Holy Virgin Mary, be kind to me!
In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost.
Holy Mary, perhaps it is silly, but it seems to me that as a woman you are more merciful, more indulgent; take me under your protection, and I swear to set aside a tenth of my income for all sorts of good works. If I do wrong, it is without meaning to. Forgive me!

Notes

In Latin in the original: Miserere ! ↩
Parody of Camille’s imprecation in Corneille’s Horace (IV, 5): «Voir le dernier Romain à son dernier soupir, / Moi seule en être cause, et mourir de plaisir !» (“To see the last Roman breathe his last sigh, / Myself alone the cause, and die of pleasure!”) Marie puts «Niçois» in place of «Romain». ↩
In Italian in the original: “De mici lamenti stancava il ciel ‘ E lo stanca amora ! — as Marie wrote it (apparently for ‘De’ miei lamenti stancava il ciel’ e lo stanco ancora). ↩