Thursday, 13 January 1876

Vile buttonhole gardenia You shall never be crowned Rosière For all that you may do, Wretched man, you will rot!
Truly, that dreadful Nice man does not deserve these dreadful verses — but there we are!
I placed the comb under my pillow saying three times: May the one who will be my husband come and do my hair. And I dreamed of the Surprising One.
The weather continues bad; Maman and Dina are at church — it is our New Year's Day — and I stay home to sew, that being my whim at present: I must do as I please. Botkine came to offer congratulations.
Only at four o'clock do they succeed in tearing me from the house. We go to find Liszt — but not today — and at five o'clock Maman goes to the embassy, the hour at which Baroness Ixhull receives. I waited for her in the carriage, trembling all over, but she returns and says the ambassadress is very amiable — and I am a little reassured.
Scarcely home, we are given two letters — one from Domenica, Dina's mother, who has just arrived in Nice with her daughter Lola; the other from my aunt. My aunt tells me things that fill me with unease and torment. "I was at Monaco," she says, "with M. Sapogenikoff, who has been here a few days, and Mme Koulicheff — and there I saw the Shaved Magpie. The Magpie was with the Englishwoman you know, who does not leave him free for a single instant. I do not know who this woman is, but she behaves very badly — she is inseparable from the Magpie. The Magpie has grown thin, and despite the strict surveillance of this miserable Olive, he came up to me and told me he had won twenty thousand francs — but the moment Olive saw him near me she carried him off. [Words cancelled: from the Magpie ??]."
"There is someone who has truly taken possession of the Magpie — so that all the others have only to give up hope, and if this Olive is unmarried there will be a marriage, for she has genuinely taken hold of the Shaved Magpie. That is all I have been able to learn about the Shaved Magpie."
One must do my aunt justice — she writes abominably badly; let us suppose that half of it is merely imagination. Poor aunt — she says this woman behaves badly; I imagine with what fury she must have glared at the miserable Olive, as she calls this Englishwoman. I am positively shaken, but I have nowhere to shut myself away — my room is between the drawing room and Maman's bedroom, so that, although there is another passage, it also serves as a thoroughfare.
Besides, if I locked myself in I should scream and be heard. I keep a very good composure, and at table we talk of Galula and laugh a great deal. Maman has taken a box at the Teatro Valle — comedy — and I am obliged to go when I would rather weep and scream. I go nonetheless, and I am not ugly; I am almost pretty. I say nothing as far as society goes — I know no one — but the play was amusing.
We received a telegram from Barnola — he congratulates us on the New Year and reminds me of the promise I made him to drink a glass of water at the Trevi Fountain to his health, on the Russian New Year, two hours from Rome.
I had completely forgotten — but it was very gracious of him to remember. He swore friendship to me; I did the same. But that is not the matter at hand — the matter is the Olive.
Going to the theatre I thought of nothing but Nice; I felt furiously jealous, wounded, ashamed. And truly, is it not a disgrace — to think of a man who disdains me, who does more than that, who was more than impolite to us, whom I ought to despise and detest, and yet instead I think only of him, form plans only for him, laugh only when he is spoken of — in a word I conduct myself like a vile and contemptible creature, when I ought to stand on my pedestal and regard all those people with a proud condescension.
Thanks to the theatre and to the situation of my room I spare myself a scene of tears and rage as humiliating as it is useless. What is curious is that I do not think the game is lost with Audiffret — it is only postponed.
I know perfectly well that my plans are useless, my desires vain, my hopes stupid — but how is one to prevent oneself from hoping for what one desires?
Going to the theatre I wondered — is it truly because of the news from Nice that I am so distressed, so discouraged, or is it perhaps simply my mood — as sometimes happens to me? And in truth I do not know what it is; I know only that I felt apathetic, bored, indifferent to the entire world. To dress, to make myself beautiful at such a moment, would have been a torment — and I was going to the theatre! From the hotel to the theatre I loved the Surprising One with fierce tenacity — but now that it has passed, now that I have sat through an Italian comedy, supped and chatted, all that seems to me like a dream. And besides, my aunt has such a lively imagination.
Three days after our acquaintance with the Surprising One began, she was already telling me with a mysterious air that "this poor madman" was in love with me — she pitied him with lively satisfaction while predicting he would suffer the fate of the Polish count. Now she has seen him at Monaco with the Englishwoman and is already marrying them off. Why then was I surprised that people were giving him out as my fiancé last summer? Was he not always seen with us or at our house? I know my aunt — I know her way of explaining events, exaggerating, even inventing — and yet her letter has filled me with terror.
I despaired inwardly — and then: ah! bah! I said — everything passes; I have quite forgotten the Duke, and I shall forget this too.
For I have forgotten the Duke — no doubt; if I reread my old diary I would not say this consoling thing — but I take good care not to reread it. Why rummage through old sorrows, when I have enough new ones?
I did not deserve the Duke — it was too beautiful — and I resigned myself. But here, good heavens! What was I asking for! Is it not an abominable humiliation! Oh — I need only desire something for it to be denied me. And yet, as long as I looked on the Nice man with contempt, it was nothing — but now that he grows in my eyes every day, it is dreadful! For it is a sign that I shall never have him — ever since I had the folly and vileness to say I love him, he has been lost, and my talisman has produced the opposite of its desired effect.
It seemed to me, I said, that if I confessed I loved him, all obstacles would fall and he would come and prostrate himself before me. Ah! Indeed — Corpo di Bacco!
I confessed to something I was not convinced of. I am jealous, anxious about the man — but as for loving him, that is another matter. I believe I love him, only I cannot admit it to myself. In a word I understand nothing of it — let wiser heads judge. I spare not a single one of my thoughts: I shall even say that I fall asleep and wake composing a great many love stories whose eternal hero is the Surprising One, as it was before with the Duke of Hamilton. The greatest disgrace that could befall me now would be the man's marriage. No — I hope this time, as before, my aunt is imagining things. And why believe she has changed her manner of thinking and living in a week? Why? Because I am afraid, and I am afraid because this affair interests me extraordinarily.
Tell me that Audiffret is ill or injured or in great danger, or on the point of dying — that will do nothing to me. But tell me only that he has been seen with a woman — oh! Then I am ready to strangle him.
In my moments of tiger and hyena I console myself by closing my eyes and imagining that I wring the neck of the person who vexes me. And I picture it so vividly — I almost feel how with one hand I hold the head, with the other the shoulder, how I make the gesture of wringing a wet towel, and how the head falls! In this way I can pass an entire hour; this sweet thought sustains and calms me. Ah! If only I could do it in reality...
Truly, I hope my aunt exaggerates — it would be too distressing otherwise!
And if this woman is truly unmarried and rich and he marries her! Fie! Then I should spit on him! Fie! — what is viler than a man who sells himself!
Good God — if only winter would pass; if only I could know exactly what to think; if only I could return to Nice and above all find everything as before! Maman has written to my aunt to find out who this Englishwoman is. I shall know at least that. I am very anxious.
But what was I saying about the look directed at Miss Robenson's back? About her bored air in the Englishwoman's box?
Am I then so very wide of the mark?
Ah! Truly it is atrocious — always conjectures, conjectures, and more conjectures!
Ah! If only I could know the truth.
Let us have patience. Easy to write — but to feel! Patience! The virtue of donkeys! Waiting! The occupation of fools!
Just imagine Audiffret in possession of a wife! It puts me in a dreadful state! Ah! If I could wring the Olive's neck — I remember those two Englishwomen, [Word blacked out: like] two ugly and pretentious little figurines with the aspiring and starched manner of middle-class Englishwomen. Only I could never tell the difference between the two, and I confuse them still. This evening I look at myself in the mirror, see that I am pretty — and it is a great consolation. [Two lines cancelled]
I do not believe I seriously love the Surprising One — I do not find him in my depths — but in any case my surface is very much occupied with him.
If he loved me I should not mind at all — that is the truth!

Notes

The buttonhole gardenia was a fashionable dandy's accessory — its placement in a gentleman's lapel was a mark of studied elegance.
Rosière — a young village girl crowned with roses for her exemplary virtue at an annual ceremony; Marie applies the term to Audiffret with savage irony. See also the mock-Rosière letter in the Nov 1875 entries.
A traditional Russian New Year's Eve divination: placing a comb under the pillow while repeating this formula was said to cause the future husband to appear in a dream.
l'Olive — Marie's nickname for the English rival woman whose actual name she does not know; the name suggests something sour, or perhaps an olive complexion.
"En faire leur deuil" — literally "to go into mourning for it": an idiom meaning to give up all hope of obtaining something.
Décollée: an unusual form that LAN suggests may mean "unstuck" or "unhinged" — Marie shaken loose from her composure.
Partie perdue — the game is lost; partie remise — the game is only deferred: a chess/card metaphor suggesting the match can still be won at a later date.
The Polish count: a previous suitor of Marie's, apparently also driven off or doomed in some way that has now become a cautionary archetype in the household.
Corpo di Bacco! (Italian): "Body of Bacchus!" — an Italian oath of surprise or exasperation, equivalent to "Good grief!"
Marie dismisses patience as a virtue fit only for donkeys — a characteristically irreverent inversion of conventional moral praise.
"Empesées" — literally "starched," suggesting a stiff, self-conscious, upward-striving demeanour; a standard French caricature of the English middle class.
"Mon fond" — my depths; "ma surface" — my surface: Marie distinguishes between the deep self (where she seeks genuine feeling) and the surface (preoccupation, vanity, jealousy).