Wednesday, 24 May 1876

I was woken at noon at the very moment when I was dreaming that Mme Bueno was embracing me and congratulating me on my forthcoming marriage.

“Quick, quick,” said Maman, “come to Dina’s room.”

I lifted “the heavy blue satin curtain” and passed into Dina’s room in my nightgown.

“The Antonellis have sent to make official enquiries,” my mother told me abruptly.

“What?”

“Mme de Camprien has just left,” continued Maman in great agitation. “She came in all haste to warn me. An Italian count has arrived from Rome — she would not say his name — who has applied to them because Madame is Russian, married to a Frenchman acquainted with Monseigneur Zamboni of Rome, and who can better than anyone supply every possible piece of information. She also told me he mentioned some great official scandal involving Paul and begged me to say whether it was true, so as to smooth things over if there are rough edges,¹ and prevent this count from going to seek information at the central police commissioner’s. I told her it was not true. As for Georges — he is a man who lives with a kept woman and has done disgraceful things, but he is no concern of ours.”

“And then?”

“She says she is also charged with learning my view of the matter so as to communicate it to the Countess Antonelli, since the young people are agreed between themselves. She speaks of Pietro as a paragon² — just think, the nephew of the Cardinal, of Cardinal Antonelli himself!³ Nadine (my aunt) came out all pride and declared she would never consent.”

“After all, there is nothing surprising in it,” said the old woman; “your daughter is so beautiful! My husband has already written a four-page letter about her — you may well imagine what he said; besides, all who come near her admire her.” She is all in a fever — enough to gossip about for two months; she is rushing to Mme Korsakoff’s, no doubt to tell the story, and in two hours the whole city will be crying it aloud.

I listened to these ragged speeches in a state of anxiety. Maman was greatly agitated and did nothing but repeat how Mme de Camprien was dressed and what a solemn air she had, and how surprised and flustered she herself was — she who had believed all this was nothing but courtship, a jest, nothing serious.

This count has come from Paris on behalf of the person to whom they had written, and leaves today for Rome.

As I seemed uneasy, they reassured me by saying that the Campriens had said nothing but good of us.

“Of that I am certain,” I said, “but do you think these people so simple? Do you suppose they have enquired only of the Comte de Camprien? Ah, Madame — you do not know priests!”

Then everyone began to joke about it with an air of great satisfaction.

“Please say nothing of it,” I said, growing more and more gloomy; “nothing will come of all this but vexations and humiliations.”

“Well!” said Maman and my aunt, “well, what does it matter! We do not want them, and we shall not weep over them. If they play tricks, we shall do without them!”

“Oh!” I said bitterly, “so that is how you talk! Whether to refuse or to accept is another question — but to endure this humiliation… Do not interrupt me! All these vexations and all my sorrows are mere imagination, you say. You say that although I am not in society it will not prevent me from making a fine marriage, and that in the end that is all that matters. I agree with you — but it turns out that my imaginations are preventing me from making this fine marriage. You say: so much the worse, we shall do without. But what is left to me then? I cannot go into society and I cannot marry — I always felt that my torment would prevent it — but what is left to me? The convent? Come now, answer me!”

“But then,” they replied, “they are making enquiries! They ought to concern themselves only with you!”

“Oh, Maman! Oh, my aunt! How you talk! Of course neither a Lubimoff nor a Galula will go making enquiries⁴ — but they are no matches for me! Whereas those who are suitable for me will, be assured, do exactly as the Antonellis have done!”

No one found anything to say, and presently I was left alone with Dina and began to lament so gently and so genuinely, in a tone so desolate, so calm, so resigned, that she began to console me and I felt tears come to my eyes.

“You will go to Russia, you will bring your father, he will take you everywhere.”

“Oh! I shall try, but I cough, I am ill, I am going to die.”

“You must take care of yourself,” said Dina gently.

“It is not worth the trouble — the game is not worth the candle. Why live, when life is what mine is!”

“Marie, before, you had quite different ideas — you said there was nothing more beautiful than life and nothing uglier than death. I no longer recognise you!”

“Before was different; before I knew nothing; before I always hoped — but now… Look, Maman herself told me I must not think of it.”

“Oh, but—!”

“Wait — she told me the truth, but seeing my distress she will speak differently; she will encourage me, reassure me, make promises — all of that just to calm me for the moment; she will promise things for next year so that at least until then I remain quiet, and the time will run out and it will be the same thing all over again!”

“Marie,” the invalid interrupted in her weak and consoling voice, “do you know what I would say to you?”

“No,” I replied, my hands over my brow.

“Become a famous singer — you can do it.”

“Ah! I know that very well.”

“It is the finest of positions.”

“Yes — but my lungs are ill, and what is to be done with that!”

“Take care of yourself,” she went on gently.

“Ah! It is not worth the trouble!”

“Here comes Walitsky.”

“Walitsky,” I said, “sound my chest — I have something here.”

He sounded my chest and, finding nothing but catarrh, prescribed the waters of Soden for me.

I shall obey, because one always clings to life, but… but I am very unhappy!

During the day I painted, I ate, I answered what people asked me about Antonelli.

And I came to my room to write, and as I wrote I began to cry with all my might. Then I went and knelt down and prayed.

God, is there no posture humbler than kneeling? Let someone tell me what I must do to appease this divine, implacable wrath! Do not mock me, I am utterly crushed. I no longer even have any pride. Before, I wanted a prince, millions, grandeur; now I am ashamed of those desires, and I weep!

You know what my ideas were. A man on whom I look down from the height of my fantastic grandeur — that man will despise and disdain me; not he himself, but it comes to the same thing.

And what have I done to deserve it!

Maman and my aunt, in their stupid torpor, dream of a Prince Charming, free and independent, who will come and lay his crown and his heart at my feet!

These dreams, which I used to share and which perhaps I share even today, strike me as pitiful and drive me to despair!

God! How can one not hate a family on whose account one endures what I endure!!!

And if I complain, and if I weep, and if I die, they will say it is from love!! Oh, hideous mockery! As if I had room for love!

This whole affair has left me dumbfounded, and I did not dare send the flower.

This evening, as I was leaving, I kissed Maman.

“She kisses like Pietro,” she said, laughing.

“Did he kiss you?” I asked.

“It was you he kissed,” said Walitsky, thinking he was saying the most outrageous thing imaginable, and thereby making me feel a very sharp remorse and almost shame.

“Oh! Walitsky!” I said, with such a look that Maman and my aunt turned to him with an air of reproach and displeasure.

Marie kissed by a man! Marie the proud, the haughty, the severe — come now! Marie, who has made so many fine speeches on the subject!

It made me inwardly ashamed.

Indeed, why did I betray my principles? I cannot admit that it was, or has been, out of weakness, out of being carried away; if I admitted that, I should no longer respect myself. I cannot say it was out of love.

It gave me pleasure; I did it for the same reason that I let my foot be pressed.

It is enough to pass for unapproachable; that is sufficient. People are so used to seeing me as I am that they would not believe their own eyes, and I myself have so often held forth so rigidly on so many things that I would not believe it myself without this diary.

Besides, one should let oneself be approached only by a man of whose love one is certain, for he will not accuse. Whereas with people who merely pay court, one must be covered all over in spikes like a hedgehog.

Let us be frivolous with a serious, loving man, but severe with a frivolous one.

God, how glad I am to have written exactly what I think!