Tuesday, 30 May 1876

It is not yet noon and I have already had a meeting with the marble-worker who came to inspect my bathroom and is already at work on a shell of the most... allegorical sort — but I shall describe everything together. I shall be glad when I am rid of my tin bathtub.
But it is not to say that that I am writing — it is to tell my dream: I was receiving a letter from Rome so long, so very long, that the pages were sewn together into two notebooks.
Needless to say, the dream did not come true.
Evening has come and I find not a word to say.
They forced me to take a turn on foot, threatening me with an illness like the one at Spa, which might well result from this state of inactivity. Indeed I no longer stir, except to go twice to the pavilion for lunch and dinner. I speak so softly and have such a frozen look that Maman asked me why I am so cold.
— I beg your pardon, Madame?
— But you look as though you have just stepped out of a cold bath.
No doubt he is not in Rome, for such an oversight, such a want of courtesy even towards an indifferent woman, is impossible. It would simply be boorishness.
I had always said that everything would be over after the inquiries. I had prepared myself for anything — but not for this. I knew that our ambiguous standing tormented me, but I had never imagined it could harm me in this way. Truly, God is pitiless. I had thought I had already suffered so much, and now I discover a new misfortune! Listen: I wept over our situation, and consoled myself with flirtations and with the thought of marriage. That was my principal consolation, the infallible remedy. I lamented, then told myself it mattered little, since what I needed was a marriage — that it would be the end of my trials (the trials I am enduring now) — and that this must come about whatever path we took. So that even while suffering terribly I did not despair. That is where my evil genius lay in wait for me. If, knowing for certain that it was only a matter of patience, that the end would be the same regardless of the road — if, knowing that, I have said everything I have said so far in the way of complaints, imagine what I must say now! And so I complain no more.
So, nothing for me. Nothing. To live like a wretch and see nothing at the end of this wretchedness. I had not understood that no one would want me for a wife. They dazzled me with triumphs, let me laugh and joke, hear talk of love, think all of it was mine — but only the better to show me that I am a fool. Yes, men court me, I am pretty — but no one marries me.
I was thinking so clearly just now, and I can remember nothing of it! Oh! I have been patient, even while losing patience on paper — I have believed in God, I have hoped; oh! I have never felt so desperate, for I have never understood my despair so well.
At first I told myself that the affair with Antonelli was a pain of the head, not of the heart — no more pleasant for that, quite the contrary. Very well, I told myself, let us move on — but then the whole truth made itself perfectly clear. I stood motionless for a few moments, long enough to take it in, then I began to weep — oh, most bitterly. As one weeps when one can see nothing ahead, when one has been condemned to death and longs to live. I had written a few words and had to stop, and carry my misery to a neighbouring armchair. I had no breath in my chest; I breathed with all my strength and the air would not enter my lungs; I wanted to run to my mothers and cry out everything that was choking me with shame. But what would be the use, I asked myself — what can they do? They will say nothing to me, and when I am gone they will consult together and decide with Walitsky either that I am in love or that I am ill and need iron phosphate! I am not irritated — I am broken. My legs ache as though I had walked all day; I write with difficulty, but I must. Let us continue.
I contained myself for a while, but losing courage, patience, breath, I dug my nails into my chest as if to make holes for the air to enter, and I began to cry out, then to laugh, then, frightened, fell silent and wept again.
Oh! What shame!
I was merry, I laughed at men, I took them as a distraction from my torment, and I could not see that it was shameful — that they looked at me as a pretty, amusing girl — I did not understand that I was worse than a...
How right Yssayevitch was to say that in Russia we would always occupy the position that is ours, because we are known there — “whereas abroad you will never be anything but newcomers, foreigners, strangers...” Yes, he was right — in Russia one could live as all the [word crossed out] nobles live in Kharkov or in Poltava. There one is at home, one is known, one is the equal of others, one has one’s place in society.
But I no longer know what I am saying. That is not what I meant. Oh! What shame, my God! And I, who understood nothing — I who sought, desired to meet men... I never even suspected how they looked at me! No! I cannot explain it! I could not!
Ah! God!

Notes

In French in the original: succès (italicised by Marie) — social triumphs, admirers. ↩