Wednesday, 31 May 1876

I could not even write yesterday — which is proof of a most extraordinary state, since I have grown accustomed to living and thinking through writing. I had spent the evening at Dina’s — who is better — singing Galula on every tune and in every key. I laughed like a mad creature, then came home and set to writing, but at the marked passage I had to stop and fling myself into the armchair beside me. I had the greatest difficulty recovering, but having written the rest, I threw myself on the floor and lay there almost senseless until two in the morning. I fell asleep easily — I was broken and half mad. I dreamt of a multitude of Capuchin monks who kept appearing before me as I travelled by railway.
They are calling me to dinner! Well, I shall go — I am afraid of falling ill, and if my body is to be in the same state as my spirit, one cannot answer for anything. Oh! No, I hope it will not come to that! Let them be satisfied seeing me dazed, nearly pale, always sad, indifferent... gnawed and wretched, outside and in!
Always this life, nothing else! My mothers do not stir — they live from day to day — and this stupid indifference enrages me, strangles me, drives me mad!
Oh! My God, I have only You — what will become of me if You abandon me? I cannot be much more wretched in spirit than I am now. To fill the measure to the brim I would need to lose my fortune. But even then I would be no more miserable than I am at this moment.
— With us, you will never be able to live otherwise, repeats my lady mother with a consoling coldness.
She thinks she is saying the most natural thing in the world, the very thing most suited to calm me! She is at ease — she can live as she lives.
Oh! I believed all this would have an end — I believed in change! “Next year,” they always told me.
Oh! It was nothing but a lie! Oh! My God! No... no, it is not possible.
In a sense I am glad, for I feel clearly that I have reached a state of exasperation and grief which, by its very violence, proves to me that it cannot last.
Something will therefore either lift me up a little or finish me off altogether.
I used to go and beg Maman or my aunt to live differently, but I see it is useless — and I have not even the satisfaction (what satisfaction!) of losing my temper, tormenting others, making scenes. I can do nothing now but weep in my room, and in the presence of others choke with grief while forcing it back inside myself.
It is hard — especially for me, who am by nature open and expansive in the highest degree. It may kill me. I do not want to die!
Do they not say that great minds think alike?
And here I am reading La Rochefoucauld, and finding in him so many things I have said here. I who thought I had found something new — and it is things that have been known and said for so very long.
At lunch they were talking of making a carriage entrance on the rue de France side — Collignon especially was in favour of it.
— The carriages ruin the garden, she said.
— Oh! said I, one wretched carriage...
— But, she continued, you will not always live like this, and...
— On the contrary, I said bravely, I believe we shall always live like this.
And, unable to bear it any longer, I sat down on the window ledge, lowered my head, and dissolved in tears.
No one saw it, or they pretended not to.
— Come, said Collignon, taking my arm, let us go and paint... Oh! What is this? Tears! That is what comes of a heart going pitter-patter.
— Oh! said I impatiently, setting myself to rights before the mirror, is it possible that one finds only imbeciles who see nothing but love or illness!
Dina and Papa attended the sitting, and I took revenge on my grief by exercising my sharp wit at their expense.
Then I read Horace, La Bruyère, and a third author besides.
In the evening I went to join the family in the garden, but I spoke little — thinking that it is because of this family that I suffer all this, and especially the latest humiliation.
Is there a greater one for a young girl’s pride?
They all go to the theatre. Collignon and Dina come to my room; I read; then they return and announce an immense piece of news. Saetone has married! One of the Lacroix girls. They were made for each other!
Amen...
Prodgers has left Nice altogether for Paris, Saetone is married, Audiffret is selling his château. Poor Nice!
I am worried about my eyes — while painting I had to stop several times, unable to see. I overuse them, spending all my time painting, reading, and writing. This evening I went back over my summaries of the classics — that kept me occupied — and then I discovered a very interesting work on Confucius, in Latin and French translation. Nothing compares to an occupied mind; work combats everything, above all intellectual work. I do not understand women who spend their leisure hours knitting or embroidering — hands busy, mind idle... A heap of useless, dangerous thoughts must come, and when one has something especially weighing on one’s heart, the mind broods on that something and the effects are deplorable. If I were happy and calm I could work with my hands, I think, so as to dwell on my happiness — no, even then I would want to think about it with eyes closed; I would be incapable of doing anything at all.
Galula and Laurenti came to the box — it was Galula who told the great news.
Laurenti is to dine with us tomorrow.
Ask everyone who knows me what they think of my disposition and they will tell you I am the most cheerful, most carefree, most resolute and happiest girl alive. For I take great pleasure in appearing radiant and proud — impregnable in every way — and I gladly engage in discussions as serious as they are wild. Here one sees me from within; outwardly I am quite different. One would think I had never suffered a disappointment and was accustomed to having men and things obey me...
Oh! When I think of Antonelli, I do not know where to hide for shame and rage!
And it is thanks to my own family!
Not content with giving me nothing, they take everything from me!