Tuesday, 6 June 1876

I read back over yesterday’s entry, the last page. People will not understand it — the thing is that I was writing as I suffered, and between each word there are three words of pain and tears.
The heat is unbearable.
Sultan Abdul Aziz has killed himself, or been killed. I know well enough — they feared it. Mourad V is starting badly — or rather, no: since the death of the deposed sovereign can serve the peace of the State, Mourad is right.
But to the devil with it all!
I am suffering horribly, and the heat permits me to heave sighs and complaints without end. I am as I was the morning after the evening when Antonelli insulted me: every moment I forget, and every moment I remember, and then I feel breathless and without strength, my fists clench, and I rage. Towards two o’clock I was wound up enough to grow angry and to sigh only with... contempt.
“Let the heavens fall upon me, / Provided I am avenged! / If I shed tears, they are tears of rage...” I do not know where I read that. No — I am not thinking of revenge. But when I am in a position to avenge myself I shall do so. Well — no! What is the use? I was angry and I despised the day. Evening comes and I sink back into my state of wretchedness and sadness. These thoughts are unworthy — one should remember injuries only when one is in a position to avenge them. To dwell on them is to give too much importance to unworthy people; it is to debase oneself.
And so it is not the people I am thinking of — I am thinking of my wretched standing, of all it has made me suffer and all it may yet make me suffer. For all evils spring from that. If the Antonellis had raised the question of religion it would only amuse me — and I quite believe that if they begged me to take Pietro, I would not take him, and you know very well why. But it is the shame! The thought that they were told disgraceful things about us — that I am the victim of Georges’s scandals and my mother’s culpable carelessness!
For everyone was talking of this marriage, and certainly no one will say the refusal came from me. Besides they will be right — did I not consent?... To prolong it, to keep him in any case... I do not repent it. I did right, and if it turned out badly it is not my fault. Could I have foreseen that this curse hanging over me would pursue me even this far? Oh! That is the horror of the situation!
— Who is she? — A Russian, Mlle Bashkirtseff. — One never sees them in society? — They are nowhere; I believe they are not received. — Who knows them? — No one. — What are they? — I do not know; they have lawsuits in Russia, they are awaiting judgment, it is a whole story, etc., etc. And one does not fail to add all the things I cannot even imagine. We are unknown; people hear bits and pieces here and there, they talk, they exaggerate, they invent. Ah! Lord God! And to be powerless!
The General was here until eleven o’clock, and I went to sit with everyone in the garden for some air — but there is none. The weather is lovely enough to die of, but the air is too dry for my parched lungs. My swollen foot prevents me from walking; otherwise I would go out in the morning. It is bad for one’s health never to go out — to sit growing sluggish and dull-witted as I do.
Maman was angry today because of the Sapogenikoffs — they have already written to Collignon twice. I am not angry; I simply find it squalid. Leaving aside moral obligations, we have rendered them practical ones: Walitsky went to great lengths to procure money for them; my aunt co-signed several times for Nina; my aunt devoted herself, slaving like a dog at Nina’s all day and part of every night during the Yourkoff misfortune. I never spoke of this — I found it all so natural — but I say it here to demonstrate how ungrateful these creatures are.
Ah! Whatever anyone says, the boors, and the merchants above all, will always remain thus. Nothing is more contemptible than that middling breed. One finds great hearts among the peasants, but never among these squalid creatures ennobled by money. I was forced to mix with this society — keeping apart would have been wiser — but it would have meant giving up the only chance of exchanging a few words with living beings. Let us be clear: I am not complaining about them; I am simply describing what is, nothing more. I have too profound a contempt for everyone to complain or to be angry with anyone. Ingratitude is such a common virtue! Truly, I am sorry I said so much — someone may do me the injustice of thinking that the baseness of these small people affects me.
My pen is tired; I am sleepy. It is absurd not to remedy my condition, especially when I know the remedy. To leave. To change air and faces. As I did last winter — at the end of three weeks I no longer thought of Nice’s affronts. Come to think of it, I made an affair of state out of Audiffret. That only proves I was in love — otherwise I should never have attached such importance to a discourtesy of that kind. Witness Saetone — I simply disdained to speak of him or look at him. But Audiffret pleased me; I cannot therefore blame myself for exaggerating the facts and my various feelings
Editors’ note
[annotation]
in the marginAnnotation de Marie
There I am, amusing myself by loving everyone
I have said everything I feel, but as I think of the same thing every day it always seems to me that I have not said everything — that I have not been properly understood — and I want to say it again. In novels things are said once and that suffices; here it seems to me every day that I have not explained properly. It is only a notion, no doubt.

Notes

Sultan Abdul Aziz of the Ottoman Empire was deposed on 30 May 1876 and found dead on 4 June — officially a suicide, though murder was widely suspected. He was succeeded by Murad V. ↩
In French in the original: moujiks — the Russian word for peasants, used here as a class insult (Marie goes on to distinguish the honest “paysans”). ↩
Her targets are the Sapogenikoffs, the family’s Russian friends at Nice, with whom they had just quarrelled (previous paragraph); she had already counted them among “moujiks” and “merchants” in December 1875. Russian society was divided by law into estates, and the merchants (kupechestvo) ranked below the nobility. ↩