Saturday, 14 July 1877

If there is anything tedious and stupid, it is gowns that have gone wrong ten times running. Which is to say that I am furious.
I have at last found a townhouse I genuinely want to live in. It is the old Princess Radzivill's, on the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne. There is only one story — very high, like an Italian palace — with admirable outbuildings and service quarters. A magnificent courtyard that the house encloses on three sides; the entrance to the courtyard is on a street parallel to the avenue. On the avenue side there is also an entrance through the garden. They are asking twenty-five thousand francs a year. Therefore it must be five hundred thousand francs to buy. If one could exchange, arrange, and finagle this with — or against — the villa, it would be a true happiness.
I am so immersed in my dreams — that is to say, in my second life — that twenty times the urge has seized me to write it down. It would be stupid to recount! That is to say, I am only happy there; and at every moment I collect myself, resume where I have been interrupted, and continue. For, you see: I have married the Comte de Doenhoff out of spite; Alexandre, out of spite, falls in love with me, and at a decisive refusal shoots himself in the chest; a few hours later, while I still know nothing of this catastrophe, my husband succumbs to an aneurysm or stroke.
I learn of Alexandre's attempted suicide at almost the same moment, and I run by a secret door all the way to Palazzo 19 (for we are in Florence) to throw myself at the knees of the comtesse.
I enter amid a very natural tumult; I find the comtesse in a room at the far end of the house — my courage fails me and I fall to my knees on the threshold, unveiling myself. Without a word she seizes my hand; I let myself be drawn down to the ground floor, and find myself before the bed where Alexandre lies unconscious — but alive!
I am the first person he recognises! I steal away every night to come sit with him; his mother is my own — she loves me as though I had brought her son back from the dead; indeed, having said to him playfully that I did not love him, he had forty-eight hours of fever. He is better now; last night he slept with his head resting on my shoulder while I looked at him unable to tear my eyes away — happy I!
I weep and laugh like a madwoman.
After two months of anxieties, sufferings, and the delights of attending on him, I see him well enough to go out with his mother. I watch him pass from my window — for I do not go out, being supposed to be mourning my husband. I receive no one. But I must go to Berlin — the Count's position at court obliges me, and then his estates, his son; for he has left a son named Charles in honour of the Prince of Prussia who served as godfather. Alexandre comes to see me every evening; I receive him in a half-lit salon. We sit on a divan, and there, our hands joined, we talk or remain silent for hours together, like two engaged lovers…
He knows my ideas on love and honour; he has not said to me a single word that could seem improper to a virgin. Only when after an hour of amorous, divine, celestial silence I dare raise my eyes to him… I find his eyes fixed on me with such tenderness that I pass my hand through his hair, murmuring: Yes, I love you.
The thought of separating for a month seems dreadful to me. Blanche is so good that she consents to come with me to the country in Prussia, in order to give her brother a pretext to come fetch her at the end of a fortnight. How lonely the comtesse will be!
Gaston is dead; his wife has returned to her family. The evening before my departure he came as usual; we did not exchange fifty words. If I were to speak I should dissolve in tears. Eleven o'clock strikes; I make a movement to leave.
— It is impossible! Alexandre exclaims. Oh! Let me go with you!!
I turn quickly and see that he is weeping, his face hidden in the satin cushion of the divan. If I said a single word I should not leave — or he would remain with me all night.
— You have seen me weep! he cries — you will laugh!
Instead of answering I seize his hand and kiss it. He has no time to draw it back — I have fled, gesturing him toward the door.
I have left with Blanche; many friends at the station. The comtesse accompanies her daughter; Alexandre arrives with Marcuard.
At the end of a fortnight I announce to my Prussian friends — who come to knit stockings at my house in order to console me — I announce therefore, and in particular to a viper of an old princess, that Blanche is to leave and that her husband is coming to fetch her. The next day he arrives! I am surprised it is not M. de Mirafiore. The reasons for this substitution are explained to me. I retire early, leaving brother and sister together, and bidding goodbye to my Germans who return to Berlin. No one can recount the silent joys of those who love each other and meet again! Blanche has withdrawn, and we remain until dawn, our hands intertwined. At the moment of parting he kisses my hand twenty times; I let my head fall on his shoulder, he puts his arms around me… I pull away abruptly and flee, pressing a burning kiss upon his brow.
Blanche does not leave — it had been arranged so from the start. She will stay as long as I stay; I perform a small tender scene at luncheon before the maître d'hôtel, who is in the pay of the old princess with her nephew to marry off. I lament being left alone; the princess has gone — and so I shall die of solitude and grief!
Alexandre departs — I bid him farewell before everyone so as not to make a scene. Blanche's son is with her; we talk while watching our children play; mine is always beaten as he is so much younger. Her son is five, mine two.
We go to Berlin; my affairs are settled; I have gone to pay my respects to the great ones of this world. The Empress was perfect and said many consoling things, insinuating ideas in which the old princess may well have had some part.
Now I am free to leave! To go to Paris, where I shall see whom I please in my single-storied townhouse, tall as an Italian palace. Dina has just married a Westphalian baron. Maman and my aunt are at Nice. Mlle Collignon — married and widowed — comes to fill in my house the role of governess, friend, companion. All is for the best. I still have nine months of mourning! Alexandre has come back to fetch his sister; we meet in Berlin; I am so ashamed of my kiss on his brow that I encounter him all confusion. In the evening we remain together for a long time — I had begged Blanche to keep us company. We parted, both of us weeping.
I am in Paris. Since my departure for Prussia with Blanche, we have not ceased corresponding with Alexandre by telegraph.
Alexandre says he prefers this to the post, as the telegraph employees correct his spelling. He signs Violet^[In English in the original.] and I Violette. Every day I receive a basketful. This evening I nearly fell down with joy when my mother, arrived yesterday, came into my room to announce that he is here! He has come to call on Mme Bashkirtseff. I receive no one; the princess's nephew is in Paris — it is a German passion, or the desire to gild his coat of arms with my wretched hundred thousand francs of income.
He is announced; I make my escape; in the grand salon he finds only my mother and M. de Larderei. I enter and greet the latter as though I had not seen him — the prince departs satisfied to the Café Riche, where he will drink eight bocks of beer.
Alexandre comes every evening; he passes through the garden; I open the door to him.
I paint a great deal; I finish the portrait of Blanche as a Madonna with our two children — a hackneyed subject, but those three figures were so ideal I could not resist. Besides, I have exhibited, and people assure me I have talent. An Englishman offered me twenty thousand francs for a head of an old man weeping before his wife's portrait. I also sing, accompanying myself on the harp. I wear ravishing mourning. Now that it is warm these are long crêpe gowns that mould me entirely; with the first cold I shall wear black velvet gowns in the Robespierre style.
This evening we talked for a long time; from my hand his kisses climbed to the elbow; drowsy, amorous, languishing, I yield him my brow, my hair. He was seeking my lips — I pull back abruptly.
— Forgive me, he says softly — forgive me, Marie; but why… do not take it as a reproach, you are capable of it — why do you avoid my lips… you… you do not love me, then… or rather… I do not understand: why the brow, the eyes, the hands — and never the lips?
He seemed very embarrassed in saying this — beset by a heap of fears and confusions. These words would sound ridiculous elsewhere, and between other lovers than us — who thought aloud and had arrived at that sublimity of love where the ridiculous can no longer reach.