Sunday, 15 July 1877

Yesterday I began drawing again; my travelling studio is set up.
Yesterday my aunt and I were talking of Marcuard and Dina. I do not know whether I have kept you informed of this strange courtship. Marcuard has gone on calling on us, while growing quite cold towards Dina, only just polite enough. This comes, Maman and I believe, from her having behaved very foolishly towards him. At times she would let him kiss her hand in every convenient corner, and at times she would flirt with all those callow young men and not say a word to him. Such antics sometimes succeed, but very rarely with men who are serious, practical, Swiss, and have marriage in mind.
I suppose he did have them; otherwise his conduct would be altogether too impertinent. He paid no sugary compliments, but conducted himself like an honourable man who loves a girl and does not conceal his intentions. Dina’s manners were not what they should have been; you can easily imagine what it is like when a naturally heavy person tries to be light and airy. In any case it is a very great disappointment for us all, for which Maman has greatly reproached Dina.
I have just returned from the Madeleine, where I went with the baroness to see the fashionable women. But I was cheated on that count.
I was wearing a white cotton dress, cinched at the waist by an Egyptian braid. White kid shoes. A straw hat with a white crêpe scarf and a bunch of lily of the valley. A large, entirely plain, very flat white parasol. It was impossible to be simpler.
To come back to Marcuard, even Alexandre believed him well and truly caught. On the eve of our dreadful explanation, he talked to me at length about Marcuard, almost in my ear, and Schininà smiled mischievously from his box. And at Sorrento. We were walking together in the evening, on our way back from the Hamontoffs’. Alexandre looked bored and lost, and I trembled for fear of making him impatient and boring him. Dina and Marcuard overtook us.
— In a fortnight, said Alexandre mockingly, Monsieur and Madame de Marcuard.
— Why not? said I, delighted at the idea that such a thing was possible; they are both charming. It is only you who are not worthy...
— Oh, as for me, he said, it is not for me...
And to make these words more poetic, he said them with a Hamlet air.
— I should think not, I hastened to answer him, I should think not.
Ah, if only Dina had married Marcuard! I should be living in Italy, and Madame de Marcuard would take me into society.
I have the copy of Larderel’s photograph; I am going to send back the one Marcuard sent me.
I am so bored that I long to die. I am so bored that nothing in the world, it seems to me, can amuse me or interest me. I desire nothing, I want nothing! Yes, I do: I should very much like not to be ashamed of sinking into complete stupor. To be able, in a word, to do nothing, think of nothing, live like a plant, without feeling any remorse for it.
Blanc spent the evening with us. We talked. I am rather disgusted with my own conversation since reading what Mme de Staël says about foreigners who imitate French wit. To hear her, one has only to hide in [one line crossed out] one’s hole and never dare come into contact with sublime French genius.
Reading, drawing, music — but boredom, boredom, boredom! Apart from these occupations, these pastimes, one needs something alive, and I am bored. I am not bored because I am a grown girl of marriageable age, no; you think too well of me to believe that. I am bored because my whole life is askew, and because I am bored!
Paris is killing me! It is a café, a well-run hotel, a bazaar. Well, one must hope that with the winter, the Opéra, the Bois, my studies, I shall get used to it.
I know no one!
Berthe has left for Brittany with her sister-in-law and her brother.
I do not even feel like writing to Marcuard.