Thursday, 18 April 1878

Since Schaeppi paints my extremities, I write while sitting for her. It is just as well that this painting is poor, since it is no longer to be given away.
I went to church with Madame my mother, whom I railed at the whole way without fear of hell — for she cares nothing about losing her children and making their lives more wretched than those of street dogs. She told the doctors she was not interfering in anything and that after all he does nothing extraordinary.
But let us leave that — whatever I say I shall always appear a monster, since I allow myself to treat as she deserves a woman who by sheer stupidity sacrifices her children, instead of holding my tongue.
All the same I would not wish people to imagine anything too atrocious of her — for she is mad, I choose to believe: mad, or idiotic, or brutish, or weak, or GOOD.
If I were not sitting for my portrait I should not say half of what I say about the monster and about Paul de Cassagnac. The loss of this great man will cause me no more grief than the loss of Pincio, and besides I think of the Enchiridion of Epictetus, according to which nothing prevents me from taking these vexations as pleasant things. It is perfectly evident that Popaul does not care about me... as a friend perhaps a little. I too can be vexed at the loss of a friend... This is no doubt due to my youth, but I have never been able to take friendship seriously, and I do not fully understand this sentiment — undoubtedly a laudable one.
How glad I am to be on the mountain — I can judge coldly and tell you everything that passes through my head without fear of appearing suspect, either to you or to myself.
Friendship! If my so-called friend had treated me as a true friend — coming often, etc. — I I am certain of one thing: I should love him far more than would be proper; I might even come to love him alone, which would be serious, but not surprising since I love no one. It would be a fine sentiment, upon my honour — I would employ in it all my loving faculties which, for want of employment, are the greatest and most extraordinary in the world.
I am persuaded that I should be ideal in love — for I have never read, seen, or heard anywhere of a delicacy of feeling equal to mine. A sanctity and delicacy that I profane and tarnish with hard words and vulgar jokes, because there is as yet nowhere to bestow them... “Poor girl,” you will say.
Do you then believe there are men — even those who will love you most — capable of responding to all those divine things you have imagined? Certainly there are, at least one. I even believe Paul de Cassagnac would be capable of it, since he resembles me as nearly as it is possible to resemble. Failing him, I hope another will be found... or else I shall find one upon whom I shall bestow all the merits I require — but in that case disillusionment will necessarily come, and my poor celestial aspirations will go to the devil, or will begin their quest again, until the soul is entirely disgusted and resigned.
Schaeppi is singing, and I myself am wildly merry, for no reason anyone could tell.
I could... so idiotic am I; I could be content with friendship provided one had nothing else for others. Besides, the rest is only the consequence of a love such as I feel confident of... this devil of a French language — and yet I know no better one.
I have just been talking with Schaeppi about the structure of the eye. Multedo turns me into a brute; the other could make an angel of me, and has never given me anything but the most elevated thoughts — despite the petty base notions I had on the evening when we surprised him in his blue and red undress... but those petty base thoughts had nothing dirty in them, nothing depraved. My head aches.
crossed outThis morning at the atelier I was thinking, dreaming of other things, and I asked myself whether, vexed and furious as I was with little Larderel, I desired Cassagnac’s death (against whom I have nothing — I am only supposing what I should feel if it were so) — well, no! I should never want it, for I was asking myself: what should
To take stock of my feelings clearly, and for amusement, I compare and suppose — and this morning, while dreaming of a thousand insignificant things, I asked myself whether in the case... these fantasies are very difficult to put into words; one thinks them, but written down they become too significant and appear as realities, whereas they are only conjectures, suppositions in the clouds... in a state of vapour. I asked myself, then, whether being vexed and furious at Paul de Cassagnac, I should have desired his death out of love, as has happened to me with others. And this is what I answered myself, with a certain astonishment: NO.
For to desire a man’s death one must believe that something remains on earth that might still attach you to it when he is there no longer. It is rather my habit to desire the death of those who do not act as I wish — they thwart me, the simplest thing therefore is to suppress them, if only in imagination. But here, no — even in reality I should be as though lost if this gentleman were to rejoin his emperor.
It is no doubt because I am deceiving myself — but it seems to me it would be a pity not to love him altogether. And what pleasure can you have (not even that of his death) from the moment he is no longer there? One always lives for someone — one goes out for so-and-so, one puts on a particular dress on account of such-and-such a woman or to please someone, one says a certain thing in order to be heard by a particular man or woman. I have often found myself living for women or old men. Well then — how can one desire the disappearance of the being for whom one lives? Short of dying oneself immediately, it would be impossible.
I expect some recompense for yesterday.
I must make the acquaintance of M. Gambetta. I shall be serious with him... but then he is not of the opposition! Ah well — he would be a powerful friend... yes, my God, if only it were possible! Women have been known to succeed by wit alone. Am I then stupid? The Princess Troubetzkoy is stupid — but she is the Princess Troubetzkoy; they say besides that what she lacks in wit she makes up in scheming — more than two clever women put together.
Gambetta came to her as an inheritance from M. Thiers. I should dearly love to know him — he is repellent enough that no one could say anything, and that I could be at ease with him. Let us await his return and try to make a friend of him, if only to do something disagreeable to Cassagnac, who failed to appreciate me; I assure you that in a certain milieu I should be worth something. As for love — that is all very well when I am joking; now I am serious... It is perhaps my own fault: I have done nothing but joke in his presence.

Notes

Pincio: Marie’s white dog, lost, she believed stolen, at the beginning of March 1878 (entries of 4-7 March). ↩
Léon Gambetta (1838-1882), leader of the republicans in the Chamber of Deputies and the dominant figure of its republican majority; he became President of the Chamber in January 1879. ↩
Adolphe Thiers (1797-1877), first President of the Third Republic (1871-1873), died on 3 September 1877. Marie means that Gambetta came to the princess as a legacy from Thiers, as if she had been in Thiers’s circle. ↩