Friday, 19 April 1878

We go to church, where I sin greatly in prayer. It is the Catholic Good Friday, and having been unable to go to the Carmes because the weather is too fine and I should meet someone, I went to Saint-Augustin alone in order to meditate properly. Always this eternal leitmotiv.
It is changed now — he is lost, poor boy. Whom shall I find again?? I who had the plan of finding him again later and making him the chosen one. He suited me, and I feared only one thing — that he might grow fat. Another will have to be found... His equal? It is impossible. There are English and Russian and even French lords, millionaires, eccentric, amusing, original, who can interest, bewitch, amuse. There are serious and intelligent men who merit one's best feelings. But there is only one Paul de Cassagnac — very well! Listen. If he marries I shall regret him no longer, because in marrying he will prove himself other than I believed him. I should only have pardoned him that in my own favour. It is like the day when I was pressing him to tell me something, and he asked whether I wanted to push him into breaking his word.
"But yes," I said, "if it is to my advantage."
Some time ago I did not understand what the sovereignty of intelligence was; I thought Antonelli a man of wit — and indeed, for a young man of the world, he is not stupid. It is like a salon singer compared to Patti.
Would you believe it — before living in Paris I knew nothing of the great intellectual furnace of the world; not all celebrities are worth one's attention. Painters can be both stupid and tedious. Men of science are too absorbed; poets often have dirty linen; actors — fie! Authors have charm only in their writings... they say Alexandre Dumas had it elsewhere... I was infatuated with him in retrospect.
I should have been mad about Mirabeau, or about a king because he is a king — but a simple mortal who rises and grows great through his own will and merit is the equal of a king, especially when he is not a cobbler's son and can show some parchments. One will say it is stupid — but no, I assure you it is enormous, and no one can escape the prestige of "these old ideas" which are eternal, and consequently can be neither new nor old.
Now, my dear friends, you know in what esteem I held the man who is about to plunge himself into domestic wash-water — I trust you will do him justice, for you do not doubt my genius.
A politician, a tribune, the champion of a cause, an idea, the leader of a party still powerful whatever they say — it is a kind of universal glory that is wholly in him and extends to everything. [Words blacked out: how much more] brilliant, though more frivolous, than a specialised talent that has worked at one thing, devoted itself to one object — which is perhaps greater, but within reach only of people of a certain intelligence; yes, whereas the other is within reach of everyone, from the railway porters to the great kings of this world. Would that I could write what I think. I express myself badly, and that grieves me for what I mean to say.
But I suppose there are people who have already said the same thing, better and more correctly.
If I could only read... but it ruins my sight for drawing. Eleven o'clock — I go to bed, calm, content, queen.
[Written across the page: 1880. Numb.]