Tuesday, 23 April 1878

Out of pity and sympathy for the Swedish woman, I am going to learn Swedish with the Swedish girls and a little book; it will be easy for me, since I already know English and a little German. I have felt the happiness of Giselle and Balzarono; now I sympathise with the Swedish woman. But she does not deserve it; she lets things take their course. I would have killed everyone... if I really loved.
My drawing room is lit by a peculiar lamp that recalls old castles; the skeleton, the harp, the books, the notebooks, the pieces of wood, the stretchers, the strings, the music stand — the whole devil’s brew, in short — has a quite strange effect. Amid all this I walk about, sing, play, read... I am going to take up chemistry again once we are settled in a town house of our own, which we mean to rent. I have discovered some old chemistry notebooks. Once I am a painter I shall learn declamation; I have a voice and gestures made for playing tragedy. If God grants me health and time I shall do everything; I already do a great deal, but I am only beginning; in two or three years all this will be perfected and I shall be in a position to make myself admired.
I have made myself an enviable existence. Every moment is usefully employed, and something of it will always remain to me. I am happy, so happy that Popaul’s marriage no longer vexes me so much. Perhaps it is not true... Oh yes, it is. Unpleasant news is always true. What a squalid business it will be, good Lord! He feels himself growing old, and he marries; he retires like the great singers, at the moment when people will still say: what a pity!
This affair will set Paris buzzing for a fortnight, but it will be the last rocket of a fine firework display. It is that fortnight I dread, with my envious and vain character. Provided he does not grow fat, I used to say, I shall manage to win him back.
That has all 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 would have forgiven him that only if it were in my 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.
“Why, 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. 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, a queen.
written across the page
1880. Numb.