Thursday, 9 May 1878

I have been telling everyone at Laferrière's and everywhere I could that Cassagnac is marrying Mlle Acard. Caroline says that Mlle Acard does not look like a French girl, that she seems extremely intelligent, and that she, Caroline, had taken her for an artist. One can understand it, then. Well, yes — it is no doubt very attractive to meet such a person in society.
As for me — I am not to be met in society.
Maman was taken ill this evening at grandfather's — Dina was
dramatic in handling the mustard plasters; I remained calm and attended only to the compresses and hot water... I cannot manage to be slovenly anywhere. But how beautiful that woman must have been — and how beautiful she still is! Laid back upon the bed, unconscious, her clothes undone, her chest uncovered; the skin of her face was taut... Truly, when one is completely beautiful, one is even more beautiful in illness or in pain.
For a moment I wondered whether at forty-one she did not have a better-formed bosom than I at eighteen.
Maman spends very little on her dresses — almost nothing. These clothes, though quite rich, vulgarise her; then there is the chignon and the conventional hats. But in her bed — she has little hair — with a crumpled white cloth about her head, she is utterly magnificent, and her body is as supple and young as at twenty. Only her extremities are larger and uglier than mine. Always considering myself a child who would grow, I paid no attention to my hands and feet — I always expected them to grow with the rest, but they have stayed small. I might have had a ravishing hand, were it not that my fingers are shamefully damaged by stringed instruments and my nails bitten. But the divine instruments would make no difference if I had proper nails.
My body of an antique goddess, my too-Spanish hips, my small and perfectly formed bosom, my feet, my hands, and my child's head. To what end? Since no one sees me, knows me, loves me.
No matter — he will get only what he deserves, this Paul de Cassagnac, in marrying his Mlle Acard.
I repeat what I have already said. I took him for a repository of delicacy and elevation of feeling — despite his exterior, and precisely because of it; in short, I took him for myself. And after the other evening I no longer believe he is like me; I no longer respect him much, and I no longer admire his delicacy — he has lacked it above all towards himself.
He is still... perhaps... a little more than the others — but he is a great deal less than he was.
That is very unfortunate.
I blame myself for nothing; I believed him so completely to be what he claimed that I could never in my life have expected what happened. He does not respect me — that is why... No! If he were what I thought, he would have understood what I am, and he would have respected himself a little as well... even in joking, as a brother.
It is Rosalie who sits this week in the mornings; I am not making a success of her.
My poor Pincio and poor Walitsky... I thought of them today.