Saturday, 11 May 1878

Schaeppi, Aunt Marie, and I go to the Exhibition to see the paintings and to admire Don Carlos in person — who is the most magnificent and most regal man I have ever seen. In distinction he surpasses our grand dukes and our Emperor.
Dress him as one likes, place him wherever one will, everyone will stop involuntarily and ask: who is that man?
One cannot deny breeding, and when people of breeding are ugly or do not look the part, there is, believe me, some falsification in the lineage. One cannot be more sovereign, more exalted, more at ease than Don Carlos. If that man were as intelligent as the next, it would be too much! He is not quite stupid, but half-asleep — he is never quite all there. Many have told me so, even Paul de Cassagnac.
Thanks to the Saturday circus performances we shall no doubt have no one, and our Saturday gatherings are drawing to a close.
I had half fallen asleep, and so deliciously, when M. de Morgan arrived — he was not received. Maman is ill. I had given advance orders that no fair-haired man of whatever shade be admitted. As for dark ones, I know only Cassagnac. What a bore! I had broken off my writing; I was sleeping so deliciously — and art woke me to make me think once more that it is enough to drive one to despair to be nothing, and that I should very much like to have a political salon.
And I was sleeping so pleasantly!
The important thing is not to go mad before October — the season when the weather is fine and when almost all pleasures take place outdoors; in this season it is extremely difficult to turn a deaf ear... It is only beginning, and I face it with a sorrow mixed with terror. It is only beginning, true — but it will end, also true, in six months. Six months during which I shall be teased like a dog on a chain. Well — in six months it will be over.
It is better that I think of all this at the outset — that I exaggerate the heartbreaks to myself, that I master them in my mind, and that I make my peace with them immediately and bravely. I am extremely furious at being obliged to be so sensible. But between two things, I must choose one.
The wisdom that humiliates me because I am forced into it.
The rage that would perhaps not kill me outright, but would cripple my existence — and after all, one only lives once.
I have just got out of bed on purpose to voice my scruples — for after all, listen: if I were as extraordinary as all that, the world would notice.
I flatly deny the existence of unrecognised merit. If it is not known, then it does not exist.
Everyone says... what he says. But I do not esteem a mind that produces nothing — and mine is such.
But the world does not know me. Many have seen me; almost no one knows me. Those who have known me knew me as a child. If in Audiffret’s time I had had my judgement of today, I might perhaps have been a little queen at Nice... yes, but I might also have dulled my mind. So I regret nothing.
What! I came to accuse myself, and instead I am defending myself!
I repeat it: Cassagnac, in himself, is the most amusing person in the world — but he is not one of those men who bring out the qualities of others; otherwise... well, one would have to conclude that I am the exact opposite of what everyone says. What woman has Cassagnac placed on a pedestal through his love or his friendship? Not one. M. Thiers, yes — he created Mme Troubetzkoy, who had... the necessary elements. But Cassagnac fancies himself d’Artagnan and goes consorting with noble lords, dropping here and there a few sensational phrases imitated from Dumas, in The Musketeers or in The Vicomte de Bragelonne.
That does not prevent him from being all that I said in the preceding books — but it proves to you that I need not grieve too deeply.
Yes, now I must expect to hear one of these days that this creature has done for someone what I declared him incapable or unwilling to do.
I once had a dream at Nice — the dream of the five stars falling from the sky. I had interpreted it wrongly. I believe now that the five stars signified five years of falls, upheavals, and troubles.
That was a good four years ago — so I have only one year left.
One must do one thing... remain mad, since I cannot be otherwise — but not hide myself when I wish to say serious things.
Besides, look here... I believe I am capable of it.
And then again — since he is getting married, how the devil do you expect him to think of anything else, of another woman above all.
He will make a celebrity of his Mlle Acard and they will rot together, the two of them.
I return to it — I am capable of it, entirely, I am sure. Good. But where to meet people???
Oh, leave me alone — you shall see. The fine achievement of succeeding easily! I have only myself, and I shall succeed.

Notes

Don Carlos (Carlos de Borbón y Austria-Este, 1848-1909), Duke of Madrid, the Carlist pretender to the Spanish throne, then living in exile. ↩