Sunday, 14 July 1878

At eight o’clock we set off for Wiesbaden — my aunt, Madame Abaza, and I. We go to church and thence to dinner, causing a sensation among the promenaders. We were literally the only women properly dressed. Uncle Lautrec is in Italy, the Batourines are in Petersburg; but we saw the Lisanders. Madame Lisander related a whole year’s gossip in half an hour — oh! only a summary... but thrilling.
The Gerbels and the Lisanders are at rivalry — over whom, you ask? Over Lautrec! Lautrec considered as an eligible man — one must know small towns to understand these things.
Another day lost for Livy... and for what! For the pleasure of mocking all the passers-by and laughing in their faces.
Here is Madame Doubelt’s reply.
“Petersburg, 7 July [1878] 10 Zakariefskaya. Dear and charming Mademoiselle Marie! This time you will not accuse me of not replying, for I received your letter scarcely two hours ago. At the moment of reading it I had a visit from His Highness Grand Duke Constantin, and I took advantage of his presence on behalf of your protégé — but the Grand Duke replied that above all one must address oneself to Prince Orloff; I am therefore sending my request to Paris, and as soon as I receive a reply I shall let you know. I add, dear Mademoiselle, that I shall be happy to help you give your friend this pleasant surprise, but in return I shall ask you to send me your photograph, and I hope you will not refuse.
Paris must be magnificent at this moment, and how I envy your lot — for I, alas! shall not be able to return until the end of the year, when all our family affairs are settled, but then I shall establish myself for a long while. In the meantime believe me, dear Mademoiselle Marie, that we all remember you with pleasure and speak of you often. For the present I am on the Islands at my mother’s, and Lise will enter the Institute in October. As soon as I have the reply from Paris I shall address myself to Prince Gortschakoff. I close by embracing you, and Madame your mother, and all your charming family. A. Doubelt
Copied letterLettre de Mme A. Doubelt à Marie, Pétersbourg, 7 juillet 1878 (post-scriptum)
P.S. How is your grandfather’s health? Do not be cross with me for writing so little, but, wholly taken up with my affairs, I live quite retired, I see no one and consequently see nothing of whatever interesting is going on. Do not stand on ceremony: if I can be of service in any way whatever, dispose of me.
My protégé, my friend, Paul de Cassagnac. All the same, I get Le Figaro here, and out of 15 or 17 seats the last elections returned only 2 conservative candidates. They do not count much on that, they do not care; what they hope for is unrest at the end of the Exhibition. The renewal of the Senate, and then discontents stirred up by themselves, in short a coup d’état after which the Prince Imperial might come through a difficult moment... No one believes in the return of the Empire, but the most incredible things can happen. And these might happen, if only to thwart me...
The Loris-Melikoffs will not be coming here. The Hohenlohes arrived this morning.
Maman writes that Filippini says Multedo is suffering and has become terribly nervous.
If that were true, it would prove that the poor devil is not as mercenary as I think.
What is curious is that I do not love my protégé at all. What a pity! I should so have liked to settle... What maddening devilry this wretched marriage is. Had he not married, or married otherwise, his life would have been more fitting and mine complete. I do not know whether it is madness, but it seems to me that I should put such ardour and such will at the service of his cause that it would triumph absolutely.
written across the page
If he married me without loving me, I should make him love me once we were married. I am quite certain of it.
crossed out[Seven lines crossed out]
Perhaps I am a little vexed at having come so close to loving for good and at having been prevented so stupidly, so pettily. By committing this folly Cassagnac is no longer Cassagnac... Still, I pronounce no judgement; we have seen so many examples of men who were censured and mocked, who did base things or seemed to, and who in spite of it became remarkable men, great men. So I do not altogether play the disgusted one, although in my heart of hearts I am a little disgusted. I am glad to have got no further than regretting that I was not able to love.
But it is those examples, so often seen, of famous men etc. etc. that keep me from pronouncing. I believe that... I am humiliated in my protégé because he has ruined himself... and I should be furious if I were mistaken, if he became great in spite of it, and if he succeeded without me. You understand me perfectly. Alas! I do not love him... yes... no, no. But by all the Acards! That would not stop me from weeping and moaning if that poor great black devil were to rise in rank, as Rosalie would say.
How curious it is, though: I liked that man so much, and I could truly have loved him, and now... nothing more.
I believe the Histories give examples of base and treacherous men who were loved all the same; I even believe it is very poetic, but one cannot force oneself to such things. If the Deceased still pleases me, enough that as a married woman (if I were one) I should be mad about him for three months, it is almost impossible for me to look on him any differently, to look on him as before... when I saw myself reflected in him, supple, adroit, but loyal, but whole!
What has he done, then? He lied on trifling occasions to people who perhaps bored him... No, I do not know exactly, but my faith is shaken... and I cannot — no, truly, I cannot love him as I mean it. Before, I dreamed that we loved each other and I adored him in fancy; now that is impossible for me; I suppose him capable of base deeds... and if on the surface, in this journal, or to follow the examples in ancient and modern Histories, I pass lightly over many things, deep within myself I am very scrupulous and touchy. I would marry Paul de Cassagnac knowing him to be base, while granting him talent and a future, but I cannot love him in my heart; I cannot even give him a successful part in my daily romances, so long as the faintest shadow hangs over him.
All this is my own fault!
He would have taken me for my money (70,000 francs a year), but I should have made myself loved for my own sake. I should have succeeded, with a heart like his... and everything would have been perfect...
God did not will it...
I notice that, having once avoided it, I have been saying the word love all this time; I abuse it here... I had taken care not even to mention it... the thing is so delicate, and it is so... coarse to say at every moment: I do not love him, I love him, I would love him, etc. That word should be used once; it is the word that ends all hesitation, a word for effect, for sensation... and I make a household utensil of it!
Carried away by old habits, I was several times this winter on the point of saying it, or of writing it at least, but I always held back... it would have been a pity, both for the word and for the man who prompted it. It was not the only little letter... several times, and often, I forbade myself to think of the Deceased in that way, to admire him, to dream of him.
And whereas before, far from forbidding myself anything, I used to encourage and provoke myself, it seems to me that this time it was something else. I was infinitely amused to tell myself: well, no, I do not want it to be, I will not have it! That was quite new in me. I went to work, I forced myself to think of other things... it was a real struggle such as they describe in books... And it was so serious that I said nothing of it here, for fear of encouraging myself to think of it.
I am going to look back over these writings to erase the word... let us find when I wrote it...