Friday, 2 August 1878

They are still talking about it at Soden; it will be told to next season’s visitors.
I met Prince Ouroussoff yesterday and at table Prince Ouroussoff was asked whether he had not met a lady got up in such and such a fashion, and he began to describe his encounter and his astonishment. The general laughter spread even to my two princes themselves. As for my two princes... nothing.
I had prepared myself to be kind and not to mock; well, entirely in spite of myself I was insolent... hopelessly so... and as with kindly intentions I glanced to the right now and then, but, checking myself at once, I turned away and threw out a few more of those jibes that tire me so and amuse our circle, so that I seemed to be laughing at my neighbours... all the more as we were in fact talking about them.
I went for a walk in the morning, and after dinner, seeing the princes go out, I went out too, and we circled round one another until the arrival of the German woman, who managed to make the acquaintance of the two treasures. She must be a cocotte. Be that as it may, I felt rather piqued at this abduction, and now here I am without my balancing pole until one o’clock tomorrow afternoon, for at Soden one dines at one. And all this because of a word from a chambermaid; if I had not been told that, I should give them no more thought than Dourassoff.
The Antonskys already know this from the chambermaid Céline, and told me that somebody longed to speak to me but did not dare.
How silly.
Have you read Multedo’s new song! Verses, dreadful verses. The man is mad.
Copied letterPoème d’A. Multedo à Marie, «Dona Juana», [31 juillet 1878]
[Wednesday, 31 July] Dona Juana Your age is pitiless, and that is what excuses you, But it is a cruel game, the one that amuses you... Child, you know nothing of love and pain, Of the hurt a flower’s thorn can cause, Of the irresistible allure of those charming lips From which you make intoxicating notes spring forth. Fountain of coral with jets of diamonds! And you cannot guess the torments That it pleases you to inflict on a sudden whim To make me pay for one moment of delight, When, ceasing to sing, with a mocking glance And your shrill laughter you pierce my heart. Faust’s counsellor mingled song with laughter, And you too would mock, faithless husband of Elvira, When you sighed out your song so tenderly While your fingers made the instrument snigger. Do not, like them, make this horrible mixture. They were the demons, and you are an angel... No doubt you suffer when you see others suffer, Above all when your hand can bring no help. Do not mock the tears your charms make flow. See my tears pouring out at your feet. Dispel my sorrows. With one word you can. But if nothing touches you... Very well! Then laugh!
When everyone had gone I had an impulse to write that I am in love with the dark Prince... not seriously, merely to prove I am fickle... Besides, since two Germans are mad about me, I am quite entitled to fall in love with a third. His sister — married to Prince Reuss — has arrived. This vexes me; he will no longer come to dinner.
They say his eyes are not dark but blue... That may be; in any case they are superb.
When Pincio was lost, I would not let anyone look for him for twenty-four hours, and if he had been looked for at once he might perhaps have been found. I flew into a temper whenever anyone spoke of searching, and I allowed it only the next day... I could not tell you why; it is a perfectly absurd feeling, and it led me in just the same way in the Cassagnac affair... if I had looked for Pincio at once he would be with me now... If I had been stirred by Blanc’s first words, Cassagnac would not be lost...
That is what warms my heart and sends a chill down my spine; what is more, it makes me say that I have two ounces of tenderness for Auguste... the name begins with an A, that is already a sign...
Audiffret, Antonelli, Alexandre, Alfred... a sign not that I am in love with him, but that I may have something to do with him. For... Alfred I loathe so much that I cannot touch his letters without wrapping my fingers in a handkerchief. Verses, songs.
To compare himself to Tasso! Why, such verses I should scarcely forgive an eighteenth-century gallant; I should scarcely forgive them a great poet, who at least has the right to write bad verses... but he, Multedo! Lord!
My prince has a pencil shaped like, like a screw; Madame Rembelinsky has a brooch just like it, and she is lending it to me for tomorrow... if only he comes to dinner... What good are my feet to me, which I look after as if it were for Cassagnac! My aunt has spoken to Prince Ouroussoff about Cassagnac’s decoration... I have been thinking of Audiffret these last few days... I was sixteen, and how pretty I was; my figure, my feet, my hands were perhaps not yet formed, but my face was ravishing... it has never been so since... I had only one year... When I came back from Rome, Count Laurenti almost made a scene... your face has changed, he kept telling me, the features, the colouring, everything is as before, but it is no longer the same thing... you will never again be as you are in that portrait... he meant the portrait of August 1875, in which I have my elbows on the table and my cheek resting on my hands.
— You look as though you had just arrived there and leaned on your elbows, your eyes fixed on the future, half frightened to be asking yourself: is this what life is? — Laurenti also said.
At sixteen I had something of the child in my face, which I had neither before sixteen nor since. And that expression is the most ravishing thing in the world... I am going to say something that will sound mad: Cassagnac has that very expression in his dark, bold, strong, insolent face; it is what gives him that extraordinary charm which people put down to something else. But if in a man it is not followed, backed, by a great mind and a great deal of moral and physical strength, it is a deplorable charm.
I will tell you... I should be very proud of conquering the dark prince, for I want numbers as much as quality... but no doubt it is a folly I must put out of my head. It was hinted to me; for one day I almost believed it; now I hardly believe it any more... let us not think of it...
I have discovered walks in Soden... I do not mean the common walks up which every visitor feels obliged to climb, but avenues and woods where there is nobody... I adore this calm. Either Paris or the wilderness. I do not mention Rome; that would make me cry at once.
Old Livy tells a story so well, and when in certain passages one feels that he is disguising a defeat or excusing a humiliation... it is almost touching... You see, until now I have never loved anything but Rome! Imagine my delight when I hear these ladies chatting about their nerves, their acquaintances, their doctors, their dresses, their children! But I go off alone, I go into the woods, I close my eyes, and I am wherever I wish.
I sing and the princes play downstairs; we converse every day in the language of music, we play the same airs to one another.