Saturday, 28 September 1878

Doenhoff dined with us. Five minutes before his arrival, Maman receives a telegram which I read almost by force and confiscate, for it is from that scarecrow.
“Well then,” I said, “you may be sure I shall report him to the police.”
Whereupon a disgusting scene unfolds. She leaves the salon and locks herself away. I go to find her and tell her to return to the salon and not commit the impropriety of leaving Doenhoff entirely alone. Then she throws herself on the floor in fits, screaming, howling.
May heaven strike me down if I had uttered a threat or a coarseness. Only, on seeing these convulsions, I crossed myself, saying: this is an appalling scandal — but what can there be between you and this monster? You are a frightening woman. Do you know what she did? She hurled herself out of the window, and had I not seized her by her clothes it would have been a fine business. I never cry out as women do — but the graver the situation, the calmer I am.
“If it comes to this,” I said, “I shall have you locked in a madhouse. Do you realise this goes beyond all bounds? You are mad.”
Then she began howling that: “she will smash my face with her fists” (verbatim) — “I am afraid, ah! my God, I am afraid!”
The charming Nicolas was listening behind the door — and any man who had heard such things, what would he have thought of me?
Wittingly or unwittingly, they work so assiduously at my ruin, with such refinement of perfidy, that I believe it the effect of some kind of stupor. I am revolted.
I do not know whether I am surrounded by madmen or by atrocious people. I do not wish to excuse them, for if I begin excusing them, people will think dreadful things, and my apparent generosity will burden them ten times more than any attacks I might make, which would be attributed to my ill temper.
Ill temper — here, in this hell!!!
Doenhoff was still there; we eventually returned to the salon and remained quietly there until eleven o’clock at night.
The Coubés came to see us.
What a wretched life. One must nonetheless accept one’s lot in this hell of petty, mean, odious torments.
Robert-Fleury was again very pleased with me and asked whether I had done any paintings.
“No, Monsieur.”
“Ah! Mademoiselle, that is not right — you know very well it was agreed. You are truly at fault if you do not work a great deal.”
And if you knew how sparing he is with praise — a “not bad” is already a great deal whereas and I have had: good, well, very well...
But is it worth living for that alone? There are moments when I would gladly die. Look — I shall pretend to take up chemistry again, I shall take two lessons a month; that will give me the opportunity to obtain poisons. A drop of prussic acid and all will be well.
Mme Abaza writes to me from Florence. [Missing]
I am not sufficiently versed in political intrigues to make forecasts from the signs, but I sense that the Empire will return soon, and I affirm it to you in spite of all that may be said. It was not then that one had to “stop one’s ears, close one’s eyes, and wait for this hurricane to pass” — but now, and in earnest.
crossed outAlthough it is a luxury of a torment, I should very much like to do without it. In other circumstances it will perhaps be no more than a detestable amusement.
I prefer the most atrocious pains to petty humiliations. Everything that torments me belongs to the category of ignoble sorrows. Misfortune elevates. Humiliating intrigues debase. There are two ignoble things from which all other wretchedness flows: money and social position. Those are ignoble vexations Illnesses, deaths, even a good, thorough ruin — these can be borne, provided one has heart and faith in God. But the small, odious, ignoble miseries, elusive, so to speak, cannot be borne.
As for the sorrows of love — they can be atrocious; they can kill; but they fall in the category of amusing griefs.
They will say I prefer other torments because I do not have them. Well then — ask a man who has suffered greatly, who suffers greatly, whether he would exchange places with me, and if he is not the lowest of scoundrels, he will not want to.
Then my situation is the most dreadful in the world? Certainly there are people who die of hunger, who work to live... yes, yes, I know — but that occurs in another sphere, and one would need to pitch one’s voice at a different key to speak of it. You understand me; so do not pick petty quarrels with me over words.
It is two o’clock; I have been reading through a pamphlet about the Prince Imperial, which tells touching anecdotes to soften people’s hearts. I wept almost the whole time.
He will return, the little one — were it only to make me very unhappy.

Notes

The Prince Imperial (Napoleon Eugène Louis, 1856–1879) was the only son of Napoleon III and Empress Eugénie, then in exile in England. He died in the Anglo-Zulu War on 1 June 1879, ending Bonapartist dynastic hopes. ↩