Saturday, 14 December 1878

I have rarely been sadder than in these two days... I have been working little of late, and domestic life here is insupportable.
The cruellest enemy would not succeed in blackening my name more than my mothers do. I answer them indignantly and appear to be entirely in the wrong. They are inconsistent, idle, shrewish! I am on edge, angry, aged by these little miseries at every moment.
I was born in the midst of all this, and the more time goes on, the more I suffer from it. I would far rather have, once and for all, one fine tempest than all these little inconsistencies, lack of tact, follies that make me bristle, weep, die.
This evening I went to see La Princesse Borowska at the Ambigu with the Gavinis. That good Mme Gavini — what an empty, amusing, and always cheerful woman. I shall make you understand her in one word. She never listens to music and never makes any. But she is so good to me; this evening I caught her admiring my ear and my cheek with a mother’s delight.
I dreamed that Cassagnac’s wife had arms covered in black hair and was adjusting (quite naked) a horsehair bustle — one in front and one behind — which formed a kind of skirt. Then she put on a black velvet turban and appeared extremely beautiful.
The wretch — how she must have fluttered her eyelids, thinking that speech you have just read was addressed to her! Such words, for that goose.
Speaking of dreams — Robert Mitchell has been very ill.
It is very cold; the snow has been falling for three days; all Paris is white; I am very cold, sleepy, sad — and I revolt against the stupidity of fate. The only being who was made for me has been given to a nullity, to a Mademoiselle Acard, to another, when all is said!
That infamy is the crowning of my miseries. Now it is time for the era of prosperity to dawn... I do not believe in it, but in spite of that I do not want to die.