Sunday, 29 December 1878

With that I rested my head on the sofa and fell asleep in the finest fashion until eight o’clock this morning. It is amusing to sleep like that, out of one’s bed. So this idea of the Gavini’s vexed me: for society to be amusing, she says, one must be well launched; and you are in deep mourning.
We go to the Porte Saint-Martin to see The Children of Captain Grant by Jules Verne.
It is droll and amusing. A rather interesting house. Blanc, the old beau and old connoisseur, ogles me a great deal through his glass. He married Mme Oustinoff, who was older than he, and at the age of fifty, white-haired but still handsome, Monsieur had had enough of Madame, who was packed off, or packed herself off, to a convent.
Then Mounet-Sully and Worms of the Français. M. Sully is very handsome, the handsomest man in Paris, or so people think. And with them Capoul. Capoul raises his blue eye towards our box. It is not the first time.
I have made his conquest, or else he believes he has made mine. But I point him out to Mme Gavini and we train our glasses on him, which disconcerts him a little.
With us are Dina, Paul and Antoine (the Gavini nephew).
I am quite detached from Art and cannot cling to anything at all; my books are packed away, I am losing my Latin and my classics, and I feel utterly stupid. The sight of a temple, a column, an Italian landscape makes me loathe this Paris, so dry, so learned, so experienced, so refined. The men are ugly here... This Capoul is a success with his blue eyes and his white moustache and his goatee... and his tight mouth... he has fine legs, but for women who do not draw from the nude that is a coarse merit.
No way out; it is always the same life. The Paris that is a Paradise for superior natures means nothing to me.
Oh, I have been undeceived, believe me. I am neither clever nor lucky. I long to go to Italy, to travel, to see mountains, lakes, trees, seas... With my family, with parcels, recriminations, tribulations, petty daily quarrels?! Ah no, a hundred times no! as Cassagnac is wrong to say. There would be nothing but vexations. To enjoy the happiness of travelling one must wait... that is just the point!
A way out, an end, a solution. How do you expect me to find a husband, leading the life I lead? And time is passing. Well, so much the worse! I can always marry an Italian prince whenever I like.
Let us wait, then! The thing is, you see, by taking an Italian prince I could work... since the money would be mine, but I would have to give him some of it... And then I would not have enough left to live as I please. If the exchange rate came back, to only three francs to the rouble, which is an average rate, we could count on 90,000 a year, not counting what my grandfather’s inheritance will bring. I think that would come to more than 200,000 francs in capital. It would be used to set me up, and then there is still money to be got, nearly 100,000 francs, from my aunt’s forests. That would go to setting me up, or to a voyage round the world, or to jewels. Of the 90,000 francs a year I shall leave 20,000 to my family, who would live in the villa at Nice, half of which would be let, so that they would have more than 25,000 a year. That would allow them to be more comfortable than at present, since they would have neither my travels nor my whims (?) nor anything of mine. So I would be left with 70,000 francs a year, of which 20 would have to be given to the husband for the sake of peace. And what shall I do with 50,000 francs?!!! Yes, one must do one’s utmost to avoid that solution, but there it is: my last resort.
I must tell you that I count a great deal on Paul; I hope in time to entrust my property to him. I shall give him ten per cent, and that will bring me all the same more income than with tenant farmers. The farmers take a quarter, and Paul will take a tenth. By these calculations, instead of 50 I might perhaps have 60 and 70...
So that is the worst that can happen to me. Meanwhile let us stay here and work at painting. On Saturday my drawing, done in two days, was thought not bad.
You understand, it is only with an Italian that I could live as I please, in France, wherever I liked, and in Italy — what a fine life! I shall divide myself between Paris and Italy. France, they say, is the most direct heir of Rome. What is certain is that, just as in antiquity Rome was the true fatherland, the true fatherland of our day is Paris. One must bow down with holy awe before the ruins of the one, and live and triumph in the other. A fine system, you will say. It is not a system; few are chosen, and that is the only reason it is possible. Fulminate! The French are of my opinion, and they are the ones most listened to, or who shout the loudest. Rome is the capital of the Catholic world, and above all the capital of memories, of grandeur, the capital of the past from which everything comes and before which everything must bow. It is not only the capital of the Catholic world but, one may boldly say, of the Christian and religious world. It is to her that we owe Christianity, and, however much one may scorn it, we are indebted to her for a great many excellent things, enough to keep some respect for Rome, Magna Mater. Paris is the fatherland of intelligence, and, whatever people say, one is sorely tempted to become one of her intellectual citizens.
I no longer remember where all this is so briefly and so well proved.
Princess Karageorgevitch came to call while the Father was here, which made him furious, because there is nothing he hates so much as seeing us with respectable people. No one knows how matters stand between us, and if he did not go and leave his cards on the ladies to whom he had been introduced, it would be impolite. So Maman sent his cards without his knowing. But... you think me spiteful, prejudiced, given to exaggeration; I am going to show you a trait that paints him to the life.
It was in Russia; people had been talking about my health and my age, and then I found myself alone with my father. “You know,” he said to me, “they have just been saying that you are a seven-months child, but it is not true.” “But it is,” I answered, “since only yesterday you showed me papers according to which it is certain that I was born seven months after your marriage.” “Yes,” he went on with a knowing air, “but that does not prevent you from being a perfectly nine-months child. If anyone tells you otherwise, do not believe it.”
I did not understand it until three hours later, and I held my tongue; if I took it up, I would have to break this gentleman’s head.