Friday, 29 August 1879

I do not quite know what to say and yet some rather big little things have happened. On Tuesday the races, and then we went to the beach; Blanc came to speak to us and, seeing a fly on Dina’s shoulder, he brushed it away, saying: “What have you got there?”
Given how things stand with Blanc, and even otherwise, do you see any insult in that?
But Berthe, who detests this man, made the most foolish scene in the world over it, a turkey-cock’s rage, in short. The poor man was dumbfounded, and he was perhaps wrong to reply, when she told him never to dare greet her again, that he would do as he had done with Mme Yorke, who had the same upbringing as she. Mme Yorke is dead, so that was tactless. In any case it is always upon us that the disfavour will fall, they will say that Mme Johnstone found herself obliged to put an end to the familiarities, etc... One enemy more, one less, at the stage I have reached...
Wednesday, Berthe left. A cheerful train carried off a great many people, the races are over.
It was amusing. The Princess left too. On Thursday I drew caricatures and a whole heap of Brazilians, and on the five o’clock train arrived Eicht, that is to say Hecth, the gentleman from Mme de Lesseps’.
One evening, some days ago, Da Costa took a sheet of my paper and wrote to Hecht inviting him to come and telling him that the idea of the letter came from the young lady he had met, etc., and from her family. So he came. I am delighted, he is charming and a musician!
You know how quickly one makes friends in the open air; this morning, while I was painting, Hecht and Da Costa came to see me on the beach and we returned together, then we went by break to Puys. Maman, my aunt, Dina, me, Alexis, Da Costa and Hecht. The whole day together. It appears we are friends. He flatters me greatly and seems to take me seriously, he has already made me a declaration of friendship by telling me how he found two of his best friends, the husband and the wife. He says he wanted to come at once but a little bashfulness... “You must be pleased, Mademoiselle,” he said, “you have a note written and he arrives; the intention is good, the idea is kind, and rest assured, you are not mistaken, I am a friend.”
It is my remark about Gambetta that did it all. “When you said: I want to see Gambetta. You did not know me, you did not know I was close to him... well, I said to myself, there is somebody!”
Every evening at the Casino, and then we stay chatting in the hotel courtyard. Alexis is radiant that his mother is not here, he is very nice. And then Hecht, naturally; he thinks it is for his own sake, it does not occur to him that it is because of his connections. All the same, I feel a real distaste at being a Republican.
I am ashamed of abandoning my people, the other day at the races the horses were approaching the finish, four came on close together, the fifth had lost its jockey on the way and was running alone... I thought of the Prince’s horse, it pained me, I wept. The Republicans are perhaps better but I am attached to the others and I am even quite surprised to find this sentiment deep in my heart.
We talked of everything; they put me at twenty to twenty-two. This is what plunged me into a sort of nervous prostration that makes me detest everything and everyone... and feel quite miserable. One must cultivate Hecht... through him one would have both Gambetta and Little Lighthouse. You know that at Dieppe, and with the Karageorgevitch sons, I have turned Little Lighthouse into a running joke, when one has nothing to say one amuses oneself with it.
Hecht says that we are governed by women and that one must go where there is intelligence, strength, wit... myself, in short.
Ah! Lord, I said a prayer in a rage... I am suffering.
I no longer love Cassagnac... and to think that I knew him, that he found me charming and extraordinary. Good heavens... I often say in jest that life is but a passage...
It is true. What does it matter after all.
Fatalism is the religion of the lazy and the desperate. I am desperate. And I swear to you that I do not cling to life. I would not utter this banality if I thought it only on the spur of the moment, but I think it always, even in joyful moments.
I despise death, if there is nothing beyond... it is quite simple, and if there is something I commend myself to God. But I do not believe I shall go to Paradise, for there the torments of this world will continue. One is doomed to them.
This resignation is adorable, it is interesting, is it not? It is a pose. I am posing.
I shall bequeath my journal to Hecht, the devil take it! Not to Cassagnac, at any rate, there is no sympathy between us... I do not find in his nature those ravishing delicacies of feeling that would give me the idea of bequeathing him my life. I loved him I believe, he was the only one, I love him still perhaps. It is perhaps the great love of my existence... Better not to look too closely... yet I should very much like to know if it is true.
You should see me say coldly that “I do not worship this gentleman, but he has talent.”
in the margin
[Annotation: 4 December 1879. It is astonishing how these things change! I find I was impertinent toward the word love, which Cassagnac, or what I felt for him, did not deserve.]
I am ashamed to call myself a Republican.
I am accustomed to the flaws and vices of others... I am ashamed to be so vile... If only it served some purpose...
My God, I beg you, have pity on me.
And to think that if they had guessed I was seventeen, none of this would have happened. I live, it is ignoble.
Hecht has known Gambetta for more than ten years, it was he who put him in touch with Thiers and he told me curious things that I am not in the mood to recount. During the period preceding the 16th of May, it was de Lesseps who went to see the Marshal as Gambetta’s proxy...
Good night, pray to God for me.

Notes

A break: an open four-wheeled carriage; an English loanword used in French of the period. ↩