Saturday, 31 January 1880

It must be a good month since I last went to the Bois. Gambetta in a coupé with a lady. Arnaud in a cabriolet likewise. Monkey.
This evening, Saturday, a concert and ball for the Murcia flood victims at the Hotel Continental, under the patronage of Queen Isabella, who after attending the concert came down to the ballrooms where she stayed for an hour. Maman and I had taken our places behind her; it was even tedious. We could not go down, nor could anyone come near us, until the Court had left. It was M. de Miranda who gave Maman his arm and had found us good places. He is invaluable. Soutzo had taken charge of us at the entrance, but do you know whose was the first face I saw among those lining the way at the door? Baron
Arnaud. That dog of a man is handsome this evening; he has the lower face of an inquisitor with that circumspect and pinched mouth. He came into the hall behind us; I lost sight of him when I went upstairs to the concert, then found him again while we were prisoners behind the Queen. Another missed opportunity!
My gown is cut very low but is perfectly decent: a cloud of white tulle. No flowers, no jewels, no ribbons. As for acquaintances, Lachaud, Filippini, Rognât, de Rouzat, Courtès, Ferret, Blanc, de Miranda, Lancaster, Soutzo!... By the way, the last of these has asked for my hand. Yes indeed, just like that.
I do not much like dancing, and swaying like that in the arms of men... does not much amuse me; on the whole I am indifferent to it, for I have never understood the agitation the waltz causes in novels.
When dancing, I think only of those who are watching.
Mostly I strolled about, and on one of these strolls with Soutzo, when I had sat down, he made his proposal in the drollest way. What were my ideas on marriage, and did I intend to marry?
“Certainly.”
“So you do want to marry?”
“Do not doubt it, Monsieur.”
“And when, soon?”
“Around my twenty-third year, I think, but what is it to you?”
“I have wanted to speak to you about it for a long time, more than a week. So not before twenty-three? Never before?”
“Oh yes — only, for that, something I do not expect would have to happen... who knows?”
“Then if someone asked you now, you would refuse?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“If Gambetta asked me, I would accept.”
“You are always laughing.”
“I am very serious.”
“How fortunate he is!”
“Oh yes.”
“Then if a young man loved you, proved to you that he truly loves you... what would you say?”
“I would have to like him.”
“But then how, what? You do not like blonds, but appearance matters little, does it not?”
“No doubt.”
“Moral qualities, then?”
“What a funny conversation you are having this evening!”
“No, listen.”
“Well, he would have to be virtuous, good, pure, etc., etc.”
“And then?”
“And then we should see. Oh! If it were Gambetta.”
“And if it were Alexis Karageorgevitch.”
“I would send him back to his nurse.”
“Then you find him too young?”
“Yes, but he is not the question.”
“But he is; I am speaking on his behalf, so...”
“Did he ask you to do this?”
“No, but I want to do a friend a good turn.”
“What an idea! He does not think of me; I have not seen him for a fortnight.”
“What difference does that make? I have not seen you for a week, and...”
“And?”
“Then you would refuse Alexis?”
“Why, yes.”
“Nobody appeals to you?”
“No one.”
“No one?”
“Ah! As to that — no one.”
“Then if one wanted to ask you... how to go about it, to whom to speak, through a friend or... how is it done?”
“Do you believe, for example, that I have had a marriage bureau?”
“Oh! How unkind you are! But an intelligent young lady like you needs no one, does she? One can speak to her directly?”
“Oh! That, yes.”
And all this in a trembling voice, pale; one could feel his heart beating and his breath quickening.
“So it is on Alexis’s behalf that you are telling me all this?”
“Well, no — it is for myself!”
“For yourself? I should like to marry Gambetta.” In short, I did not quite understand. “Heavens, how funny you are. But no desperate gestures; you will make this confession to me another time.”
“You understand, if you go to Russia, I shall follow you, I shall wait, I shall prove... in short, a young man who would prove to you that he adores you...”
At this moment Courtès comes to sit with us.
I had indeed noticed some impatience, some dark looks, but I did not think it would go that far.
Do you know who Soutzo is? He is a Wallachian or Romanian Karageorges. Good family, fine name. A fortune of 400,000 francs, they say. A sister married to M. de Werbranck, director of the Banque parisienne. The young man is a fairly handsome dark fellow, pale, square-faced, wearing pince-nez, twenty-two to twenty-three years old. Good fellow, harmless.
I do not care.
I did not go to bed at all, so as to be sure of getting to the atelier early and finishing my competition piece. I am somebody there, the official professor; I am popular; I am consulted; I run the shop.
My ineffable father writes me an astonishing letter in response to my business letter about Paul. He adopts a paternal tone, very tender and kind, speaking to me of our theatricals, begging me to do him the honour and the happiness of spending six months with him, after which he will be at my service for Paris. He promises me amusements at Poltava, playing comedy. He is sure I am adorable at the ball and that I act delightfully; he only regrets not having been there. “That is a fit occupation for a gentlewoman,” he thinks, “as for painting (do not be angry), I do not like it. I like paintings, but it is not fitting to dirty one’s own fingers,” and then thirty-six kind things, not a word about Paul. Here is my reply. (See published letters)
Quite a crowd today. The Tchoumakoffs, Bizinsky, Soutzo gloomy, de Morgan, Wodzinsky, Mlle de Cerny — I must open a parenthesis: the Tchernitsky girl (de Cerny is her stage name) is from a good family, raised at the Institute for Noble Maidens; they noticed her beautiful voice and she is pensioned by the Emperor to develop this talent. Instead, she goes about, knows all the Russians, and amuses herself. An honest girl. I believe her mad; she speaks of her sciences, she claims to write on pathology, physiology, education, chemistry, etc., etc. And with all that she stirs up business deals and always announces that she is going to make 11 or 12 millions. Twenty-four or twenty-five years old, looks very much like Nilsson. Generally tedious, stupid, shrill, and irritating. There you have it. M. Dubois the Count de Fromessant (introduced yesterday), the Comte de Bouzat, Mme Gavini, Berthe, Mme de Bailleul, Mme Kent, a very rich American. Berthe says she looked at me for five minutes before recognising me yesterday, I was so pretty. I hope Arnaud saw me, especially at the entrance, in my cloud. I have been up for more than thirty-six hours. I left my family at dinner with Tolmatcheff, Soutzo and Wodzinsky and the Cerny girl. They bore me.