Saturday, 22 May 1880

Saint-Amand came.
Tony found the portrait exceedingly lifelike, well drawn, fairly well modelled, and not well painted.
Soutzo has made his way into the most forbidding salons of the Faubourg. The newspapers mention him.
Few people: Mmes Gavini and Richaud; Goldsmid, Tchoumakoff, Morgan, Turquan, and Antoine Gavini. Anitchkoff and Pelikan play whist in the blue drawing room.
That animal Soutzo has not come. The Audiffrets also receive on Saturdays, and naturally he is there.
You see, I must accept it — it is over. On Thursday evening I talked to him about several possible matches for him, as though I were neither a woman nor a young girl. Why would you expect him to persist? He would have persisted if he loved me. But he does not love me. Do you remember Marie Audiffret dissuading her brother from visiting us and running me down in fine style? I was barely sixteen and she was fifteen.
Mme de Bailleul is behind all this scheming. In short, what... and yet did I not speak of marrying this fellow? But I immediately added that it was impossible. Yes, but all the same... Am I not fortunate, am I not lucky! And the A’s will put me through plenty more yet — is it not curious? And when I pretended to object to this fellow being received all the time, my family said I was stupid. Ah, my poor friends, I ought to shut myself in and work, since that lets me bear life patiently, and see no one — no one, no one.
And my ears ringing, ringing.
You see, this brings tears to my eyes, for truly I am far too unhappy. This evening we shall go to the circus, and Antoine will accompany us.
All the same, it is stupid to be beaten by that little goose. Ah! If I had wanted to marry, I would be triumphant — but I am reputed to have such a large dowry.
Did I not call him a dowry hunter the other evening because he said he did not want to marry little Audiffret?
We were already at table when Soutzo arrived. My aunt had apparently allowed him to come to dinner. I am cold, but only in jest.
Antoine comes, and we go to the circus, all four of us. On my left I have Antoine, on my right my aunt, and Soutzo beside my aunt. Just below me, my dress almost touching his shoulders, is Alexandre Larderel with Marie Delannoie, who is a ravishing creature. One has curious encounters like that, but this Larderel reminds me of nothing except that Naples and Sorrento are beautiful places and that I should like to return. Many familiar faces: Morgan, Plancy, Bertin, Mme Richaud, etc.
Coming out, we meet up with the Gavinis, whom we see home as far as the Place Beauveau.
Gavini and I talk about the portrait of Prince Jérôme for the next exhibition.
Soutzo, surly and gloomy, accompanies us home. He is going to Mme Franckenstein’s, a Russian who entertains the embassy and the colony a great deal.
So there is the drama. There are no words to express how sick I am of this eternal humiliation.
No one will ever believe that I am buried voluntarily. And my aunt, stupid enough to say that our embassy is rubbish! After that there is nothing more to be said.
No, no, no, I am too unhappy!
And all my airs and my disdain for everything — what a pitiful figure that must cut for people who know we have no position here. That is the height of misfortune. It is better to die. This must end...
One must die. It is better to dash one’s brains out than to live like this.
And that mother of mine who has gone to Russia — if only it did some good! I am writing to her this instant.
“There are soirées and balls everywhere, every day; everyone is living, even people more wretched than we are, and I alone am buried alive.
Instead of fasting and going to church, consider that the hell you make for me here below will earn you an eternal hell above, if you believe in it.
Do not whimper about my lack of feeling; the fine existence I lead has killed every sort of feeling except the loathing I bear those who torment me.”
Instead of crying, let us go to sleep. If I have managed to vex Soutzo — called Casimir — it will perhaps be a small consolation. But no, Antoine is too ugly; he will not believe it.
I was in bed, and I get up to say I am in tears. If I had invitations everywhere, I would probably not go out much, loving work as I do. But a prisoner against my will!!! So it will always be like this!
For five years now, five years I have been crying that this must end, and for five years I have been tortured always with equal cruelty. I should like to hide, see no one. And tomorrow I must go to the Gavinis’ — they will find it strange if I abandon them, but it is such a torment to go out like this! Ah! My God, have pity on me.
Since I am so unhappy, why not put an end to troubles of this kind by marrying? It appears I have the moral conviction that a day will come when I shall live, since I do not want to chain myself to an ordinary gentleman.
And besides, it would be a provisional atrocity exchanged for an eternal mediocrity.
I do not have the courage to renounce all hope.
And besides, to marry is to abdicate... But look here, if I do the portrait of the Prince next year, that will be one more thing in keeping with all the rest. Just find me a model less likeable (morally) and with fewer supporters... Oh! If my mother would bring me relief from over there — my God, let it be so, I...