Thursday, 3 March 1881

At last, this evening I asked whether they had brought any letters from Russia for the Embassy. Presumably not. But you surely think that after everything that has been said over seven years, they were satisfied with that? Oh, of course! They began again with all sorts of old foolishness. My aunt said our ambassador doesn't go into society; Maman that the lawsuit will soon be settled and then... and Dina said with a very wise air that our embassy is against us.
Charming. I was trembling with indignation, hiding my face in my dog's fur and asking myself over and over why they had spent eight months in Russia.
Last night I was wondering whether these people truly understand the matter. It is not possible. They do not see it, and my words will not enlighten them. They have been used to it for years and take it as the whims of a spoiled child. This evening Maman flew into a temper, crying out that I am like Georges — that I spend my life demanding things that do not exist! — Go then and talk to them! One needs extraordinary patience not to beat one's head against the wall. Nothing but vexation! Even if the question were trivial and absurd, the way it is treated would drive one mad.
Then, after a few minutes, I went to fetch my medicine bottles and flung them on the floor in Maman's room, telling her I would let myself die and that would be my revenge. And that I would never speak to her again.
I am very ill; I cough violently, breathe with difficulty, and there is an ominous gurgling sound in my throat.
I believe it is called laryngeal consumption. I will not kill myself, but I will let myself die — and it will not be very long.
I cannot resign myself. I have thought many times that since things are as they are, I shall content myself with working, and that glory will be my reward.
That would be fine — but in the meantime life is intolerable. Though I tell myself that since I accept [Crossed out: resigned myself to] death, one may as well work — for it is a pleasure with the hope of rest at the end — though I repeat it to myself, I am no more resigned. It is petty, but that is how it is.
Do these women have no idea of the civilised world, or do they pretend? Or do they affect calm because it is pointless for them to agitate themselves as well? Or are they simply unfeeling?
My illness comes from this. It grips me by the throat, the blood rushes up, the larynx becomes inflamed, the vocal cords and the rest. As soon as I have a little respite I improve somewhat, and after each crisis — almost daily, whether a silent one or otherwise — it starts up again with renewed force.
Well then — I will let myself die. That will do well enough, since I lack the courage to decide otherwise; I shall let things take their course and all will be well. But these women do not understand.
I opened the New Testament, put aside for some time, and on two occasions within a few days I was struck by the aptness with which the line I had opened to at random replied to my thought. I have returned to praying to Christ, returned to the Virgin, to miracles — after having been a deist with spells of absolute atheism. But the Religion of Christ as expressed in his own words bears little resemblance to your Catholicism or our Orthodoxy, which I abstain from following; I confine myself to following the precepts of Christ and do not trouble myself with allegories taken for literal truth, with superstitions, with the various absurdities introduced into religion at a later date by ordinary men, for political, financial, or other motives. Well, all of that...
The princess came; she is always talking of marrying off "that rascal Alexis," who will ruin them if he does not find himself a wife. I pointed out to her that it is not a very pretty gift to make to a young lady. She replies that he is pliable and will be led by his wife and will settle down. Bother.
He is a gambler, a huntsman, a man of passion, a furious admirer of horses — in short, a Parisian Serb. On top of which they say he gets drunk often; charming, as you can see. He will have fifty thousand francs after his father's death and twenty or thirty while the father lives. No matter. I told the princess plainly that her poor husband is certainly very ill — but that he may live another twenty years. She makes a gesture of disbelief. "But after all it may happen, and what a time it will be for the young wife, with a husband who fritters away everything." Perhaps she has her eye on me? We speak of it often, and I play the part of the old woman.
To amuse myself, before the family scene, I did some calculations.
Myself — sixty thousand francs minimum; him — twenty thousand. Total eighty thousand francs (say, seven thousand a month: eighty-four thousand a year).
The villa at Nice would pay for the town house; a bit of forest would cover the furnishings.
Out of seven thousand a month I first allow:
For Monsieur and the stables — 1,500
For myself — 2,000
For the kitchen — 1,500
For the servants — lady's
maid 60 frs, second maid 40 frs, cook 100 frs, concierge 100 frs, footman 100 frs, and Chocolat Fortuné (dressed) 100 frs. Total: 500
5,500 frs
Remaining 1,500 frs per month, that is 18,000 frs per year, of which:
6,000 for a box at the Opéra and 2,000 at the Comédie-Française, leaving:
10,000 frs per year for dinners or parties.
For my pin money and whims are included in the 24,000 frs I allow myself. As for travel... the 80 frs a day for kitchen expenses might perhaps cover the hotel with... Well, it is rather tight, not counting that Monsieur would be a gambler. And then. And also — why? To settle down? Perhaps a good, thoroughly practical and positive Frenchman would be wiser... No doubt. He would also have a title, no doubt. And I would love him just as little, no doubt. But it would offer solid guarantees, no doubt. So it would not be reasonable to sacrifice one's peace of mind because that rascal Alexis, as his mother calls him, is a nice, pretty, and young but utterly insignificant boy, and the Frenchman in question might be thirty-two and faded in both mind and body. In that case, Géry would be just as good — a man with a country of his own, who is absolutely charming, the man of genius among the mediocre set, with a career and a future. And he would willingly take me with my sixty thousand francs. I have no attachment to titles. And with Géry one could go far; I would be French and republican.
So I prefer him, straightaway, to the Serbian coat of arms. None of this is the ideal one dreams of — but it is better than death, and I shall make this end if death does not want me; but if I die, well — I shall have resigned myself in advance.

Notes

Phtisie laryngée: laryngeal tuberculosis, a particularly devastating form of the disease that attacks the vocal cords and throat. Marie, who had lost much of her voice, feared this diagnosis; it was in fact accurate, and it killed her in 1884.
Faire une fin: a period expression meaning to make a suitable marriage and settle into respectable life.