Sunday, 9 October 1881
Well, there is nothing new — Pollack and Escobar have come every day. The day before yesterday we went to a little theater where they rent boxes by the hour; they perform little improvised sketch-pieces by a fairly amusing actor — I understood nothing, but I was, I think, looking pretty and was not bored. Pollack works at the museum as I do, but in another room — we pay each other visits. The other day, to see his studies, we went to his mother's house; and today his father and sister came to us — Maman was leaving, and their presence spared us many tears. I had been very sad since morning, and yet it had to be; she must leave, for the business is at last drawing to a close, and not being there would mean losing everything. So she left. Pollack has become a sort of Bojidar1 — we walked in the Buen Retiro with his sister and father, which made us miss Escobar, who had been waiting there to walk with us. The evening passes talking about art with Pollack, and now that I am alone I imagine dark things — what if Maman were to die without seeing us again — I don't know why… The cards say there will be a death, and I am frantic with anxiety. I want to write her a letter saying I adore her, that I am desperate at having caused her the least sorrow — in short a letter I would be ashamed of afterward… But the cards say the business will end well though she will die… it makes one want to take the train tomorrow. Oh! If that terrible thing were to happen it would be a punishment# Dimanche 9 octobre 1881
for my idiotic filial rebellions… I would spend my life weeping at being unable to atone for my cruelties. Ah! I would go mad… Think of it — to feel guilty and to be unable, ever, ever, to redeem one's follies. And she would die thinking I do not love her, that it is all the same to me, that I console myself, that I am perhaps even glad.
I expect all misfortunes, but I cannot imagine what this one would do to me… I would prefer anything in the world to that — going blind, becoming paralyzed… I would be an object of pity, but to lose Maman under those conditions — it seems to me I would have killed her.
pour mes imbeciles revoltes filiales... Je passerais ma vie a pleurer de ne pouvoir racheter mes duretes. Ah ! je deviendrais folle... Songez donc se sentir coupable et ne pouvoir plus jamais, jamais racheter ses folies. Et elle mourrait croyant que je ne l'aime pas, que cela m'est egal, que je me console, que je suis meme peut-etre contente. Je m'attends a tous les malheurs mais je ne puis me figurer ce que me ferait celui-la... J'aime mieux tout au monde que cela, devenir aveugle, paralysee... Je serais a plaindre, mais perdre maman dans ces conditions-la il me semble que je l'aurais tuee.
Notes
Bojidar: Bojidar Karageorgevitch, a Serbian prince and family friend who habitually served as Marie's companion and escort; she uses his name as a type for a convenient and agreeable male attendant. ↩