Thursday, 28 June 1883

So we have married off Rosalie — Bojidar as groomsman and I as maid of honour.
We had to wait two hours at the town hall, because the bride who forgets everything had forgotten some formality or other.
And we witnessed the perpetration of forty weddings — it is extraordinary.
And it is so simple — one feels quite tempted to go ahead and do it oneself... We had great fun making jokes about all these worthy people.
Then the church, then the wedding party departs for the Jardin d’Acclimatation, Neuilly, etc. etc. etc.
Pitauchard (who is in reality called Dominique Dame) and Rosalie are not in the least poetic — they were not touching in the slightest, and I suspect them of having sinned in advance...
But all that interests me very little — returning from all these solemnities, a little tired, I come upon the biographical essay by Mme Surville, née Balzac. I must tell you that I am in the process of reading him from A to Z; I am on the twentieth volume. In short, I have just read this biographical notice, and at the risk of covering myself with ridicule, I shall say that I find myself almost completely in the innermost being of this sublime man. Ah! I adore him! Ah! I am mad about him! Ah! I admire him!
And note that I have just said I find myself...
Yes — those surges toward glory, even to those jokes about his future celebrity; all of that... And the way he speaks of his works, of his labour...
Ah! what a misfortune that he is dead — and to think... And all his waking dreams... Do I not spend my life dreaming extraordinary things, inventing events — this second existence pursues its course... One event leads to the next.
He would come to believe it had actually happened, and so do I sometimes — he was not recognised until late; they discouraged him, denied his talent, his vocation... And I am glad of it, because the women at the atelier deny my painting... In short...
My French is incoherent but I could learn it properly... I have never written except in haste, at a run, without thinking.... If I were to try... the time. I ought to have the time, for I have not a single material worry. Yes, but a man can devote himself to work, while a woman must worry about becoming an old maid. Twenty-four — that is no trifle. Ah! men are fortunate. Ah! to be celebrated, illustrious, great!!
My God — take everything, and that too! But that gives everything!...
The Gavinis are coming this evening. I must get married. These people perhaps think me twenty-six! Rage. The world is stupid. I despise it, and I want to have earned the right to do so.
Balzac says that noble souls find it hard to believe in ingratitude and human baseness, but once they have learned this lesson, they arrive at an indulgence that is the ultimate degree of contempt.
I have reached that point, for if I have not witnessed all human turpitudes, I have divined them all. And that feeling of indulgence — he has explained it divinely; yes, it is an indulgence that is the summit of contempt. I am there.
I ask for a great man to love! There is none. Come, let us think — who? There is none.
I dream of starting a correspondence after the fashion of Modeste Mignon...
Ah! how happy one is and how wretched when one has crossed certain limits of intelligence. It seems to me at moments that this interminable journal contains treasures of thought, of feeling, of originality.
I have been storing it all up for years, and I take separate notes in a notebook... it is a need without ulterior motive, like the need to breathe. But above all I would have to get myself left in peace by marrying, so as to be rid of that worry. Then devote myself wholly to work.
Who? Some nonentity! Bojidar? That would be too absurd! What a character. You understand — I would manage him the way I manage Coco... Or Saint-Amand — with him one would be... undisturbed.
I do not want children... I love no one. I want to be celebrated. And then...
More than sixty thousand roubles will come to me in inheritance — that is to say, nearly a hundred and fifty thousand francs. It is very unexpected and I am extremely pleased.
I shall buy the Joan of Arc... Is Bastien a great man? No. Me, me, me!