Sunday, 5 August 1883

In short, it is a matter of indifference to me.
But I am twenty-four. Young, you will say — but I see that all the people I know seem to think me older. People are already saying I shall not marry. The Gavinis, after offering a heap of suitors, are offering no more.
And it is evident that in Paris I shall never find a wealthy match. Women more beautiful than I have married men without fortune when they had a dowry, or remained old maids when they had none.
But what makes marriage difficult is that since I am like J.J. Rousseau, I need infinite consideration, indulgence, and delicacy.
I shall find that only by taking a Saint-Amand as husband — I shall be free, and if I love someone, that someone will not be a husband with whom I live constantly and who could wound me. I shall see little of the world; I shall make almost no calls; and I shall receive for music, so that all will go well.
But to marry a man who will marry for his own advantage — and who is presentable and rich... That is nowhere to be found.
Or a very fine young man who will marry me for the dowry and will naturally want to enjoy it along with his wife and is that not entirely natural — and honestly, like everyone else? And what would become of me then?
Even if I am loved? He will bore me, prevent me from working even without meaning to. And even if I were not like Rousseau, I could not accommodate myself to an ordinary existence — how can one bind oneself to an indifferent person, endure him, share one’s life and time with him? Make calls, have children — and he will take more of my money for his election campaign or even for his kept women!
Ah! No.
A very rich prince would not marry me for love — and even then, one would have to spend an entire season, five or six months posing, dancing, doing nothing but going about in society... I shall not bring myself to run that risk. For there is no guarantee of catching a prince. Look at Mlle Martinoff — she does nothing else; her aunt takes her everywhere, every season, every ball — it has been going on three years and still no husband.
Go back to Italy? That is what I shall probably do if we have successes at the Embassy. After six years? Unmarried? Shall I find admirers again? I shall be regarded as faded. Whereas if I return married, I shall be dazzling — and I should so like to take my revenge in Rome. All those ladies and the Court itself — they all paid attention to these very rich foreign women who stayed there three months without going into society.
Ah! What great innocents we were!!
Only Spanish customs resemble somewhat our Russian provinces. We had not the slightest decorum... It is regrettable.
Oh! To take my revenge before all those people. Going there as an unmarried girl will not do it. No — I must marry Saint-Amand or Bojidar. Bojidar is a companion, a tidy little fellow, economical, even fussy — he would be the ideal estate manager. But he would be a real husband — yes, but that would not matter...
His cousin Pierre is marrying Princess Zorka, daughter of the reigning Prince of Montenegro — a marriage that may well help him to the throne of Serbia; Pierre is the chief, the active pretender with real chances. Bojidar would then be a royal prince. That would be perfect — especially since I must confess here my inexplicable weakness for the title of princess.
It is elegant, it is artistic, it is ravishing. Countess, marchioness, even duchess mean nothing to me. But princess fascinates me like a work of art.
Princess is an exquisite plume that I should grieve not to see on my head.
Princess is worth five hundred thousand francs’ income. With Princess one is imposing while spending only sixty thousand a year.
A well-appointed mansion, princess, and the Fine Arts. The rest depends on me. But Love?
Deceive Bojidar? To deceive — never — no one.
But in any case we have divorce — and if I find some extraordinary opportunity I shall remarry; and then often between spouses there are separations; I could invent health reasons, and then it would not be deceiving: that is, it would not be sharing, and that is enough.
But perhaps I shall love no one. With Saint-Amand there would be the most complete freedom, and it seems to me I should use it.
You know that while joking he speaks of this possible association.
It is agreed that he will be only my friend; that I devote myself to art; and that if I am unfaithful to one or the other, no one will ever know.
“I am resolved to be a cuckold,” he says. “Napoleon was one — and if I am not, that will be a pleasant surprise. But you will take care of my honour and my name.”
— You are as stupid as the rest, Saint-Amand. It will be neither your honour nor your name — but my honour and my name; consequently no one in the world can be more jealous of them than I. Besides, the Fine Arts leave me no time to think of frivolous things.
— Say rather that your virtue will prevent you.
— If you wish — in any case, my dear, no one will ever know. Association, friendship, select receptions, Arts and glory — that is all.
But he will want a carriage; he shall have one — and that is all: lodged, fed, at peace, protected from changes of ministry...
Those are his advantages. The Academy in prospect following good dinners... He does not deserve it — for he is a mere literary gazette — but with protection, intrigue, with everything in the world. And it will amuse me to have M. Roland, Academician. But — Baron. Baroness — that is stupid.
One might... What a lot of paper I have blackened.
We go to surprise the Canroberts and stay an hour. Return at eight o’clock, heat, fatigue, smell of coal. But it is amusing all the same for an observer — I plunge my eyes into a thousand existences, as Balzac says — while my aunt picks quarrels with Dina or with me.
Oh! Families that quarrel — it is indescribable.
Jules must be in Paris, and his subordinate of a brother does not appear — for he would probably like to bring him to prove to me that he does not hate me. I shall invite Émile to dinner — without the other! No — he would think it a roundabout invitation.
On the other hand I shall see this idiot architect and we shall say to each other: “My brother has just left for Damvillers...” Botheration, let him go there — but let him not think I am disappointed.
Unfortunately my past language authorises him to think so...
That Cassagnac is truly a base nature. In an article written about him two years ago — naturally inspired by him — there was mention of a very wealthy young foreign woman who, “smitten with this knight,” had wished to marry him, but he preferred a cottage and a heart. That is already not very nice — what do you say? And then in almost all his feuilletons in Le Pays there is a woman called Moussah — an insipid name they used to annoy me with at home, and which old Mme Mouzay used. Always Moussa. It is he or his wife writing under pseudonyms — or else people know there was a young foreign woman who, smitten, etc. And these heroines are Russian.
Going to Versailles, we bought Le Pays — which I read very rarely — and I fell upon this feuilleton and the Russian Moussah. It made me blush and purse my lips in disgust.
I should like to see Mme Presseq.
That great fool perhaps imagines I do not marry out of love for him. Ah! The enormous simpleton. A Black man’s nature. All the low instincts. A pimp’s nature — seductive and repulsive. My God — since You are just, why do You allow things to be believed that are not true, and that are so injurious to me? Yes — people say I had a romance with Cassagnac, and that is why I do not marry; for they cannot otherwise understand why, having a fine dowry, I am still neither countess nor marchioness.
Fools. Fortunately you — handful of superior beings, you dear and beloved confidants who read me — you know what to make of it. But when you read me, all those I speak of will probably be dead; and Cassagnac will carry into the grave where his fat reposes the sweet conviction of having been loved by a young and beautiful foreign woman who, smitten with the knight, etc. Cassagnac. The fool. Others will believe it too. Fools.
But you know it is not so — it would perhaps be poetic to refuse penniless little marquis for love; but alas, I refuse them on grounds of reason.

Notes

Prince Peter Karageorgevitch (1844–1921), Bojidar’s cousin and the pretender to the Serbian throne, married Princess Zorka of Montenegro at Cetinje in the summer of 1883; he became King Peter I of Serbia in 1903. ↩
«Ce grand sot» is Paul de Cassagnac. Marie’s words are «Nature de nègre. Tous les bas instincts.»: a racial insult, and the second sentence says what she means by it. ↩