Saturday, 20 October 1883

If I were sixteen, one might say these are a young girl's first melancholy stirrings — some stock phrase of that sort. But at my age, and besides... It is not that. I should have left, gone somewhere — anywhere — for I am... as though a spell had been cast on me... And on that subject: [word blackened: please], dear and amiable French people, never call me Oriental, superstitious, Slavic, or any of the other things you generally say when foreigners are not like you. If I speak of evil spells or other fancies, it is because such things strike me as picturesque, or amusing, or colourful — and had I been born in Montmartre and gone by the name of Marie Durand or Irma Pitauchard, it would be exactly the same. So much for that. — One day someone was discussing M. Apletcbeïeff in front of Mme Randouin and General Cambriel, and Maman said that Appletcheïeff speaks ill of us. "And that," I said, "is precisely why I overwhelm him with civilities every time I encounter him; it is rather amusing — and in the end, since he says horrible things, I take my revenge by laughing at him... If one could kill people... [Crossed out: I won't say]... but since that isn't done... I laugh at him." "You see — the Oriental, the Oriental!" said the General to Mme Randouin, and madame replied: oh yes, yes, those eyebrows... I merely thought I was saying something pointed. I may have been wrong, but at any rate I was not at all obeying racial instincts, homicidal impulses, or any other infernal machinery from some melodrama. It is possible that my French is not French — if I were careful I could write perfectly correct things, but I let myself use a fanciful, colourful, wandering sort of language: words that seem expressive to me, and turns of phrase whose incorrectness I can feel, though it seems to me that certain incoherent thoughts demand a perfectly naive mode of expression. But I have strayed far from... my black sadness... It is not like when one says to oneself: I am unhappy because of this or that. I cannot see what is afflicting me... It is obvious that if I were cured I would be wild with joy, but it is not... being ill that I suffer from. I am resigned to that misfortune... Oh my God, since I am resigned to it, since I accept life with this immense black stain — do not aggravate it. Be merciful. I worked until ten o'clock; coming down, I find Father Gavini playing piquet with the Princess, and Mother Gavini with Bojidar. Denis and Adeline leave; the Karageorgevitches stay to dinner, and young Marinovitch arrives as well — I say "young" to distinguish him from his father. There is much talk of a marriage between Dina and him, but these people imagine that Dina is very wealthy, so... It might not come to anything — otherwise it would do; he is thirty-three, an embassy secretary, quite suitable, and he finds her charming. What more shall I say now? That I am sad, and that anything may happen — I want to resign myself in advance to whatever I might dread most... that Bastien-Lepage should marry Mackay... How do you explain that? Here is a man who is introduced to me, and before I even meet him I learn... that he is this woman's lover and is going to marry her; this ought to mean nothing to me, and yet I would be vexed — as though by a personal affront — if it came to pass. At any rate, I knew he was supposedly going to marry her (?) before I knew him at all. And now... For I don't imagine I thought... Well then. What? [Crossed out: Yes, after having courted me, or simply after having been introduced to me, being himself, free.] If he had become attached to Stéphanie after having courted me, or simply after having been introduced to me, one could understand my disquiet... But I knew him... already committed — by what effort of imagination have I arrived at regarding him... as free, and then at being vexed that he is not? Fortunately none of this is serious.