Monday, 19 May 1884

Without sleep. I was too overwrought — it is five in the morning.
I have calmed down a little from writing.
No — listen — it is heartbreaking. That will teach me to say anything to them. But then what an idea — telling them that I write intimate things to the architect and that I dream of saving him! Ah! my poor girl. It is like a bouquet of delicate flowers someone has sat on. But I am foolish to tell them such things. Yet as it is something so simple, so honest, so pure, I was not even thinking of... earthly feelings when I said it...
That will teach you. But truly Maman is stupid, and I am all the more furious in that she forced me to make it clear to those who were there yesterday. It is humiliating.
Well... It is inconceivable. We quarrel all our lives, and now she imagines she can thrust herself into my... feelings.
Ah! Damn it all!
And it is always so devoid of tact and delicacy that I come out of it flayed. These things are too fragile — even the tenderest, most beloved friend risks a heavy hand in touching them, and Maman is not my friend. She is Maman, I love her because she is Maman — because it is habit — but personally she does nothing but irritate and wound me.
And it will go from bad to worse. For she adores me and is afraid of displeasing me to an extreme degree, which is why the blunders and stupidities redouble — because at bottom there is the unshakeable conviction that she is very intelligent and that I am a child. All this is beyond repair.
These ladies are just too simple. For example: I drink goat’s milk to gain weight and I drink it with pleasure. Very well — this evening Dina has the goat milked (the goat lives in the glasshouse, the stairway, and the garden), and since she knows I detest being told what to do, she starts spinning subtle manoeuvres so that I will not notice she is reminding me to take my milk.
They have annoyed me so much with medicines and fussing that it is enough for them to say: do this, for me to rear up like a fury. That is how they have caused me to do very foolish things. So fearing to put me off my goat, yet also wanting to remind me to drink it... These little stratagems that I see through at once and that exasperate me.
Ah! this household is no fun. I spend eight, nine, even ten hours working; I come down to dinner, and within two hours I am thoroughly infuriated. So here is a difficult existence — I shall not hold out. The work alone is enough, but to be plagued and distressed during the hour I eat and the one or two hours during which I should be resting!
A whole week of doing nothing, and all this besides! Ah, misery.
Maman is altogether too...
For example, suppose they give the medal of honour to Bouguereau. Naturally I cry out that it is an indignity, a disgrace, that I am revolted, furious, and so on.
Maman: — But no, but no, don’t agitate yourself like this! Ah! Lord, they haven’t given it to him! It isn’t true! He hasn’t got it! And if they have given it to him it was on purpose — they know your character, they knew you would rage, so they did it on purpose, and there you are letting yourself be caught like a little fool, really. This is not even a caricature — it is only premature; wait until Bouguereau has his medal of honour and you will see.
Another example. The novel by the pitiful M. Ohnet, which is fashionable just now, has gone through heaven knows how many editions.
Naturally I leap up: so this is the fodder of the majority, this is what is preferred — O tempora, o mores! Do you want to wager that Maman launches into the Bouguereau speech, or something like it? It has already happened over several things. She is afraid I shall shatter, that I shall die from the slightest shock, and in her immense naïveté she tries to protect me by means that will end by giving me brain fever.
X, Y, or Z arrives and says: you know, the La Rochefoucauld ball was superb. I grow gloomy. Maman sees it, and five minutes later recounts as if by chance something that is intended to discredit the ball in my mind — unless she undertakes to prove that the ball never took place at all. It has happened. Childish inventions and subterfuges, and I foam with rage to think they believe I can swallow it!

Notes

Marie writes o tempra, o mores ! (tempra so in the source, for tempora): “O the times, O the customs!” A famous exclamation from Cicero (In Catilinam, I.1), used here as a lament over the public’s literary taste. ↩