Tuesday, 5 August 1884

Oh! the countryside around Paris! And on the Versailles line at that!! The wretched little gardens, the green lawns and the hideous pot of red geraniums.
The Bièvre valley with its railway, its clipped trees, its laid-out paths — official, administrative nature!! Oh! And the Canroberts with their hunt for a Mallet. The Mallets are the rich Protestant bankers who spend their summer in their château in the abominable Bièvre valley. There are a great many of them — old and young, grandfathers and bachelors alike.
Like so many Rothschilds on a smaller scale — Oscar Mallet, Anatole Mallet, Cucufa Mallet, Chrysostome Mallet, who knows! There is one of the Mallets who has a daughter called Noémie, and Noémie has a brother. And there is a tremendous fuss over Noémie. And this is concealed from the good Marshal, who knows only what people choose to shout at him. Just yesterday something rather funny occurred in connection with a letter from Noémie... But it is of no interest. I am delighted to be leaving — * these people tire me with their solicitude; I like to cough freely, to look ill when it pleases me...
And besides — shall I say it? Claire cannot love me. She knows that I am doing her painting for her, and my quiet irony when she nudges me does not escape her. She has already been almost impertinent and irritating, trying to muddle me in argument. But I let her go on, and when she lets out a triumphant — Ah! — I set things in their proper place by adding that I do not wish to argue, "it is tiring and what is the point?"
But at bottom, these little outbursts of insolence annoy me.
Ah! I have spent eight very tiresome days. Appearing tired, listless, unwell, coughing — to strangers — is not amusing. And under the pretext of friendship they will go and talk of all that...
So I left with joy — but at home there is a great surprise.
My aunt has arrived.
She has arrived because she was bored there — and she has arranged nothing.
She has arranged nothing.
I shall not repeat the abominable things I shouted at these women for two hours. No — it is impossible to imagine the outrages I flung in their faces.
And all told it is very tiresome. This poor aunt came to meet me with a little pug as pretty as an angel. A tiny dog of three weeks or a month old — adorable. But then, why do such things.
They will kill me.
It is enough to drive one mad, and I am so worn out by it that I cannot even speak of it or complain.
After this abominable scene — but whose fault is it...
It is so tiring to shout and to work oneself into a fury... And these scoundrels tell themselves — "she will calm down tomorrow."
And since I certainly shall not have the strength to begin again tomorrow, I shall become truly furious — seriously furious, literally furious.
And the Canroberts! That Marshal's wife so Englishly [sic] admirable — with that touch of goat-like stupidity one finds only in Englishwomen.
And Claire with her crescent-shaped waist — a perfect crescent in profile — when she is [Words blacked out] seated it is positively unpleasant! And then this life on the outskirts of Paris, the names of the walks and the roads. "Today we shall go to the woods of Meudon, then there are the ponds of Chaville, or else the..." It is irritating.
Why, I do not know — but it is irritating. The Marshal's wife cultivating her flowers... They are superb, but the Marshal's wife has too long and too large a head to have grace. Louis is the most charming twelve-year-old boy imaginable. But Claire with her round head, her Japanese hair dressed in the Japanese manner, and her short-sightedness — eyes like holes, nothing around them, like a baby's. And English jokes: wearing people out by reasoning with extreme rigour about nonsense. And above all that spirit of intelligent young girls. It is tiring, tiring, tiring. I believe I made that plain.
In short.
And at home!!!
Ah! misery!
Oh! The countryside!
And the rooms too small, the washbasins insufficient, the windows too small, the little staircases smelling of... country things, paint or mildew. And the geranium pots! The green lawn, the formal French garden! On the road, with the whistle of the railway — factories. That is the countryside!
Never, never, never.

Notes

The Mallet family were a leading Protestant banking dynasty in Paris. Marie puns on chasse aux Mallet (hunting for a Mallet husband).