_From Sunday, December 26th, to Sunday,
January 9th, 1876; Nice, Promenade
des Anglais, 55 bis, in my villa.--From
Monday, January 3d, in Rome, Hôtel
de Londres, Piazza di Spagna._
Sunday, December 26th, 1875.
We went to hear the band. G. M---- came to talk to us and, among
other compliments, said to me: "M----, I would like to give
you some of my experience, I love you so much! No, really,
Madame,"--addressing my mother--"she has such an extraordinary mind,
so developed, so broadened. But it lacks experience. M----, my
child, I will give you some advice."
"Give it, Monsieur, give it."
"Well, never love seriously, for there not in me whole world a man
worthy your love."
"Yes, I know that. I know that men are not equal to women. You are
not equal to your wife, I can tell you."
"You are right, M----."
He is right. I shall never love wholly. I shall worship, I shall
rave, I shall commit follies and even, if opportunity offers, have a
romance. But I shall not love, for candidly in my inmost heart, I am
convinced of the villainy of men. Not only that, I do not find any
one worthy of my love, either morally or physically. It is useless
to say and think all I want. A---- will never be anything but a
good-looking member of the fashionable society of Nice--a gay liver,
almost a fop. Oh, no; every man has some defect that prevents loving
him entirely. One is stupid, another awkward, another ugly,
another--in short, I seek physical and moral perfection.
Now that it is two o'clock in the morning, that I am shut up in my
room, wrapped in my long white dressing-gown, my feet bare and my
hair down, like a virgin martyr, I can give myself up to a throng of
bitter reflections. I shall go, carrying in my heart all the
sorrowful and wicked things that can be contained there.
December 28th, 1875.
I don't want public pity, but I should like to have one creature to
understand me, compassionate me, weep with me sincerely, knowing why
she was weeping, seeing with me into the farthest corner of my
heart. What is there more dastardly, more ugly, viler than mankind?
Wednesday, December 29th, 1875.
We went to see Mme. du M----. She gave me seven letters of
introduction for Rome. May God grant that they will be of the
service this excellent woman desires, she loves me so much! No doubt
everybody has trouble. One is ill, another is in love, another wants
money, another is bored. You will say, perhaps, "Poor little idler,
she thinks she is the only person who is unhappy, while she is
happier than most people." But my sorrow is the most hateful of all.
We lose a beloved one. We mourn for a year, two years, and remain
sorrowful all our lives. The greatest grief loses its force with
time, but an incessant, eternal torment!...
I have just read Mme. du M----'s letters. No one could be kinder, no
one could be more charming. And, just think, the greater part of
the time those who would like to do things cannot. It is six years
since she left Rome and I doubt whether her acquaintances remember
her; and then, her influence was never great.
"Have you suffered, wept, and languished,
Thinking hope was all in vain,
Soul in mourning, torn heart anguished?
Then you understand my pain."
_Sappho_ was given to-night. I wore a sort of Neapolitan shirt of
blue crêpe de Chine and old lace, with a white front. It can't be
described--it was as original and charming as possible, with a white
skirt and an alms-bag of white satin. We arrived at the end of the
first act, and were near P---- and R----, and I heard the voice of
the Marvel. Nothing can be said against her face, it is blooming;
whether real or artificial is of little consequence. She has
hair--oh, I don't know. At Spa, she was fairer than I; here, she is
darker
_"d'un serpent, jaune et sifflant_."
Now the American has gone home, and is doubtless in a sleep which
will preserve her twenty-seven-year-old complexion, while I am
awake. Just now I fell on my knees sobbing, beseeching God, with my
arms outstretched, my eyes fixed on space before me, exactly as if
God was there in my room. I believe I am uttering insolent things to
God.
The S----'s came, and after dinner we began to tell fortunes and
laughed almost as much as we did before, that is, the others did,
but I could not. Then we poured melted wax into cold water (it is
the shadow that is looked at). I had in succession a lion couchant
with one of his front paws extended, holding a rose; isn't it odd?
Then a great heap of something surmounted by a garland held by
Cupids.
As for M----, her wax figure cast a horrible shadow. A woman lying
as if dead with her hands crossed on her breast. O---- and Dina had
insignificant shadows. And, at fifteen minutes before midnight, four
mirrors were brought, two for Dina and two for me, and we took up
the great fortune telling.
I looked with all my eyes, without stirring, almost without
breathing. In the proper costume of night-gown and unbound hair. But
everything was very vague; it quivered, danced, formed, and reformed
every instant.
Saturday, January 1st, 1876.
Here is the new year. Greeting and mercy. Well, the first day of
1876 was not so bad as I expected. They say the whole year is spent
very much like the first day, and it is true. I spent the first of
last January in the cars, and I have really travelled a great deal.
To-morrow, yes, to-morrow I shall be glad to go. I am perfectly
happy, for I have made a plan--a plan that will fail like the
others, but which amuses me in the meanwhile. If it were not two
o'clock in the morning, I would write a whole story of the sale of a
soul. The brutes--I have not wept, I have not felt sad once. A very
pleasant day to commence the year. I shall go and think only of
returning. No doubt I shall change my mind in Rome. All the same,
this is where I should like to live.
I had already closed my book, but I and a lot of things to say. I
have looked at the great caricature, there are five of us. I have
thought of everything; of Mme. B----, of the English, of the people
of Nice, of S----, of "Mignon." In a word, a quantity of things. I
had a great deal to say, and lo! I stop.
It is tiresome to go, but it is horrible to stay. P---- has dramatic
emotions so genuine that she delights and thrills me. Come, what was
I going to write? That I am calm and agitated, sorrowful and joyous,
jealous and indifferent. It seems to me that fastidious society is
possible to have and, at the same time, it is impossible.
"I wish to stay and I wish to go,
How it will end I do not know."