Chapter II: Part 2

O---- is writing a novel, it appears. After dinner we went in search of her; I shut myself up with her, and the good girl read it. But at the second page I stopped her and proposed that we should write one together. I gave the idea, everything, everything, and the girl imagines she is composing too. It would be the story of Dumas with the _Tour de Nesle_, but I shall not assert my rights, I am giving her a love scene for to-morrow. She makes no pretensions, and asks for ideas, details, and love scenes with perfect simplicity.

As for me, I set to work and, at one dash, wrote the first chapter, in which my hero bursts open a door and leaps through the window.

People are doing me the honour to busy themselves very much about me, to gossip a great deal over me. Haven't I always desired it?

My journal is suffering because I have begun to write a novel, and I shall succeed. Thank Heaven, I am capable of doing everything I wish. Two chapters in two days is going on finely. I have read it to Dina, and my story interests her. But I am able to judge for myself personally, and I believe it will go.

While we were walking, surrounded by a group of young men, I was happy, proud, and of what? I am little and vain; I took good care to express a wish to return to the carriage, before my cavaliers desired to leave. They even begged me to take another turn. That was all right. They escorted me to the landau.

Monday, November 15th, 1875.

All day long the day of the opera I was restless.

At half past eight o'clock we set off. I was dressed in a white muslin gown, a plain skirt with a wide ruche around the bottom, Marie Stuart waist, and hair arranged to match the costume. A very pretty auditorium. Everybody admired me. Toward the middle of the entertainment, I began to feel as lovely as possible. In going out I passed between two rows of gentlemen who stared at me till their eyes bulged, and they didn't think me bad-looking, one could see that. My heart swelled with pride and joy. Léonie came to undress me, but I sent her away and shut myself up. As I entered I suddenly saw myself in the glass. I looked like a queen, a portrait that had come down from its frame. I no longer had to say: "Ah! if I dressed as people used to do--" I _was_ dressed as people used to do. I was beautiful.

It always seems as if others did not see me as I am. How unfortunate that, instead of these little black letters, I could not trace my portrait as I was--my wonderful complexion, my golden hair, my eyes so dark at night, my mouth, my figure! Those who saw me know how I looked.

While remaining simple, as suits one of my age, barely beyond childhood, I was gowned like a grown person. That is where the difficulty lies--to be like a grown person and yet not extravagant and overdressed.

Later I felt very unhappy and began to sing: "Knowst thou the land?" and fell on my knees, weeping. Why? It is a relief to lie on the ground. Because, in the last scene, a love scene, P---- had in her voice--it gave one a thrill--I would die for the truth--and joyfully.

This is it, he who slays with the sword shall perish by the sword.

It seems as if I had loved. I feel in despair; I don't know why, but it was a torturing feeling and made me weep.

Tuesday, November 16th, 1875.

I left Nice to-day with my aunt, I was ready to cry every instant.

"Do you want a pillow?" she asked.

"No."

"Are you ill?"

"No."

"But you look so pale."

"I am tired."

"You must be ill; where do you feel pain?"

"Everywhere!--Come, Aunt, don't disturb me, I am composing."

"Ah!"

"Oh! there is nothing like the rolling of a carriage to give ideas."

"Aha! That's different; well, well, I didn't know."

And she left me to compose at my ease. Then, after a silence:

"Why did A---- turn so pale when P---- began to sing: 'Knowst thou the land?'"

"How could you have seen? For my part, I can never notice whether a person turns pale or blushes."

"Yes, you, because you can't see at a distance, but I can. He turned as white as a sheet when she sang: 'There would I fain live!'"

"I saw nothing."

Wednesday, November 17th, 1875.

Many things have changed since Monday. I don't wish to die, no matter where and no matter how, and I have since been ashamed of myself. I meant to trifle with the man, and it seems as if the man was trifling with me. This insult, joined to the wrath I feel for my weakness Monday, makes me detest him.

At six o'clock we arrived without having secured any accommodations at the Grand Hotel, so we took rooms at the Hôtel Splendide.

"Is it worth while to choose for a hero a miserable Nice scamp like that A----?" said my aunt, "and to write a lot of stuff about him?"

Certainly my aunt understands nothing of the matter, and that is very fortunate. I do think of him, and yet if he loved me, I would not consent to be his wife. No one in the household considered him a suitable match. They noticed him because I was interested in him. They talked about him because they saw it gave me pleasure, yet if I said I wanted to marry him they would think me crazy, would raise a loud outcry, for they are dreaming of a throne for me. So I don't want to marry him. I only say I am jealous; that is why I am going to Rome. If I stayed in Nice I could not work; I should only torment myself. Since knowing him, since he has paid me attention, my studies have suffered greatly, especially since it has seemed to me, and I am almost sure of it, that he is not madly in love with me, I have not been able to read a book or practise an hour on the piano.

Paris, November 18th, 1875.

Tired enough, finery will use me up, me and my money. But that is why I came to Paris, and we must do things conscientiously. I need not say that I am not having anything made in colours, everything is white.

I feel sad, unnerved, I should like to smile and to weep. No, really, love is full of interest.

I was in good spirits this evening, I talked with my aunt, and complained of M---- A----. She answered that M---- A---- was a girl of the street, a worthless creature. I declared that she deserved every punishment for having, without knowing me, from mere gossip, formed a bad opinion of me and basely slandered me. Seizing a sheet of paper, I wrote:

"Contemptible old creature, your daughter no longer loves G----, she loves a door-keeper in the Théâtre Italien, who is a very handsome fellow."

I sent this to D----, who is going to mail it as if it came from Nice.

I wanted to howl this morning, but it would be too much like the dogs--I sigh and I laugh, which is amusing.

"Good Heavens," I said to my aunt yesterday, "do you suppose I could be in love? What I want is wealth. If my heart beats, it is when I see superb carriages, magnificent horses; if I am agitated, it is with the longing to have all these things.

"No, Madame, even if I loved any one, the luxury here would cure me very quickly. You don't know me, or you pretend not to know me."

I never spoke more truthfully; my aunt believed me, and began to comfort me; to calculate, to try to have money enough to satisfy my wants.

I worship people when they show good will. But the line of railroad that leads me to the Duc de H---- has made a tremendous curve! Yesterday he suddenly presented himself to my mind, so handsome that I am again completely captivated.

November 19th, 1875.

I have spent a day between L---- and W----. It is full of interest, for dress forms an art, a talent, a science! Finery to this degree of perfection is a treat.

Oh, dear, how tiresome life is when one hasn't an income of at least 300,000 francs!

I have a dozen gowns made, a few hats, and stop there! It's absurd; one ought not to be embarrassed by such things. Oh, money, money! I must have it; I'll take any husband, if he will give it to me.

"And she has such ideas at fifteen," said my aunt.

"Yes, Aunt; not at fifteen; since I was thirteen--always."

"You are crazy," replied my aunt.

"I think so, too, but what is to be done?"

"If you don't sleep for ten nights wealth will not arrive any the more; come, go to bed; it's heartrending, heartrending."

"Madame, I must be married!"

"To E----? No, indeed, he doesn't suit me."

I have written a lot of nonsense this evening; my ideas are very much confused, and the novel especially. And every time I talked seriously, my aunt was alarmed. Whenever I laughed, she laughed too.

Saturday, November 20th, 1875.

For three hours everything in the house has been in a state of revolution, but all the flames were extinguished in a business interview with D----. With pride and confidence I assure myself that I am the wise head of the household. I believe that this time all the difficulties are smoothed, unless the matter is upset when I am no longer here.

Sunday, November 21st, 1875.

I want to return to Nice, the longer I stay here, the longer my departure for Rome is delayed. I spend my time in complaining; my aunt says I am crazy. I laugh, and so does she. Life is full of interest.

Monday, November 22nd, 1875.

We went to my beautifiers, and also to B----'s. To-morrow we shall decide upon the carriages. Then I went to see B----, with whom I always keep up a correspondence. I spent an hour with her; we are not intimate friends, like young girls, we are mere acquaintances.

We received a letter from Mamma, with a clipping from a newspaper in which the opening of the opera at Nice was described, and a number of complimentary things said about us. So people are interested in me, but let us pass on. Mamma has been to the opera again, there was some mistake about the box, and old A---- came to give her a box by the side of his. Everybody came to see her--he was with Dina and O----. Everybody enquired for us except G----.

While reading this letter I committed a thousand extravagances, to the amazement of my aunt. Instantly taking a sheet of paper I wrote, disguising my hand, a letter to A---- D----.

"Sir, here is a recent and true story from which your wonderful talent will be able to make a drama or a striking romance.

"A rich man, forty-five years old, married in Spain a young girl of sixteen and took her to his château in France. He was a widower, and had a son eight years old. This child, at the end of fifteen years, became a young man of three and twenty. He is handsome, impetuous, spoiled, but good and loyal. His stepmother is scarcely thirty-one, and beautiful. They love each other.

"Pursued by remorse, she could no longer endure the presence of her husband, who knew nothing. She planned that he should surprise her with some one else. The husband fired at her, but missed his aim.

"She fled to a convent where the husband is going to pursue her, wants to bring a lawsuit, take away her children--the oldest a girl of fifteen. The story could be turned to excellent account.

"There was also an interview between the young man and the woman, in which he sought to lead her into a reconciliation, showed her the scandal which this rupture would bring upon her daughters. It ended by a total separation, but if you wish you can kill off whichever you like, except the son, who is very well.

"Answer me through the correspondence of the Figaro, if you think there is anything in it, addressing the initials C.P.L."

"That is wicked and absurd," said my aunt.

"It is worse than wicked, worse than absurd, it is cowardly, but what do you expect, doesn't everybody know the story?"

"Yes, but people don't talk about it, not on account of the old man, who is a fool, whom everybody recognises as such, but for the sake of the young one, who is beloved. It is only since the son's appearance in society that his father has been let alone."

"Why does he look so fierce?" C----asked B---- one day.

"Because so many stones have been thrown at him."

Wednesday, November 24th, 1875.

I slept for twelve hours and, while trying on at L----'s I felt ill. True, they kept me two hours with those wretched gowns.

We ordered from B---- a landau with eight springs, dark-blue, five seats, everything the very best, at the price of 6,000 francs; also a park phaeton of the same colour, the phaeton is for me. I already see myself in that little carriage, driving and saying: "Knowst thou the land--"

November 28th, 1875.

I am in Nice. From Paris to Lyon, we were in the midst of snow, but it is strange that I am not so delighted as I was before on reaching my villa.

At Toulon we met C---- and took her with us. Mamma and the S----'s were waiting for us at the station. The grown-ups took a cab, and we entered our carriage.

We went to the opera. I wore a white barège costume made a little like a night-gown--open in front, as if by chance, and confined at the waist by a wide sash like a child's. We laughed heartily in spite of the general dulness.

I returned stupid, indifferent. It is the most detestable condition. I would rather weep. I don't love him. I hate him with all the strength with which I might have loved him. Nothing in the world effaces the resentment I have once felt.

Do you remember all that is wounding and terrible expressed in the one word "scorn"?

_I_ understand, I who remember the slap my brother gave me more than twelve years ago, at whose recollection I am still as furious as if I had received it now; I who have kept a sort of hatred of my, brother on account of that childish affront. It was my only blow, but to make up for it, I have given a goodly number and to everybody. There was so much wickedness in my eyes that, when I looked in the glass, I was frightened by it. Everything can be pardoned except scorn. I would forgive a cruelty, a fit of passion, insults uttered in a moment of anger, even an infidelity, when people return and still love, but scorn--!

Monday, November 29th, 1875.

We went out at three o'clock. I who came to Nice in search of fine weather encountered Parisian cold. I wore an otter skin hat, made in the style of a baby hood, and my big sable pelisse covered with white cloth. The costume created a sensation, and my face did not look ugly, in spite of my fatigue.

I am so happy to be at home in my own house. I am sleeping in my big dressing room. My chamber will be ready in a month; I shall find it finished on my return from Rome. I am thinking only of that, of having my carriage, of spending a month in Nice, of continuing the studies I shall have begun in Rome, of following my professor's directions, and then of going to Russia. So many things have suffered, so much money has been lost because we failed to take our journey. There was a crowd to hear the band play. General B---- and V---- were near us. A---- was near the carriage.

"Are you going to stay long in Nice?"

"A week."

"Are you going away again?"

"Why, yes," replied my aunt.

"And where?"

"To Rome."

"Yes, to Rome," I added.

"But you do nothing but travel. Mademoiselle, you are a regular whirler."

"What a ridiculous man!"

We were walking, I, my aunt, and the General, who made me laugh by calling my attention to the different ways in which people looked at me, the men at my face, the women at my gown.

From this time I will no longer trouble myself about any one. I will become Galatea, let people love me, if they like!

I wonder why I am unhappy. No! I have no brains. Do people ask such things when they have? We are happy or we are unhappy, nothing does any good; neither prayer, nor tears, nor faith. I am a living proof, I lack everything.

When shall I go to Rome? I want to study, I am losing my time for nothing. If one does nothing, one ought to go into society; I am losing my time and I am bored.

O, misery of miseries! I will go all the same to pray to God, who knows?

While there is life, there is hope.

Saturday, December 4th, 1875.

I have told Mamma that I was going to study singing, and I shall do it, if it is God's pleasure to preserve my voice; it is the only way of gaining the fame for which I thirst, for which I would give ten years of my life without hesitation. I need renown, glory, and I will have them. _Deo juvante._ It has never happened that people wanted it, and did not have it! I have the most comprehensive ideas in the world. A fig for all that! Do I want it? A hundred times, no, a thousand times no! I was born to be a remarkable woman, it matters little in what way or how. All my tendencies are toward the great things of this world. I shall be famous, I shall be great, or I shall die!

It is impossible that God should have given me this _gloria cupidatis_, like S----, for nothing, without an object; my time will come. I am happy when I think as I do to-day. Oh, my voice!

We went to the opera house to get a box for this evening. They gave the "Barber," my favourite little opera. I aspire to something unheard of, fabulous; I want to be famous, I will sing. It is queer, the whole Italian company saluted me. We were in No. 2. I wore my Empire gown, in which I like myself best. Hair dressed like an Olympian goddess, falling lower than the belt, and curled naturally at the ends. The General, always charming, was with us.

"Come," I said, "do you know what I am going to do?"

"What are you going to do, Mademoiselle?"

"I am going to make a mirror."

"How?"

"Look."

I took the attitude of old A----, who sat opposite. He put his hand on the balustrade; I did the same. He leaned on his hand; I leaned on mine. He played with his chain; I played with my ribbon. He pulled his ear; I pulled mine.

The General laughed, Dina laughed, everybody laughed.

Every time he changed his position I imitated him like the most faithful mirror.

It was the last act, the house was half empty, and I continued my game in freedom till the last moment. I went out fairly jumping for joy and returned home gay and talkative.

To-night "Mignon" was given at the theatre.

I listened with pleasure and emotion. I forgot everything, toilette and audience, and, with my head resting against the pillar, I devoured the charming melodies. If I had "Mignon" given in my room I should enjoy it just as much, even more. With an interesting audience one hears nothing. I have seen this opera so many times! And I am always moved.

One could not imagine my impatience to go to Rome and resume my work. To study, to study, that is my desire! I grow joyous at the sight of my dear books, my adored classics, my beloved Plutarch.

I shall carry with me a few volumes to read, for I suppose we shall not see many people; we know no one there.

Saturday, December 11th, 1875.

The weather is magnificent. A tremendous crowd when we go out. We move at a walk, between hedges formed of the young men of Nice. They all take off their hats, and it seems as if I were the daughter of a queen whom they salute as she passes.

We met the Marvel, who alighted from his carriage and raised his hat to us twice. I was amused, I laughed, I went with O----. Why did we laugh so much? I shall remember later.

Sunday, December 19th, 1875.

To-morrow there is to be a concert at the _Cercle de la Méditerranée_ for the benefit of the free _École des beaux-arts_. I went to the club to get tickets. Entering through the big door I was ushered through well-heated, well-lighted corridors to the room of the secretary, who gave me the little book containing the by-laws and the names of the members. Men are lucky!

The club made a charming impression upon me. There is a fraternity of spirit a homelike air, which reminds one of the convent. I am no longer surprised that these men avoid their badly lighted, poorly heated homes, with household cares neglected, ill-disciplined servants, a wife in a wrapper and a bad humour, to go to a place where everything is nice, comfortable, elegant (in a land where the orange tree blossoms, where the breeze is softer and the bird swifter of wing).

O women, don't pity yourselves, but attend to your homes.

Long instructions might be given. I am content to say: "Make your house resemble a club as much as possible and treat your husbands as these ladies, L----and C----, treat them, and you will be happy and your husbands too."

Now I am calm and I think. O misery of miseries! O despair! What I have written expresses the best portion of what I feel. O God, have pity on me. Good people, do not jeer at me. Perhaps I give cause for amusement, but I am to be pitied. With my temperament, my ideas, I shall never explain what I feel. I shall never give an idea of my unhappiness, it is because while dying of shame, of scorn, of rage, I have the courage to jest. I really do have good health and a good disposition. Provided that what I have just said doesn't bring me misfortune!

I have a great many other things to say, but I am tired. I am going to write in big letters, "I am unhappy," and in letters still larger, "O God, aid me, have pity on me!"

These big letters represent an hour and a half of rage, tears, irritated self love, and two hours of prayer!

I have exhausted all words, I have exhausted my energy, I no longer have patience or strength, yet I still have one resource.

My voice. To preserve it I must take care of my health. Another week like this one, and good-bye to singing!

No, I will be sensible, I will pray to God. I will go to Rome. I am desperate, I will implore the Pope to pray for me. In my madness, I hope for that.

To-morrow I will talk with Mamma about my idea; aid me, my God.

Thursday, December 23d, 1875.

I am sorrowful and discouraged. My departure is an exile to me. I want to stay in Nice, and it is impossible. We always insist upon the impossible. The simplest thing, by resisting, gains in value.

Friday, December 24th, 1875.

B---- has been to our house. By a few words in the conversation he awoke in me so much love for Nice, so much regret at leaving, that I became unhappy and went to my room to sing--with such earnestness, such warmth, that I am still weeping from it--that eternal air, and these delightful words:

"Alas! Would it were possible I might return,
Unto that vanished land whence I was torn,
There, there alone to live my heart doth yearn,
To live, to love, to die."

How I pity those who are not like me! They do not understand how much truth there is in this familiar fragment that is sung in every drawing-room. Yes, _there alone to live my heart doth yearn_. Yes, at Nice, in my beloved villa. People may go through the world. They will find sublime landscapes, impressive mountains, frightful gulfs, wild beauties of nature, picturesque towns, great cities; but, on returning to Nice one would say that elsewhere it was beautiful, magnificent! but here it is pleasant, attractive, congenial; here one wants to stay; here one is alone and surrounded, hidden and in sight, as one desires. Nowhere else does one breathe as freely, as joyously. Nowhere else is there this extraordinary blending of the real and the artificial, the simple and the exquisite! Finally, what shall I say? Nice is my city. I am going, but I shall return.

_Go, but still regret it,
Regret has its charms,_

as one of the pleasant simpletons called poets has said.

To-morrow will be Christmas, and I am planning a joke with C----. We are going to buy a pair of huge slippers, a jockey, reins for driving (suitable for a child), and two little sheep. We will put these things into the slippers, make a package, and under the cord slip a letter written in this form:

"Santa Claus has found little E----very good, and hopes he will continue to be. The toys are for little E----, the slippers for little 'papa.'" And on the envelope one may guess what. But we shall not send it, Dina is going to disguise herself as a boy, and, with her blue spectacles and pale complexion, she appears like a professor of mathematics. C---- and I will also make ourselves unrecognisable and, at eight o'clock, go to the club, and tell the coachman to give the package to the janitor from M. E----. We laughed as we used to do. What amuses me is to see a serious woman play pranks with me.

This morning we had a call from a Sister T----. She left two visiting cards. _The Sisters of the Good Shepherd._ I took one, added P.P.C. and, with an address written on it, sent it to Tour.

Saturday, December 25th, 1875.

_Ah! son felica! Ah! son rapita!_

Find me a language which expresses thought with so much enthusiasm. So I use it to define my condition. It is heavenly weather, everybody is out of doors, in spite of my vigil yesterday, I look pretty.

I go to walk enchanted, happy, I sing "Mignon" softly and everything seems beautiful to me. Everybody looks at me so pleasantly, those whom I know salute me. I should like to hug them all. Oh, how comfortable we are in Nice, I should not want to go away.

I have a longing for amusement, I should like to invite everybody to the house, to give a dinner, a ball, a supper, a reception, to have some sort of diabolical carnival--I should like to have everybody, everybody. I am not ill-natured at heart, I am only a little crazy.

_Ah! son felica! Ah! son rapita
Dio Virgina Sanctissima._

We went to the opera, Mamma and I in the 3d box in the first row, my aunt and Dina in the 2nd next to the Marvel. T---- came in, General B---- was with us. The door opened and the Marvel appeared.

"Well," said I, "you celebrated Christmas."

"Ah! yes, just think, I received a pair of slippers."

"Slippers!"

"Yes, and mine were so worn out that they came very opportunely, and an anonymous letter which was not signed--that is very natural, anonymous letters are never signed. And the same day I received a letter, a visiting card: _The Sisters of the Good Shepherd_."

Everybody laughed.

"What does P.P.C. mean?" I asked.

"Pays Parting Calls."

"Oh, yes, that's true."

"But for some time I have received a great many things, the other day a bit of broken rock, pierced by an arrow. All the people in the box shouted with laughter, and so did I. But I saw plainly that he was furiously angry and suspected everything. It is terrible that only the most foolish little pranks should be remembered."

"You are very fortunate, I received nothing at all."

"Ah! If you wish, I'll send you some slippers."

"But if they are so big, what should I do with them?"

"Never mind, I'll send you all the things."

"That is kind, I am quite overpowered."

BOOK LI

_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."

I cannot lie down. I am sorrowful, excited.

Oh, calm yourself, for Heaven's sake. It hasn't anything to do with M. A----, but simply that I am going. The uncertainty, the vagueness, leaving the known for the unknown.

Sunday, January 2nd, 1876.

"I shall go Sunday at three o'clock," I said or rather shrieked, and Sunday at one o'clock everything was topsy-turvy. The trunks were still empty, and the floor was covered with gowns and finery. For my part, I put on a grey dress and waited quietly. C---- and Dina worked, and so well that everything was ready for the hour of departure.

At half past two, C---- and I got into a little cab and went to hear the band, and I listened once more to the municipal music of Nice. "Come," I said to Collignon, "if this piece is gay, our journey will be, too. I am superstitious." And the piece was very lively. So much the better!

I saw G----, who bid me good-bye once more. I haven't seen the Marvel, but that doesn't matter.

We got into the landau again, and went to the station. Our friends came there, one after another. I skipped about, I laughed, I chattered like a bird. How kind they are, and how hard it is to leave them.

"You feign this gaiety," said B----to me, "but in your heart you are weeping, I am sure of it."

"Ah! you think so? No!

"When to Nice you bid good-bye,
Unfeigned joy is in your eye.
Easy 'tis from Nice to part,
For she never wins your heart."

"Bravo! Bravo!"

The quatrain was made one evening when we were capping verses with G----.

"Give me some cigarettes," I said softly to my aunt.

"Very well, later."

I thought she had forgotten, but at Monaco she wrapped a number in paper and gave them to me. She, who cries out when I ask her for them at home. At Monaco we parted, and those horrid cigarettes made me cry. I was sorry for the poor old grandfather, my aunt, everybody. I am vexed to have to go with Mamma. I was with her at Spa and, besides, I am used to my aunt.

Oh! torture! Imagine the tediousness of a journey in Italy. Mamma and Dina do not know Italian. I refused to use my tongue; I can scarcely use my limbs. By dint of complaining because I was not with my aunt, and saying: "Who asked you to come with us? I ought to go with my aunt. Why do you come with me?" I obtained a passive obedience and an alacrity impossible to imagine.

Night found us in a car. I complained, wept softly, and said the most provoking things to my mother, like the brute I am.

At last, toward three o'clock, Monday, January 3d, ruins, columns, aqueducts began to appear on the dreary plain called the Roman Campagna, and we entered the station of Rome. I saw nothing, I heard nothing. I was utterly limp after these twenty-four hours without sleep.

We were taken to the Hôtel de Londres, Piazza di Spagna, and we occupied an apartment on the ground floor, with a yellow drawing-room that was very fresh and neat, I was tired and depressed, in the condition in which I needed some one to sustain me. And Mamma was crying. Oh, dear!

We must set to work very, very quickly to look about us. There is nothing I hate like changing.

New streets, strange faces, and no Mediterranean. Only the miserable Tiber. I am utterly wretched when I am in a new city. I shut myself up in my room to collect my scattered wits a little.

Tuesday, January 4th, 1876.

Yesterday Mamma wrote to B----, the brother of the empress's physician, and to-day he came to our house. He devotes himself to painting. After this visit, we went out. Oh! the ugly city, the impure air! What a deplorable mixture of ancient magnificence and modern filth!

We went through the Corso, the Via Gregoriana, the Forum of Hadrian, the Forum of Rome, we saw the gates of Septimus Severus, and Constantine, the Via Pia, the Coliseum, but everything is still vague, I don't recognise myself. The drive on the Pincio is charming, the band was playing, but there were not many people when we were there. Statues, statues everywhere. What would Rome be without statues? From the summit of the Pincio we looked at the dome of St. Peter and also the whole city. I am glad to find it is not over large, it will be easier to know.

On the drive we were amused to meet the S----'s, A----, and P---- of Rome. The sun did not appear, and the weather was dull and dreary.

On arriving in Rome, I had no artistic feeling. It is Rome that opened my mind, so I have worshipped her since. I don't want to visit anything before we are settled. The evening was spent in consulting the cards and in writing letters.

This stay in Rome seems an exile and it is with unequalled joy that I think of returning to Nice. The cards predict much good, but can the cards be believed?

Ah! if I could marry some prince! Then I would return to Nice and make a triumphal entry. But no, it is indicated that nothing will succeed for me; so I shall make no more plans or, if I do, it will be with the sorrowful conviction of their uselessness. Each time I have been disappointed.

Wednesday, January 5th, 1876.

This is what I wrote to the General:

"I am in Rome, and it is very wonderful (ah! it is very wonderful, very marvellous). It is cold as Russia, the water freezes in the fountains, but the cold would be nothing if it was _only_ the cold. Since morning we have been in search of an apartment, and we have seen only one. I did not have courage to go up when they pointed out a black, yawning hole, dirty and frightful. I have looked in vain for a house with any resemblance to the French houses. I find only ruins or cracked columns. No doubt it is very beautiful, but agree with me that a good, comfortable apartment is infinitely more pleasant, though less artistic.

"I believe we shall end by lodging in the baths of Caracalla or in the Coliseum. The foreigners will take me for the ghost of a Christian martyr, devoured by some fierce tiger in the presence of some carnivorous emperor. As to the furniture, we will be content with fragments of statues or a few bones, the sublime remains of a henceforth impossible past. After my installation in the Coliseum, or in the Forum, I will give you the most minute details concerning the Eternal City. Meanwhile, I shall expect a letter from you, my dear General, which will be, I know, kind and charming. Now good-bye until we meet again.

MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF."

It is the truth, there is not a habitable apartment; where are we? Can this horrible city be called a capital? We are not in Europe! Not a house fit to rent. I am discouraged, tired, but I will not stir before May.

O Rome! I think that we shall take a larger apartment in the hotel, and stay there. One can breathe only in the Piazza di Spagna. It is impossible that this is Rome! What a mixture of beautiful antiquities and modern trash!

Thursday, January 6th, 1876.

B---- has been here again and brought the addresses of some professors. Then we took a carriage, and Mamma went to the Russian priest's, the archimandrite Alexander. Being an archimandrite, he is married, for in our country priests and deacons can be married once. Mamma says that he is charming. Our embassy makes no show, and has not even any regular reception day.

This society makes me love Rome. I scarcely regret Nice, the ungrateful, wicked city.

Sad and irresolute yesterday, I am gay and confident to-day. I have written to my aunt to send me F----, the ugly little negro will be very nice to have here.

I have had a good dinner, and spent the evening in reading the history of Charles the Bold.

I thought, "in my ingenuous candour," that there was no society except in Nice, but there is a great deal, and even very excellent.

After the drive we went down the Corso, thronged with carriages, between rows of pedestrians of all classes. D----was among them. Now that my eyes are opened to see the beauties and antiquities of Rome, I am growing curious, eager to visit everything. I am no longer drowsy. I am in a hurry to be everywhere. I want to live at full speed again. Ah! if only I could!... Again a longing for Nice. The poorest thing, by resisting, gains worth. Be thoroughly convinced of this genuine truth. Do not believe that I am stupefied to the point of not seeing beyond the city of S----; on the contrary, I am more ambitious than ever. But meanwhile, to spit upon some one who has spit on us, to give the person a kick, is a pleasure which every well-born soul can permit itself.

Friday, January 7th, 1876.

Goodness! What prices people ask in Rome! For 1,800 francs one has only the barest necessaries! At the Hôtel de Rome I saw an apartment so large and so fine that it made my head ache. In France we have no idea of this grandeur, this ancient majesty. After much searching we have taken an apartment in the second story of the Hôtel de Londres, with a balcony looking out upon the Piazza di Spagna, a handsome drawing-room, several bedrooms, and a study. We went to B----'s studio. He has very fair talent.

Tuesday, January 11th, 1876.

We did not go out, but the artist Kalorbinski came, and to-morrow the lessons will begin. Monseigneur de Faloux, being unable to go out himself, sent the Chevalier Rossy to bring us a number of pleasant messages. I received him. I have learned a great deal about affairs in the city.

I am very proud of receiving some one myself. It seems like a sovereign's first decree. The Russian priest has come to call on us too. I like the cowled monks in Rome. They are new to me, and that pleases me.

At last I have a teacher of painting; that is something. This evening I see everything in rose-colour, and I am already thinking of a letter in which it will be said of A----: _Et eum dicat super malitiosum, improbum, inhonestum, cupidum, luxuriosum, ebriosum!_ Exactly what Septimus Severus said of Albinus.

If only the winter would pass more quickly. With all my misfortunes, I feel better in Nice, I can give myself up to despair as much as I please. Only last Spring, there was nobody there. The best people gathered around us. P---- was deserted, so were the others. While this Spring there will again be nobody, but P---- will have Miss R----. These ladies, under the leadership of T----, will form a sort of court, like that of the young Princess G---- and Mme. T---- three months since. Both died three months ago.

We shall see. Meanwhile let us study, and try to go into society. Let us pray to God, and amuse ourselves by writing letters.

Wednesday, January 12th, 1876.

B---- and his cousin have called to see us. When these Russians go, I put on my dressing gown again, and say a lot of things, and rank myself among the goddesses, then descend to calling myself a little bundle of dirty linen.

I like to indulge in extravagant speeches, and make Mamma laugh. I received a letter from B----, this charming friend gives me the news of Nice. P----has had a reception, and everybody went. It seems that we were mentioned in the presence of quite a large number of persons in the consul's house, and the consul and his wife said nothing but good about us.

"I was glad," B---- wrote, "to see that they were your friends, too, though you no longer went there so often."

After all, I am very happy, very calm, and I am going to bed.

Thursday, January 13th, 1876.

Mamma and Dina are at church. It is our New Year's Day, and I have stayed at home to sew. That is my whim at present, and I must do what I wish. B---- called to offer his good wishes.

Not until four o'clock did they succeed in dragging me out of the house and, at five o'clock. Mamma is going to the embassy. That is the hour Baronne D----receives.

We had a telegram from Barnola. He congratulates us, and reminded me of the promise I made to drink a glass of water at the Fountain of Trevi at two o'clock on the Russian New Year's Day. He vowed friendship, I did the same.

I received a letter from my aunt, in which she told me that A---- was paying attention to an English girl whom she has nicknamed Olive. My aunt has so lively an imagination. At the end of three days of our acquaintance with the Marvel, she told me that the poor fool was in love with me. And she pitied him with eager kindness while predicting for him the fate of the Polish count. Now she has seen him at Monaco with the girl, and she is already marrying them. Oh! it is really atrocious--always conjectures! Ah! if I could know the truth. Have patience, that is easy to write. But to show it! Patience is the virtue of sluggish--but gentle, foolish souls.

I don't think I love the Marvel, I don't find him in my heart; but at any rate, the surface is very much occupied with him. If he loved me, I shouldn't care very much, that is the truth.

Friday, January 14th, 1876.

We met on the Pincio Count B----, who started at seeing me, then bowed to my mother.

At five o'clock we went to see Monseigneur F----, a thin, black, agile old priest in a wig, a Jesuit, a hypocrite. He received us very courteously in his remarkable drawing-rooms, filled with things in the best taste. Gobelins, pictures, and all this in the dwelling of a detestable Jesuit. Well, well!

We all went to walk in the Villa Borghese, which is more beautiful than the Doria. There was a crowd of people, and the pretty Princess M---- was walking like any ordinary mortal, followed by her carriage, with the coachman and two footmen in red livery. This quantity of carriages with coats of arms saddened me. We know nobody, God help me! Perhaps I am ridiculous with my complaints, and my eternal prayers! I am so miserable! This evening Mamma asked the date of last year's carnival; I took out my journal and, without noticing it, spent two hours turning over the leaves.

I said to myself: I am living to be happy! Everything must bow before me! And see how it is--the idea that I could fail in anything never occurred to me.

A delay, yes, but a complete failure, nonsense!--And I see with terror and humiliation that I was deceived, that nothing happens as I wish. It is not because I love some one; I do not love anybody seriously; I love a coronet and money. It is terrible to think that everything is escaping. Each instant I long to pray to God, and each instant I stop myself. I shall pray again, let what will happen!

My God, Holy Virgin, do not scorn me, take me under your protection.

Sunday, January 16th, 1876.

I feel that I shall write badly, for I have just been reading my old journal. Mamma begged me to read the period of G----. I read it, passing over a number of things. What is perfectly simple when written is no longer so when read aloud. My face burned, my fingers grew cold, and I ended by saying that I could not go on.

"She will read it to us in two years," said Mamma.

After St. Peter's, Mamma went to Baron d'I----'s, the ambassador's cousin. She made his acquaintance at the ambassadress's. These people are very simple and agreeable. I liked the baron especially.

There was a crowd on the Pincio, the Corso and the Piazza Colonna were thronged with carriages and people returning from the Pincio.

We dined at the table d'hôte because the son of the Grand Duke of Baden was to dine there. A number of society people were present, and the Grand Duke is a pleasant fellow enough--for a Grand Duke.

Wednesday, January 19th, 1876.