that in view, which should have pleased his father. But I think what really angered Adrien was that he spoke of bowing to our wishes, as though they were not reasonable plans, and also repeated his affirmation that a career outside of philosophy or literature would just be so much lost time for him.
I only wish he would be more realistic about this. To make one’s bread from literature alone seems unlikely. I have nothing but admiration for M. France, for example, but if M. Hanotaux is rare in combining literature and politics, M. France is rarer still in making a good living from his pen alone. It is such an unstable and unpredictable career.
It is not, I suppose, that Marcel will need that much money. One does not like to speculate on these things, but in the fullness of time his share of his grandfather’s and his great-uncle’s fortunes will pass to him, of course. But inherited wealth should never be used as an excuse for frittering away one’s life or avoiding one’s duty. I am composing a stiff letter to Marcel, although Adrien’s last words on the subject were affectionate enough—“Tell the boy to cut back on cream cheese,” he advised me, because Marcel has been complaining of his digestion too.
TROUVILLE . H ôTEL DES R OCHES N OIRES . M ONDAY , S EPTEMBER 4, 1893.
Saw the doctor safely onto the train yesterday. I bumped into the Faures in the dining room at lunch. They had just arrived, late in the season, but some business had kept him in Paris and she was staying with her relations in the interim. Pleasant to see them again. Her devotion to her girls is quite touching to witness—she talks of nothing but her love for them. Lucie is a mother now, but Antoinette has yet to marry and we agreed she and Marcel must get reacquainted in Paris this autumn.
Sometimes, I really feel lucky I do not have daughters. Sons may need a bit of prodding, but imagine having to round up candidates for a daughter every season. It would be exhausting work. If the girl was not married by twenty-two, a mother might drop dead from the sheer effort of it!
Anyway, an introduction between Marcel and Antoinette must surely be arranged. How quickly they grow up—certainly the last time I saw her she was only a little girl. Her mother showed me her photograph: she now has the most lovely dark hair, rather like the little de Benardaky girl with whom Marcel was once so taken.
TROUVILLE . H ôTEL DES R OCHES N OIRES . T HURSDAY , S EPTEMBER 7, 1893.
Marcel has arrived and retreated to his room, saying the journey had utterly exhausted him and that he can smell pollen in the air. I protested that we are several miles away from any fields, but he just smiled that patient and sorry smile he gives me sometimes and said,“Really, Maman, I do apologize, but there is pollen in the air.” He was not best pleased either when I told him he must meet up with Antoinette Faure when we return to Paris, and just said, “Well, Maman, for the moment I’m not fit to meet anyone, let alone a young lady.” I had so looked forward to his arriving, but now that he is here we seem to have started off on the wrong foot.
Adrien writes in this morning’s letter that old Dr. Charcot has died. The lunatics will surely miss their guardian but his work lives on. Adrien says his Austrian follower, Dr. Fruden, is now pursuing his teacher’s research into hysteria, so that Dr. Charcot will not soon be forgotten. I feel guilty that we had not seen him nor Madame in several years, and must write her a little note of condolences.
TROUVILLE . H ôTEL DES R OCHES N OIRES . S ATURDAY , S EPTEMBER 9, 1893.
Marcel is fearfully ill. The poor little boy was just recovering from his voyage yesterday, and had moved into the bathroom when the maid came in not realizing he was still in the room and, despite my strict instructions to the manager on the subject, opened the window to air the place. Marcel came in from the bathroom, horrified first that there was this
I only wish he would be more realistic about this. To make one’s bread from literature alone seems unlikely. I have nothing but admiration for M. France, for example, but if M. Hanotaux is rare in combining literature and politics, M. France is rarer still in making a good living from his pen alone. It is such an unstable and unpredictable career.
It is not, I suppose, that Marcel will need that much money. One does not like to speculate on these things, but in the fullness of time his share of his grandfather’s and his great-uncle’s fortunes will pass to him, of course. But inherited wealth should never be used as an excuse for frittering away one’s life or avoiding one’s duty. I am composing a stiff letter to Marcel, although Adrien’s last words on the subject were affectionate enough—“Tell the boy to cut back on cream cheese,” he advised me, because Marcel has been complaining of his digestion too.
TROUVILLE . H ôTEL DES R OCHES N OIRES . M ONDAY , S EPTEMBER 4, 1893.
Saw the doctor safely onto the train yesterday. I bumped into the Faures in the dining room at lunch. They had just arrived, late in the season, but some business had kept him in Paris and she was staying with her relations in the interim. Pleasant to see them again. Her devotion to her girls is quite touching to witness—she talks of nothing but her love for them. Lucie is a mother now, but Antoinette has yet to marry and we agreed she and Marcel must get reacquainted in Paris this autumn.
Sometimes, I really feel lucky I do not have daughters. Sons may need a bit of prodding, but imagine having to round up candidates for a daughter every season. It would be exhausting work. If the girl was not married by twenty-two, a mother might drop dead from the sheer effort of it!
Anyway, an introduction between Marcel and Antoinette must surely be arranged. How quickly they grow up—certainly the last time I saw her she was only a little girl. Her mother showed me her photograph: she now has the most lovely dark hair, rather like the little de Benardaky girl with whom Marcel was once so taken.
TROUVILLE . H ôTEL DES R OCHES N OIRES . T HURSDAY , S EPTEMBER 7, 1893.
Marcel has arrived and retreated to his room, saying the journey had utterly exhausted him and that he can smell pollen in the air. I protested that we are several miles away from any fields, but he just smiled that patient and sorry smile he gives me sometimes and said,“Really, Maman, I do apologize, but there is pollen in the air.” He was not best pleased either when I told him he must meet up with Antoinette Faure when we return to Paris, and just said, “Well, Maman, for the moment I’m not fit to meet anyone, let alone a young lady.” I had so looked forward to his arriving, but now that he is here we seem to have started off on the wrong foot.
Adrien writes in this morning’s letter that old Dr. Charcot has died. The lunatics will surely miss their guardian but his work lives on. Adrien says his Austrian follower, Dr. Fruden, is now pursuing his teacher’s research into hysteria, so that Dr. Charcot will not soon be forgotten. I feel guilty that we had not seen him nor Madame in several years, and must write her a little note of condolences.
TROUVILLE . H ôTEL DES R OCHES N OIRES . S ATURDAY , S EPTEMBER 9, 1893.
Marcel is fearfully ill. The poor little boy was just recovering from his voyage yesterday, and had moved into the bathroom when the maid came in not realizing he was still in the room and, despite my strict instructions to the manager on the subject, opened the window to air the place. Marcel came in from the bathroom, horrified first that there was this
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