Friday, 30 January 1874

I sent Fortune to order a horse; I take a thousand pains to style my hair; it is four o'clock and no horses, so I undress, dress again promptly, and we go out by carriage. The day is grey like yesterday. We meet M. Howard and the carriage stops; then Mme Howard, and we stop to speak with her. Maman and my aunt go abroad (Monaco), and I with Dina (brown dress, not bad, nearly good) go to post my letter to Worth; I order a white dress from him, then order a gold belt from Glaton, and finally go to the London House to order sandwiches and bisque.
Why does it seem like summer to me? Last year the races and the pigeon shooting were not until February, and that February seemed like winter, while this year January seems like April or October. I am still waiting for the visitors, the races, the balls. Not once yet this winter have I stayed near the concert as I did last year, when there was a crowd of people, when the sun shone, when the fashionable sets were numerous, when Gioia was there too -- when everything was animated, brilliant. Winter is passing, and I am still waiting for it.
Without the Duke of Hamilton, Nice is miserable -- it is as if one removed the centre flower from a bouquet. I do not like the amorous Beak. Wittgenstein no longer shows himself, or rather, I think he has left. And he does not count; what is a man tied to the skirts of a cocotte! To have a cocotte as the Duke had is another thing entirely, but poor Wittgenstein is completely at the mercy of that woman.
There is not a single young man; even Boreel has not come -- I think he is getting married somewhere in Holland. Many have married: from the Nice dust, Warrodel; Boreel too, I suppose; the Duke of Hamilton. It seems to me that Wittgenstein will soon break out. This year chiefly matrimonial.
Lambertye too -- Maman thinks he is marrying the Beak. What sustains Nice is Princess Souvoroff.
There are men, and even of the first quality, but they do not show themselves and spend their time in Monte Carlo. As for Nice -- what one calls Nice no longer exists. No fine dresses, no young men.
I am beginning to speak of the trip to England that I should like to make this spring.
I am already fifteen!
How much that is, and how little -- it is a century, and it is a day.
Striker came this afternoon; I showed him my foot, which is very pretty in my new slippers, but I believe he did not understand. -- Boys!
Mme Anitchkoff comes in the evening; I go with her to the garden, and we walk the whole avenue.
Often I ask myself: Am I stupid, or have I wit? I should like to hear my portrait drawn by someone.

Notes

In English in the original.
In English in the original.