Friday, 25 December 1874

Noël — “O Holy Night, the hour is come,” etc.
I was doing my hair when M. Jean de Woerman was announced — as if a cloth merchant can have a de to his name! But it costs so little and gives him such pleasure.
My aunt receives him; my mother has been bedridden for fifteen days, and I am quite anxious — as much on account of what I saw in the mirror (the year is not yet over!), as on account of an itchy nose.
I should not have come down had little Foster not arrived.
This fine gentleman asks whether I shall go into society this winter, to which I replied with the most innocent air that no, not until next winter.
— “Not even to afternoon receptions?”
— “Not at all into Nice society in the first year — but in Italy.”
— “Why ever not here?”
I don’t know — Maman does not wish me to make my debut in Nice society. He then turned to my aunt:
— “But Madame, so you bought the villa only so as not to stay in Nice!”
I had cut a toe on my left foot and was wearing Maman’s ankle boots; two or three times I noticed Woerman’s eyes directed toward my feet. Whatever has she done to her feet? he must have been wondering.
My aunt, for once, was very civil and agreeable.
Having taken Foster with me, I was fastening my ankle boots to go walking with her when someone called from Maman’s room that MM. de Barrême and d’Olivier were near the pavilion. Uncertain what to do, I opened the balcony door and called in my most amiable voice:
— “Monsieur de Barrême, come round this way — we do not live at the pavilion.”
— “Really, Mademoiselle, I thought it was here!”
— “No, no.”
One boot unbuttoned, Foster waiting for me, and old de Barrême, whom I had to introduce to my aunt.
In two minutes I was ready and introduced the gentlemen. D’Olivier is a man of fifty, with grizzled hair, a vast round face, short and rather stout.
Without needing to be asked twice he sat down at the piano and sang, then it was Florence who sang “Knowest Thou the Land” — that song I have just rewritten in my own fashion:
Do you know the land too cold for the orange tree, the land of golden hair and ruddy faces, Where rains are frequent and the horses so fleet, Where in the season one sees so many wonders, Where, radiant and smiling like a ray from heaven, Shines a swarm of charming men with grey or blue eyes?
Alas! why can I not follow him to that far country whence the devil exiled me.
There it is I would live, pass my days, race my horses. Do you know the palace where he dwells, over there, The gilt-panelled halls and the vast stables That draw me night and day, as if holding out their arms to me?
And there alone do I understand life.
And the park where every day so many angels and demons Parade, brilliant and superb — dukes and daumonts. Alas! why can I not follow him
To that happy shore whence fate exiled me — There it is I would live, love and die.
Then d’Olivier sang again — and he did not sing badly.
My aunt was as agreeable with these two as with Woerman — even more so. We spoke of the furniture, the annexe.
At last I went out with Foster and Victor. Nothing but the crowd — still, that is to say, it is very interesting to walk about on such a day.
Furstenberg, d’Arnim, Lambertye, Jarchewsky, Woerman, and two others I do not know are promenading.
Youth of Nice!
Gambart passed us — I heard him say good day and recognised him only afterward.
We took a turn in the carriage, and the comedy is over.

Notes

In English in the original. ↩
Marie’s parody of the famous aria from Ambroise Thomas’s opera Mignon (1866), which originally describes longing for Italy. Marie rewrites it as a lament for Scotland — the Duke of Hamilton’s domain. Her French verse is translated here; daumonts are carriages driven à la Daumont, with postilions. ↩
In Latin in the original: Juventus Nicæa ! — a mock-classical exclamation. ↩
In Italian in the original: finita la commedia — a theatrical phrase for the end of a performance, or an episode. ↩