Saturday, 1 January 1876

Here it is, the new year! Hail and grace!
Well, not so bad as I had feared — the first day of 1876. They say the whole year passes more or less as the first day does, and it is true. Last New Year's Day I spent in a railway carriage, and indeed I have travelled a great deal. The day begins with the following letter, which I am posting:
Wretched man! Your soul, mortgaged to Satan — who was good enough to come in person to the Tower quite recently to claim the amount of the interest due, which you were unable to pay — your soul, I say, will be ignominiously sold by Forced Auction on Tuesday 4 January 1876, at the hour of midnight, in the Public Auction Rooms near the Civil Court of Nice. Starting price: 3 francs. For all enquiries apply to Maître Armelfi, the pursuing solicitor.
Then I go for a drive, but the gilded youth is nowhere to be seen, nor the English women either. These fortunate rascals are amusing themselves somewhere.
At the moment we stop before Mme de Mouzay's door, Tournon passes and comes over and speaks to us just as if nothing had happened. I really understand nothing at all.
At Mme de Mouzay's we find the Viscountess de Ballore, and on catching sight of her I immediately exclaimed that we must call on her.
[In the margin: I compose entire dramas out of whether or not someone comes to the box, etc.]
In this way I spare myself a call. The Ballores were at our house recently and are always most polite and charming. It is a farewell visit. P.P.C.
This very moment an idea comes to me — I shall send the Surprising One this calling card tomorrow:
The Monks of Cimiez. Condolences.
This card is followed by the following letter:
Our Brother! We may well call you thus, for we understand that grace has touched you and that you are renouncing at last the putrid pleasures of this world. O our brother, what a triumph for the angel of Good! You are renouncing, then, the treacherous temptations of women of loose character, the immoral frequentation of places of perdition? You are renouncing Saetone, who ought rather to be named Satan, for he is a tempter far more dangerous than Lucifer, Beelzebub and Pluto combined! You go no more to the London House (dreadful abyss) nor to the Maison Dorée, that pernicious tavern! Nor to the Théâtre Français, that pit of depravity! Nor to the wings of the Opera, that degrading abomination! You consort no more with actresses; you are no longer in love with Mlle Provano, that dangerous beauty, nor with Maria Sonino, that bewitching siren! You are renouncing at last the eternal damnation of your soul! O our brother! You no longer play at the Club, that nauseating and abominable hell-pit! Brave and courageous soul, superhuman heart! You feel no regret, then, for the lady with the spectacles and for Maurice Gros! You renounce their attractions! You are rising, you are purifying yourself! You have strayed, you have been depraved, you very nearly rotted — but you are stopping yourself! Our brother, we are moved, transported, stirred to the depths of our souls, for we hold the news of your conversion to be true; it was brought to us this very day by Brother Ardigo, who has just left the world and the Hôtel des Dames. He too! Come, Brother Émile, come! We await you, we pray for you! Our arms are open to you, our scissors are prepared to clip your hair, the habit awaits you! Shake from your pointed sandals the dust of the Promenade des Anglais, and come, come to win the eternal crown at the feet of the Lord! The Monks of Cimiez P.S. I too have a heart, I too have a soul; I am moved and impatient to see you arrive, O my brother! — all the more so since you will in all likelihood share my labours during your novitiate. The water-carrier of the convent.
I am positively delighted with these letters. The monks' letter is only the beginning of a long correspondence that you will read with pleasure.
The general dines with us and we go to see Sapho again with him. The house is full but entirely devoid of the fashionable set. I find any number of amusing things to say that make the whole box laugh.
Ricardo comes, as always. The English woman's husband was in her box the entire time, the great fool that he is, while his wife laughed and amused herself with Brother Émile, Tournon and the others.
Pepino watches from behind his column.
Listen, I am furious at Sapho's death! Those great brutes in white, those inflexible and absurd pagans!
Poor woman!
I think I am talking nonsense — never mind, I am in good spirits.
On the way out Pepino comes to speak to me.
Tomorrow I shall leave, I am far from you!, I sang, from Mignon.
— Really, Mademoiselle, tomorrow? Then I tell him yes, and he is so charmed by my laughter that he hands me into the carriage and asks leave to come to the station tomorrow.
Tomorrow — yes, tomorrow. I am glad to be leaving.
Do you think it is pleasant for me to see all the pleasures pass before my nose?
Farewell then, every one of you!
I am quite happy, for I have made an entire plan — a plan that will fall apart like the others, but which amuses me in the meantime. We have our house in Nice; it is impossible that the Surprising One should not return one day or another.
You understand perfectly how I would receive him in such a case — the smallest self-respect demands it. He will be furious, as is only natural, and I shall be happy.
Very well — and if he marries? Oh, oh! Well, if he marries, so much the worse — it will not be the first plan of mine that is dashed.
And if he does not come back at all? That is unlikely — we are neighbours, we know each other. Well then, if it were not two in the morning I would write an entire story about the soul auction, the monks, etc. etc.
I have not wept, I have not felt sad for a single moment. A very pleasant day to begin the year. I do not know whether it shows, but I feel that I speak and act like Audiffret.
I am leaving and I think only of coming back. In Rome I shall no doubt change my mind. If only nothing keeps me here tomorrow!
God, let nothing keep me here.
All the same — "this is where I should like to live."
Oh! these accursed English women — who are they?
I had already put the notebook away, but I found a great deal more to say. I looked at the large caricature, in which there are five of us. I thought of everything — of Mme Prodgers, of the English women, of the Niçois, of Sapho, of Mignon, of last spring, of a great many things in short. I had much to say and yet, you see, I stop. It is disagreeable to leave, yes — but it is dreadful to stay.
Pasqua has dramatic expressions and movements so natural that she delights and moves me. Now then — what did I want to write? That I am calm and troubled, sad and joyful, jealous and indifferent. It seems to me that the society here is easy to obtain and at the same time impossible.
"I want to stay and I want to flee — How will this end?!"
I cannot go to bed; I am all agitation. Oh! set your minds at rest, please — it is not a matter of M. d'Audiffret, simply because I am leaving. It is an emotion. The uncertainty, the indistinctness, the change.
To leave the known for the unknown... The known treats me ill!
Come now — did I not say it was dreadful to see all the pleasures pass before my nose! Oh! yes, it is dreadful.
God, let me leave — let nothing prevent me from leaving. Let me leave and let me come back.

Notes

Pour Prendre Congé — the standard notation on a calling card for a farewell visit.
In Italian in the original: Domani, partiro, sono lontana da voi — from Ambroise Thomas's opera Mignon.
In Italian in the original: Addio dunque, tutti quanti!