Thursday, 3 February 1876

Belle-de-jour again.
In my sleep I distinctly heard a voice repeat three times: "Bergerault! Bergerault! Bergerault!" May the devil take him.
At eleven o'clock, in dark dress, I go to the Capitol with Lola, Dina and Domenica. We go over the statues once more; Lola's remarks provoke laughter. I believe we have scandalised a gentleman by our scrupulous examination of the Dying Gladiator. He came in and found two women behind and two women in front, examining the statue with the most vacant expression in the world.
Fortuné is with us — he is amused.
We come out somewhat ashamed — but truly, one is wrong to think badly; for my part I look at the most naked statues without any ulterior thought, and for good reason: a completely naked man is very ugly and even ridiculous. I could never tire of admiring Agrippina — she has a well-marked and plump chin, a nose admirable in form and expression, and a small, slightly pursed mouth that delights me. Besides, Nero in profile resembles her entirely. That cruel expression pleases me.
From there we pass to the Italian Pantheon — there are only a few busts placed. The face of M. Poussin struck me by its majestic beauty — he looks like Peter the Great. Then to the Etruscan Museum, where we enter and make a great fuss over the little broken statuettes, a bronze back half of a bull, a bronze front half of a horse, and a heap of little earthenware pots — we imagine it to be the gods' kitchen batterie, and the custodi follow us marvelling at our gaiety. Then the picture gallery, which is deadly dull.
And there are idiots who admire these dreadful daubs — virgins without eyebrows, true masks in place of human faces. The martyrdom of Saint Sebastian abounds, it irritates me like the head of the Cenci. In a corner I find a charming small painting — the Rape of Europa, a canvas of 30 cm. Europa is on the back of a bull crossing the sea swimming. I must copy this.
There are Titians — those beautiful red hair and enormous wrists — principally the figure of his beloved, to whom all his paintings bear a likeness.
Not a single canvas has caught my attention — except a Magdalene who had the look of a sick Chinese woman. An abominable face. The eternal Saint Sebastian, riddled with arrows and apparently not feeling them — just as if one were throwing roses at him.
Saint Petronilla by Guercino held me for a few minutes, because Bensa had given me to copy two hands and a child's head that he himself copied from this painting when he was twenty-two. His copies are atrocious, as I can see.
The busts of Socrates (there are three in the museum) amuse me. What philosophy in his nose!
[Written across the page: I visited all this as a barbarian.]
We return to the hotel for a few moments; I take a small glass of wine and eat some bread, and we set off again.
At the Vatican we had only an hour and a half; we merely passed through, speaking loudly and making our remarks, through the Raphael Rooms, the Raphael Loggia — which disappointed me — then the picture gallery. Ah, now we're talking! — living figures, fine paintings that are a pleasure to see.
In the Sistine Chapel we make such a racket that the custode comes to shout silenzio!
After looking at the famous Last Judgement by Michelangelo and finding that all his men were of the same colour — which is not natural — I went to the back, behind the benches.
There is a door there that we tried in vain to open; so I looked through the keyhole. Lola followed my example but started back with a cry — she intrigued me; I looked again, but barely had I applied my eye to the hole than I too started back with an exclamation followed by a paroxysm of wholly inappropriate laughter for a chapel; Dina and Lola were laughing as I was. For instead of the apartment I had seen the first time, this time I saw nothing but an immense eye and half a nose. It was so startling as to be unexpected — no, that is the wrong way round.
We must come back — we have seen very little.
Ah, the martyrdom of Saint Erasmus by Poussin. What horror. I have also seen the Raphaels — but you are not expecting a Guide Diamant from me, are you.
However, in good conscience I ought to speak of the Transfiguration since everyone speaks of it.
In truth, it is very beautiful and very natural. But that rogue Raphael painted very little himself. He drew — but that is not enough.
I have not been long enough to criticise properly — another day.
As we are sitting down to table M. Besnard comes — but he is not received.
I spend the evening talking nonsense about the statues and tying a ribbon round Prater's neck. Maman is ill, and I am anxious about Nice — for three days no letter.
It is late; I hurry; I am sleepy.
A heap of little anxieties — Nice, then an antique dress that is not coming right — well, good night!

Notes

Belle-de-jour (morning glory): Marie's ominous code-name for a recurring dream figure associated with bad luck.
The Dying Gaul (also called the Dying Gladiator): famous ancient Roman marble in the Capitoline Museums, showing a wounded warrior in his final moments.
Nicolas Poussin (1594–1665): the great French classical painter who spent most of his career in Rome.
Custodi (Italian): museum guards or custodians.
The portrait of Beatrice Cenci (1577–1599), long attributed to Guido Reni, showing the young woman executed for parricide; it became a famous icon of suffering innocence.
Classical mythological subject: Zeus, disguised as a bull, abducts Europa by swimming with her across the sea to Crete.
Giovanni Francesco Barbieri, called Guercino (1591–1666): Italian Baroque painter. His Saint Petronilla (1621–23) is in the Capitoline Museums.
A la bonne heure: an exclamation of approval: "Now that's more like it!" or "At last!"
Silenzio!: Italian for "Silence!"
Guide Diamant: a popular series of cheap travel guides; Marie means she is not going to give a systematic tourist's description.
Raphael's Transfiguration (1516–1520), his last and most celebrated painting, now in the Vatican Pinacoteca.