Saturday, 19 February 1876

I dreamed of Audiffret, and before going to our balcony on the Corso we exchange our impressions of last night.
As I was giving my opinion of Antonelli:
— My dear, said Maman to me, all the declarations of love in the world would give you no pleasure — but if Audiffret were to fall at your knees and tell you he loves you, you would be the happiest of women.
— That is nonsense, I said aloud.
It is perfectly true, I said to myself.
— He pleases you, Maman went on, and you please him too.
— That is not evident.
— Well, that is precisely how he holds you.
I let her talk; I understand the feeling of vanity every well-born mother must feel.
It is the first day of carnival. The Corso is not very lively. We receive any number of bouquets. For the first time I have seen the famous Barberi race. It is very beautiful and original. But I am bored — everyone goes to dine at Spillmann's, the London House of Rome; I stay at home alone and am seized by a sadness and a rage I cannot account for. I groan like an invalid, I throw myself on the floor, I sigh, I play the piano, I work myself into a fury, I laugh.
The post brings me a copy of La Vie Mondaine, and I read in it a dazzling description of the fancy dress and masked ball at Madame Sabatier's. Audiffret was in Hamlet costume. He must have been magnificent. You do not know what he looks like, do you? — here is the description of the hero of my novel, which is his portrait:
— "He was of medium height, wiry, vigorous but slender and elegant. Chestnut hair almost black, a brow of dazzling whiteness, an oval face, cheeks fresh and velvety as a peach, a small straight moustache fairer than the hair, and lips the colour of blood which, parting, revealed a double row of teeth as regular as they were white. A long but well-shaped nose. Large dark eyes — not those oily, furious Italian eyes — but brilliant, entirely dark eyes, sparkling with wit and gaiety and often deep and mocking.
All this composed a countenance that women could not view with indifference; and when he fixed his clear and haughty gaze upon them, even the most cold-natured felt stirred, and their hearts beat faster than usual.
— Allow, please, for the novel in all this.
[Written across the page: Of a bad novel.]
A man like that must look fine in Hamlet costume. Then I read this in "the journal of the great Limousin": "We are asked to write an article on the absurdity presented by imitations of conspicuous outfits — white ones especially — that have long been adopted by a certain person. We shall give it thought."
This, along with several other things, fills my measure of despair to overflowing, so that I can scarcely swallow a bowl of soup and am on the verge of tears when my vagabonds return. That calms me a little; then Visconti arrives, which finishes the calming.
I await with impatience the masquerade at the Apollo. I shall go in a domino.
If only I don't croak before then. I am so wretched that I fear I shall die.
God — if only I could find somewhere to weep at my ease! This forced composure has given me a headache.
And people dare ask me why I don't go back to Nice! Cap de Biou! And the ball at Madame Sabatier's and the sale at the Square Masséna and everything, everything, everything! I am stifling "di rabbia e di furor" like Mignon. Mignon was only raging with love — whereas I!!!
My God, my God, grant me the patience to wait — calm me!
And if the waiting is in vain — if the lawsuit is lost, or if it drags on still!
My head was about to burst and I allowed myself to cry — if someone should come in — no, I hope not!
Ah! My room — ah! My unhappiness.
Oh! How tiresome life is!
It seems it did not take place on the 14th, and Vigier's performance is postponed to the 19th. So it is tonight — if there are no further postponements. Oh, my head aches.

Notes

The Barberi: riderless horses (Barbary horses) adorned with spurs and tinsel raced down the Corso each evening of Roman Carnival — a tradition dating back centuries, abolished in 1882.
Spillmann's: the most fashionable restaurant on the Corso, comparable in Rome to the London House in Nice.
Cap de Biou!: a Niçois dialect oath, literally "Head of an ox!" — equivalent to "Good grief!" or "Damn it!"
di rabbia e di furor: Italian, "with rage and fury" — a phrase from Ambroise Thomas's opera Mignon (1866), Act I. In Italian in the original.