Saturday 4 March 1876

We write to my aunt about all these people who are supposed to be courting me.
Even in the wretched position in which we find ourselves, I have almost always some admirers in pursuit — what would it be then if we entered society! One can easily conceive that it would be wonderfully fine.
Ah! What a sigh.
The weather is very fine, but I stay at home because my
face today does not please me. However, left alone I do my hair in the style of the Venus Capitoline with my own golden, adorable hair, and I assure you that in my white flannel dress, simple as simplicity itself, belted with a yellow silk cord from which hangs a small pouch likewise in yellow leather with my arms embroidered in gold, and Russian leather slippers, I am quite a chic creature. I look like a woman of the First Empire, or a Beatrice, or a figure from a keepsake. I do not flatter myself — when I am plain I do not hide it and say so twice over rather than once.
A pity that no one sees me.
My aunt writes that in return for her letter she received, instead of an opera, a masquerade — and that despite the presence of the Sharp One at the theatre, the Surprising One and the Fat One were dancing such a frenzied cancan in their box with kept women that it was quite a sight to see.
But I care very little, just now, about Nice and all it contains — Doria, inaccessible Doria! If I were to add some commentary on Plutarch? No — I shall wait impatiently for their return and for news from the city.
All the Russian artists in Rome know that I paint — I shall mingle with their group. Katorbinsky has told them that I have boldness in my brushwork. I know this from M. Swedomsky, a painter we came to know through Botkine. Walitsky knows Botkine and goes to the Caffè Greco, the forum of the Russian artists. Contrary to all expectation we are not alone in the evening — Plowden comes to do us the pleasure of speaking a great many uncharitable things about his neighbours, including Antonelli. But say what he will — he wants to show he is courting me; God bless him, I do not abhor him.

Notes

Keepsake — In the original. An illustrated gift annual, a genre of sentimental publication fashionable in the early–mid nineteenth century; here used to evoke a refined, slightly old-fashioned beauty.