Tuesday, 24 October 1876 (12 October)

I had no childhood, but the house where I lived when I was very small is congenial to me, if not dear. I know everyone and everything; the servants, who have served us from father to son and grown old in our service, are astonished to see me so tall. And I would enjoy a few sweet memories if my mind were not poisoned by my present preoccupations.
They used to call me Mouche, Mouha, and as I could not aspirate the h the Russian way, I did as the French do and said Moucha, which means: torture. A lugubrious coincidence.
The name was so popular that it has stuck, and it is Julie who is called by it now — I mean by the peasants and the servants.
I dreamed of Antonelli for the first time since Nice.
Domenica and her daughter arrived in the evening in answer to my note of this morning. We stayed a long time in the dining room, which opens onto the hall through an arch without draperies. My Agrippina dress is a great success.
I sang while walking about, to master the fear that always comes over me when I sing.
Why write? What have I to tell! I must bore people to death! Patience. Sixtus the Fifth was only a swineherd, and Sixtus the Fifth became pope!
To resume.
With Lola there came to me something like a breath of air from Rome... it seemed to me that we were coming back from the Opera or the Pincio.
The promenade or the theatre, wherever one pays — that is it!
Grandpapa’s immense library holds precious and rare volumes, and among all these books I chose one, as much because of the moral impossibility of procuring it elsewhere as to disgust myself with books... how shall I put it? Well, I have purloined “Mlle de Maupin” by Th. Gautier. Oho! you say. Is that not so?
I stuffed it under my mattress and had Lola sleep in the same room so that we could read it together. But instead of that we talked until two o’clock and had time (very fortunately) only to read the preface of the work, which people consider remarkable.
written across the page
I have read this book, but all by myself, without Lola, and not the whole of it. Why does anyone write such books?
Through Lola and her mother I had the Poltava gossip. Someone wrote to Lola about my “extraordinary” photographs; I am a great topic of interest, and the famous Dina Bedriaga turned up one fine day with her hat trimmed with crow’s feathers, saying that she had filched these feathers from Michel, who had brought them from Gavronzi, where I killed the crow in question.
— These feathers are Mousse Bashkirtseff’s.
Lola told me fabulous things about this young lady. They say she is a man — the fact is that she falls in love with women and pays them unbridled court, dresses like a man except for the trousers, and waits on the ladies like a cavalier.