Friday, 5 January 1877

I remember the Duke of Hamilton only to tell myself that I have forgotten him — a reflection prompted by what I said of him to Pietro.
I went to Rome and it is as if I had not been there. Yet everyone we met seemed glad to see us again, and I still see Potechine’s cordial face — with him we went one evening to the skating rink, still with the idea of finding Antonelli there, for it is in the evening that bad company assembles. We were given the royal box, but there was no one... The promenade on the Pincio on New Year’s Day, at a walking pace because of the number of carriages, between two rows of men, is always a pleasure to me. I listen and hear the most flattering remarks. Bog — Count Pominsky by his real name — is casting his ogling glances more than ever. This impertinent creature is not without charm, but it would be enough for me to know that he had uttered the least word even faintly disobliging about me to hate him to excess. A remarkable thing: during these eight days in Rome I had my voice back completely; no sooner have I arrived in Nice than I have a frog in my throat again.
To shorten the time I slept until one o’clock, and at luncheon I was caught in my dressing-gown by Count Merjeewsky and his mother. They have been in Nice some days and come often.
Leaving Broussais to deliver his most extravagant nonsense, I withdrew after a most stormy dinner. I play the role of a caged monkey at which everyone comes and pokes a cane or umbrella through the bars — and when the monkey has executed its finest leaps, its most elaborate capers, its most furious grimaces, one walks away smiling at the visitor to whom one was determined to show the animal.
Then everyone commiserated over the fate of poor Émile, ruined by Saëtone, Cresci etc. While in Rome I wrote an acrostic which I sent to Petersburg.
Émile within a few days Must mewl, for vultures Ignobly selling his tower Lie in wait to do him a bad turn — Ever seen such a fiasco?
Well then, after this pun — Whom will he now court?
An immense throng Of ladies who, to Indemnify their love, Set the tower rocking
Wretched scoundrel, they cry — good day!
Give us back our hearts, dreadful Giaour, And then go off into some oven And shove yourself in... O Troubadour!
And then a song about the return from Serbia — or rather a scene.
Act I
Girofla in a Turkish dressing gown and slippers, walks along skipping and singing. The scene takes place between the Place Masséna and the oriental shop.
I return, O Christian, From those places Gay and radiant — Not knowing geography in the least, I found myself at a point Other than Serbia.
(He stops and, as if seized by a delicious memory, smiles and slaps his knees.)
What fine weather. Ah! Satan — I’ve been to see the Sultan! (repeat)
I spare you the rest.
So this evening there was a grand reception in my rooms, lit up as they are every evening. I love lights. Among the persons of high distinction present were Mme Anitchkoff and her three daughters, General Bibi, Collignon, Walitsky, Dina, my aunt, and Maman. I sat by the fireplace, leaning on a pedestal table, my feet royally disposed — and wearing a Mary Stuart cap, not my feet, myself. The feet are set in red mules made by Rubini in imitation of the Egyptian shoes that struck me in Aïda.
You perhaps think me disappointed at not having seen Antonelli. Well, you are wrong. I have nothing to say to him — for the moment — there was nothing in store but reproaches.
— Me, reproaches? Later.
And yet it is dreadful that there should be a man who thinks of me what Antonelli has every right to think — and with full knowledge of the facts.
Oh madness, oh abasement, oh eclipse of intelligence.
My fault.
Doubt, illusion, deception, oppression. There is my life expressed in a distinguished language.
I find a letter from Berthe for the New Year, and a sachet of violets — found only in Nice — sent by Ricardo.
Nice alone is useful to me. I am not dissipated — I spend my life in scientific and historical research, learning so many things I do not know.
And then... comes a wild desire to have a magnificent study full of precious books in which to spend most of my time.
That is why I want to go into society: to find a rich husband and give myself up to study, to frequent learned men, writers, artists. That is why.
And you attribute this to the desire to show off dresses!
I do not disdain them, far from it. Physical luxury is necessary to moral luxury.

Notes

The initial letters of the lines spell ÉMILE … AUDIFFRET (Émile d’Audiffret). The verses play on rhymes in -our: four (oven; also a theatrical flop), tour (tower; trick). ↩
Giaour: from Turkish, an infidel — a non-Muslim. Used here as a theatrical mock-insult in the operatic burlesque. ↩
Girofla: Marie’s nickname for Émile d’Audiffret, taken from Lecocq’s operetta Giroflé-Girofla (1874); the sketch mocks his return from Serbia. ↩
In Latin in the original: Culpa mea. — from the Catholic mea culpa (confession formula). ↩
In Latin in the original: Dubium, illusio, deceptio oppressio. ↩
Cabinet d’études: a gentleman’s study or private library — traditionally a male domain for serious intellectual work. ↩