Saturday, 6 January 1877

I met Princess Souvoroff at the Skating, and she... repeated to me the same thing about Tutcheff as the other day at Mortier’s. It came up apropos of what I said about Nice.
It is a town of gossip and slander, as I learned on my return from Rome.
And I told her all of this.
— Pay no attention to this gossip, she said, and win your enemies over with kindness.
Bihovetz, seeing me chatting with the princess at length and on friendly terms, dissolved into smiles and nods of approval. He never leaves the princess’s side.
As I glided on, I heard two voices: “Good day, Mademoiselle, how are you?” It was M. and Mme de Lewin. I gave them a slight nod — wrongly, perhaps, but I am curt with everyone so as not to regret it afterwards.
We met Audiffret on the way out.
How can I show myself in Nice?
Oh, what a terrible thing it is to be ashamed of oneself!
Now the public regards me as a victim. They pity me!!! I understood it from what Mme Souvoroff said.
I wrote to my father two days ago. He has not answered yet.
I am utterly revolted, having leafed through my journal of the Antonelli days. One day I would write the most sensible things, and the next I would behave like the most vulgar and foolish of women!
How I promise myself to change, how I promise myself to behave properly, to act according to my ideas and not to stray from them for an instant!
It was a remark of Madame my mother’s that threw me into Antonelli’s arms after our return from Naples.
Blessed be the day I had the idea of writing. I read, and in this way I take in a whole winter, a whole era, in a single hour. It is a sovereign lesson. And yet, had I had my journal with me this time in Rome, I... would perhaps have been quite different; I would not have been so indifferent if I had had somewhere to pour out the smallest things. In this case, then, it was better not to write. I had no one to complain to, and I did not explode.
By the way... I was thirsting to see Rome again; I have seen it again, and I am beginning to thirst for it once more.
I have taken to dressing as a Capuchin for good.
Ah! I should like to die.
Instead of dying I went to have supper in the pavilion, crossing the garden like that, with a candle and in my monk’s frock, at two in the morning.
I am reading Garibaldi’s memoirs and yet another book that deals with him, and I am electrified.
And I am nothing. I write, but I write things nobody cares about! When shall I ever have something to tell...

Notes

Giuseppe Garibaldi (1807-1882), hero of Italian unification. His memoirs, edited by Alexandre Dumas, had been published in French since 1860. ↩