# Wednesday, 14 February 1877

Wednesday, 14 February 1877

Maman being in bed, we went with Pelikan to the Naples Skating Rink, set up, as in Rome, in a sort of riding school. The atmosphere was truly Neapolitan: the well-bred idlers of Naples are as noisy as those of the street, and the talents that these amiable Masaniellos possess are exercised in society, by amateurs, with marvellous dexterity. Thus, before your very eyes, a gentleman detached a sword from an officer’s belt in a twinkling, and the officer had to pay for it with a bottle of champagne. Having stolen the sword, they conjured away glasses of champagne. People were beginning to pay us a great deal of attention when Pelikan wanted to leave; we walked the whole length of the Chiaja on foot, Pelikan leaning on my arm.
My fever this evening will not be understood unless I tell what I learned from Pelikan’s manservant. Nosè — that same Nosè has been friends with Charles since the first evening, Charles taking him to the café; accordingly I learned tonight that Larderel has been free of his guardianship for four months, that his father died four years ago, that last year he was here at carnival with his kept woman, for whom he won the first prizes for masquerade and costume with the money he spent making her more elegant than his friends’ women. That his kept woman is La Righi, a singer from Milan, whom he still maintains (the wretch!!) alone in a villa of his own near Florence, and who has a daughter by him.
I pause, breathless.
But that he is weary of keeping her — and then a host of things about me which delight me. His coachman is his guardian, says Mose, and tells him everything; he told him therefore that he had seen me before, that I pleased him greatly, etc., etc. Mose is too stupid to invent. One day, he says, he wanted to come down to the table d’hôte and spoke of it to his coachman, but he was ashamed. This crowns my ecstasy. He did not dare... I adore him.
Listen — I had taken Larderel for a vulgar scoundrel; but since learning the grandiose manner in which he conducts his debauchery, I honour and esteem him.
Only — why lie! “We parted ways” — that is a lie, since he still keeps her! And he is a family man! A daughter! Ah! Lord.
Ah! but, ah! but.
I pace the room in utter disarray — for until now my love for Larderel has been a pose before my family.
The usual serenade strikes up and I rush out onto the balcony, wrap myself in a fur, and even so am cold enough for my teeth to chatter.
And to think that there may be ten days yet to wait for him. If I knew he was not coming I would follow him. And had there been no trip to Cancello, I should have gone off to Florence without any more ado than that! You don’t know me, you people!
If I undertake nothing as regards Antonelli it is because he fills me with shame and pity, and I have the conviction — perhaps a false one — that he does not properly understand the significance of any overture, any word, any action, of anything.
At least when one speaks to Larderel one sees that he understands what is said to him.
Ah! how delighted I am to learn that before me he went through all the same manoeuvres I have gone through!
You know that Bihovetz predicted to me a gentleman who would be dreadfully encumbered by a little girl...
Ah! how long it is, how long, how long — ten days!
A daughter — pah! And I who bring back every evening from the table d’hôte a fig, a prune, a grape, and a biscuit — objects I collect to offer him when there are enough. Bah! He will give them to his daughter. I am collecting for the daughter of La Righi — of La Traviata. I adore Larderel, or at least I am ready to do mad things for him.

Notes

In Italian in the original: lazzaroni — the Neapolitan street poor, historically associated with street life; the term carries both condescending and fond connotations depending on context. ↩
In Italian in the original: signor. ↩
interdit — legally interdicted: a court order placing an adult under guardianship, typically for prodigality or incapacity; Larderel had evidently been under such constraint due to his debts. ↩
coquine — literally a minx or rogue; used here as a euphemism for a kept mistress. ↩
In Italian in the original: stenco di tenerla — i.e. weary of maintaining the mistress. ↩
In Italian in the original: custode. ↩
In Italian (Neapolitan dialect) in the original: ma ha avuto vergna. ↩
La Traviata (1853) — Verdi’s opera whose heroine Violetta is a courtesan who sacrifices her love. Marie ironically compares La Righi, Larderel’s Milanese singer-mistress, to the doomed Violetta. ↩