# Friday, 16 February 1877

Friday, 16 February 1877

I do not know what to do with myself — which is why we set out this morning at nine o’clock to visit Castellamare, Sejano, Vico, Sorrento, etc. As for the beauty of nature, it made a flattering impression on me — I say no more, for I was not struck, perhaps even because... the whole... ensemble is so marvellous that no single part catches the eye. The sea was blue and calm and the sun shone brilliantly: from Castellamare to Sorrento we scarcely spoke, only I smiled from time to time. The weather was very fine, Neapolitan street idlers half-naked everywhere, olive trees, a divine air, a little breeze that brought the colour to one’s cheeks, here and there flowers, amid brilliant greenery standing out against the blue of the water; rocks bordering the path that seem straight as walls — and yet in a sort of crevice, or rather on a sort of projection: a sleeping goat.
We walked through Sorrento on foot; I bought some wooden objects, forever pursued by scenes of family life.
Getting back into the carriage, Dina signalled me to look to the right... an old man was supporting a baby who was trying to walk... Children make me feel something like shame.
On the way back, the conversation was flatter still; all around the same splendours, but at the same spot as the goat — instead of the goat, a man, also asleep.
M. Nasimoff, the consul, came for the second time.
I dined alone to the accompaniment of news of Larderel from Rosalie. I am lowering myself, alas!
It would have been better not to have met him — he has let me glimpse... an entirely blue horizon, and I am doubly bored.
I have dulled my wits with games of patience — I shall play no more.
No — listen — anything you like, but to imagine that Larderel has... a child. I... I do not know, but it produces the most singular effect in the world.

Notes

In Italian in the original: lazzaroni — the Neapolitan street poor. ↩