Thursday, 22 February 1877

It is raining.
I sit down at the piano at half past two after Altamura’s visit. I take a spinning-wheel piece by Litolff, and tell myself to play it fifty times — a trifle of twelve pages, with a most tiring right-hand part. If you play it, you shall have Larderel — but without interruptions.
I did not get up from it until half past seven, deaf until that moment to the questions put to me and to: “Dinner is served.” I dined alone and my hands still ache — but I shall have Larderel! I do any number of things for superstitions of this sort.
Doenhoff sent his card saying he is indisposed; and Maman read the cards for me and predicted the arrival of Larderel.
Ah! without that I should be dying of sadness! I adore Italy, and I am so miserable here!
Indescribable confusion in my head... I should like to stay here until the races, then go to Sorrento, and also to Trouville and Aix and to the sea bathing in England — there is not time enough, life is so short! My throat drives me to despair.
Rossi’s card has been sent on to me from Nice, with condolences... so now I receive compliments on my death!

Notes

Henry Litolff (1818–1891) — Franco-British pianist and composer; his fileuse (spinning-wheel étude) was a parlour-favourite of virtuosic difficulty, requiring relentless right-hand figuration. ↩