Sunday, 25 February 1877

I went out with Maman, and then, leaving her to go on with Dina, I stayed at home, tormented!!
Doenhoff came for a few minutes, paid me compliments on my person and kissed my hand. after a (illegible). His Prussian-style gallantries are ponderous; when a German tries to be gracious he becomes wanting in delicacy. I do not say this of Doenhoff in particular — he has known me since I was a child and cannot be considered a mere acquaintance.
But that was enough to freeze me with terror.
Oh! how atrocious!
I was a child when I got to know Doenhoff, and I was not mad in those days, so I put up with his manners; now in every word I detect some contempt, some disdain or other. He says I have a fine figure — that is not delicate. I am naturally touchy, and though I cannot convey the slightest nuances on paper, none of them escapes me, and the smallest thing that falls even slightly short of the deepest respect shocks and wounds me. Judge, then, what it is like now that I have this accursed idea!
After a long, dizzying promenade on the Chiaja, during which I blessed Princess Muliterno for her white dress, we go to San Carlo. The Force of Destiny. A great success for Merisano, who abandons the ballet at its finest moment to watch us leave. I was truly quite captivating this evening, which astonishes me.
Doenhoff came to our box after a grand dinner at the prince’s. Doenhoff very drunk — otherwise I cannot account for what he said while I was talking about the theatre.
— If your chemisette were to burst, what would happen?
I continued the sentence I had begun about the boxes at the Paris Opéra, and as Maman, who had a headache, was about to give an explanation concerning my bodice — which would have been a monstrous impropriety — I interrupted her sharply:
— No, I said, does one speak of such things? And I went on about the Paris Opéra.
Yes, he was drunk, for he was reeling, and he left early with the other pork butchers. The priceless thing is that he said: how ugly these Italian gentlemen are!
Larderel! I do not know if I love him. I know that I am sad and that I await him like the Messiah. Tomorrow will be a fortnight; tomorrow is his name day, Saint Alexander’s. He is late for the appointment.
In earnest or in jest, everything turns against me — and so I am disheartened, and my dejection robs me even of the strength to complain.
I am tempted to write no more — what use is it to record miseries?
Ah! Larderel — if he came I would forget everything! I am at his feet, as much because he pleases me as because I am the most wretched of God’s creatures, and whoever picks me up will be too good!
Ah! Larderel... I did not want to take him seriously — tragedy has wearied me — but I have grown used to him.
This morning I thought I saw him in the street and my heart turned over, sending all the blood to my face.
I am crushed! I dare not say that I love him — it seems to me that I am unworthy, and that in return for my passion he would fling an insult at me.
But what has happened? What have I become?
God, let this be nothing but madness.

Notes

Verdi’s opera (1862). ↩