Thursday, 1 March 1877

It snows, and later the weather turns fine and cold. We go out. I am wretched about being in white. The Englishman — that is to say, the American — is an astounding creature; he refuses to understand that one might not want to speak with him.
Maman told him we were not accustomed to making acquaintance without a formal introduction, and this redskin proceeded to argue against that practice.
This evening at the Skating (one goes there at about five or six o'clock) he bored us in an incredible fashion — we turned our backs on him and he kept coming back! He must be a savage from the tribe of the Guarany.
I am beginning to boast less of being in love with Larderei and to grow anxious about this so prolonged absence.
I am in suspense! And something keeps me here — I shall not try to explain what, because this stay in Naples is an absurdity.
Mme Hamontoff came with her daughter.
This evening we played cards with Doenhoff, just the two of us. And this morning he played me "The Prussian March" on the piano with one finger. He is very agreeable and one is never bored with him.
To come to Naples during Lent and to wait! Maman repeated once more that if last year we had come here... It is so true that for five minutes I am in despair. This narrow circle exasperates me! I do not know where I shall fare better — in Paris or here... Where I shall find my fortune. Where God wills. Here is a plan to calm myself: stay in Naples a while longer, attend to my throat in the fine climate following Fauvel's prescriptions, and then settle in Paris.
I have wasted a great deal of time, but weeping will not restore it. Let us at least look after the future.
A difficulty with money humbles me and makes me regard any change as a happiness beyond all expectation. And then there are moments when a king seems to me a small thing.

Notes

Marie's contemptuous term (peau-rouge, literally "red skin") for the American, reflecting 19th-century European attitudes.