Wednesday, 14 March 1877

We had visitors all day — the Fabbricatores, Hamontoffs, Nasimoff.
And Maman plunged me into despair for God knows how long. She conceived the idea of speaking to Nasimoff about a dancing party she would like to give — naturally Nasimoff said there was not sufficient acquaintance and the "aristocrats" would not come to dance with the Fabbricatores, etc.
There is only Maman who can have such ideas.
Nasimoff takes us for the Hamontoffs — I therefore hastened to reassure him; I know he repeats everything naively and will repeat what I have said.
Ah, yes — that poor boy, my Larderei of the heart — how they slander him at the Comtesse Souhtclan's (a Russian aristocratic center and nest of gossip). I am being talked about — a rich heiress, you see. So, after reporting that I had bought a bed for sixty thousand francs at the Hôtel Drouot, they are saying that the Comte de Larderei has followed me everywhere for a year, and that he is not in Naples because the girl's mother — who has always looked askance at him — has said definitively: no. Despite the young woman's love for him. Ah! Good God, as he says — Good God.
[Written across: Talking with Rosalie I was saying almost seriously that I ought not to go out in Monsieur the Count's absence. And to myself I was boasting of a kind of fidelity — as if, in a word, I were his most humble servant.]
At least it is a flattering invention. Rosalie is also convinced that Madame will not have him — and above all Mademoiselle's aunt — because one day when I had talked too much about Monsieur the Count, I thought it well to tell her what my aunt had written, namely: "Larderei is a wretch, I will not hear of him." In other households this would indeed mean something, but I care so perfectly little for what my family says, and my family is so accustomed to following my fancy, both seriously and in jest, that it is all a game to me. It is on the basis of this severity of Madame's that Rosalie told the coachman that one would never consent.
Ah! I am furious. Ah! I am vexed. Ah! how unhappy I am! I have had enough of this life — hotel life, street life. I would sell my soul to the devil to taste that life of salons and fêtes! My soul — no!! But...
Ah! I am lost —
Ah! I am mouldering! Ah! I am rusting! Ah! I am in despair! Ah! how this single chambermaid, these hotel servants, this hired landau gall me!! Ah! how I want to die! Ah! my God, let me die! Ah! I detest myself. Ah! I am lost. Ah! I weep for myself like a diamond thrown into a cesspool! What would serve me honorably in a certain position only makes me conspicuous, vulgar!
Ah! may this cough become a mortal illness! My talents wasted, my beauty wilted, my character spoiled, my soul debased, withered, ashamed, humiliated!
Ah! God, I want to die. Let me choke, let me strangle — I am bursting!!
It is torture, it is an outrage! Ah! My God, save me.
All that is too petty. Larderei with his Hussy — it is paltry. I would like to see him with a Hussy who has two chambermaids, a lady's companion, footmen, horses; I would like to see him lose hundreds of thousands, buy horses, give, throw away, commit extravagances, make himself famous in the great circles... Oh! then! Oh!... then...
And it is the same in everything.
There are so many upstarts who shine in society... truly one must be struck by the gettatura to be as we are!
The essential thing is a brilliant entourage and tact — with those one goes far and high. The first impression, and consequently the strongest, is that of the eyes, though nine out of ten do not perceive this.
One must not let one see the thread by which it is sewn — the canvas of the cloud — the machinery of the illusion, in short.
A brilliant appearance that betrays itself is a thousand times worse than poverty, and since this is nearly always what happens, one is accustomed to despise it. But nothing impresses so much as genuine magnificence.
Ah, well — I believe I am wearing myself out proving that at noon it is daylight. The thing is, you see, there are so many vulgar and very adroit half-Diogenes... but let the devil take them. I address myself only to people of wit and comme il faut.
[Two lines cancelled]

Notes

The Hôtel Drouot was the famous Paris auction house; sixty thousand francs would have been an enormous sum.
Gettatura: Neapolitan word for the evil eye; a curse.