Friday, 16 March 1877

I was taking my mandolin lesson when Melissano (and not Merisano) happened to pass below the window.
Chi è costui?
E il principe di Melissano... ma non è gran cosa... già è uno di questi nobili miserabili che...
Sì... ma è ricevuto in società?
O sì, Signorina, ma lo ricevono come un buffone, è sempre invitato a pranzo in qualunque casa e poi va dal Pignatelli, Muliterno — e poi stava al balcone della Mirafiore al Carnavale?
Già; so che è amico del conte di Mirafiore... È vero che la contessa, moglie del re, non è ricevuta?
Sì, perché non sanno come trattarla.
Ma la giovane contessa, nata de Larderei, è conosciuta dalle signore di Napoli?
Che contessa? Ah! sì, Larderei — sorella di quel Larderei — sapete cosa ho inteso di lui?
Che?
I blush — and here I shall translate.
— Well, said my teacher, he is wounded.
— Wounded?
— Yes — he fought a duel.
— Where?
— In Florence.
— When?
— I don't know exactly — I heard it three days ago at Princess Pignatelli's.
— Ah! do tell me, please, Monsieur, all of it — it is most interesting. I know M. de Larderei. So he is wounded?
— Yes — in the hand.
— Well, then — tell me.
— Ah! you know him?
— Yes, yes, it interests me greatly — I am listening.
— Well, then, began the man, who was starting to open his eyes as he looked at me, you know he was there with a woman...
— Yes, yes.
— Whom he [Words blacked out: kept... one day and he]
— Yes, yes —
— But she was at the same time in love with another man.
— Aha!
— Hm... yes, and then one day when she was writing to this other man, the count came in and wanted to see the letter...
— Well?
— And she would not give it; he pretended to leave, and returning a minute later found her writing again and demanded the letter once more. She naturally refused to give it, and as his curiosity was aroused and he was growing impatient, she put a paper before him, saying... I will give you the letter, but sign this for your daughter... it seems she had had a daughter by him... so he, in the extreme of fury, signed for three hundred thousand francs for this child and took the letter, and...
— Well?
— That evening he went to the theatre with this letter in his pocket, and the gentleman — the other one — came up to him and said:
— You have a letter for me.
— Monsieur, I am not your postman.
— You do have a letter for me... In short, Larderei had no choice but to fight, and he is wounded.
— Oh! truly... let us stop there — it is too interesting. I must tell this story — I shall practise on my own, rest assured, Monsieur.
I spent two minutes saying: Ah! if you only knew — ah! what a story! You will never guess, etc., etc. — before telling the story. Monsieur the Count has been talked of so much in our household that the news causes a sensation.
— Maman, give me a hundred francs and pretend to know nothing.
I am sending Rosalie to Florence... Yes, yes, I want to. Thank you, and don't involve yourself in this. Good day.
I was in my room with the girl when the hotel maidservant entered.
— So, Rosalie, I say without changing my position, as if continuing our conversation, you wish to leave?
— Why yes, Mademoiselle.
— Imagine going to Rome — it is far? So your sister is ill?
— No, Mademoiselle, but she is only passing through — it has been two years since I've seen her, and you understand...
— I shall speak to Maman about it, and if...
By evening the whole hotel knew that Rosalie was asking for two days' leave and that it was being refused her.
I thought of sending her on the seven o'clock train, but resolved to wait until this evening at the Skating to find out whether it is true.
We had several visitors — the old Duc de Carmignano, the marchese di Pascarola, Alessandro Amato (introduced at the Fabbricatores') and the Hamontoffs. Then we went out — I kept repeating this story to myself. I am delighted by it, for it can only enhance him, my dear boy — these three hundred thousand francs and this duel adorn him singularly. One would think it was done on purpose, as I wrote on page 13.
There are strange things... I regret not having noted down the card predictions drawn by Mme Hamontoff and myself. The words coquine, shock or illness, and letter, kept recurring. And my dream of Saturday — the pigeon. Well? Is it not strange. But I have mentally repeated all this so many times that by evening I am accustomed to it.
Quite unexpectedly, I stayed in the reading room chatting with two Hungarian countesses and a French gentleman (of the very best taste — this gentleman knows Paul de Cassagnac); it lasted until half past eight.
[Written across: M. Schnier.]
While I was dressing, Altamura came, and while still dressing I heard him in the drawing room, as though engaged in some kind of explanation. I caught the words letter, responsibility, Larderei — then a confusion in the midst of which Maman hands me a letter. Here it is. [The letter is not in the manuscript]
I could not believe my eyes, and for a quarter of an hour I performed the most extraordinary gestures from the most characteristic ballets — leaping like a rubber ball, lifting my feet, stretching my arms like mimes and dancers, smothering Rosalie, who, equally mad, was kissing the letter:
I was moved to tenderness.
— Bijou of my soul, I say at last, reading it for the tenth time — Bijou of my soul, I always knew there was only...
I always knew... Oh! No, I was certain he had long since forgotten my existence, and that is why I am in an inexpressible rapture. I was not alone then — talking, thinking, talking more than thinking, laughing, joking — it was not in vain!
Have you read it? It is true, then — he fought. The letter is not studied. Wicked man! He is wounded. What joy!
You are reading it, are you not? Do you see this childish eagerness to boast, this joy in striking a heroic pose... if it had not been for that he would not have written... No — but he would have come!!
Bijou of my soul... do not laugh at that word — I say Bijou at every moment; there are such words that one grows fond of and says on every occasion and to express everything. Nothing is more trivial than Bibi or Bijou — but by dint of repeating them, of saying them in a certain way, I have made of the first, and am making of the second, dear and almost serious names.
My Bijou of my soul — you do not know the pleasure you have given me.
It appears that this stupid Altamura is making a whole drama of it — a very strange one too. He speaks of this letter as though it were an insult to himself, and if it is from Larderei he will challenge him to a duel — and about the strange address A.T.E., Via Nardones 118, and that he did not want to accept it — and a heap of strange and stupid stories.
Another duel, Bijou? Altamura is fierce — he has fought three, and recently cut his opponent's cheek and ear with a sabre. All Naples knows it. It is disgusting — because of the ear; otherwise I would be happy to procure you this affair again, Bijou. It will enhance your reputation, and that vile stockjobber, that filthy Altamura, will no longer say: "Larderei is not the sort of man who fights."
I had warned this son of a dog that he would receive things addressed in that way, and that they would be for me. And he overwhelmed me with protestations of service... I think he is a little mad.
I go to the Skating in a state of enchantment... Good Lord, so it is not in a landau — faugh! what an awful pun... well then, what did I do? I skated with the Marquis Santasiglia, who is a charming little man and who at last let me see the real Borghese — an abominable shop-clerk of some large establishment. He is the same we saw at the Fondo at the performance of Sappho. Small, badly made, an interminable nose, red cheekbones, a common and stupid air. Faugh! Nothing of Roman poetry. He ought not to travel with a priest! And I learn that it is not a real priest who is with him.
[Written across: There were not many interesting people.]
I shall reply to Larderei — I am so moved that I shall call him Bijou, here.
— Oh! cried Rosalie, and to think his first thought was to write to you — oh! how very charming! No matter — it is touching, it is delightful! Long live Monsieur the Count, and there is only Monsieur the Count!
— Ah! Rosalie, did I not always tell you that Monsieur the Count — that Bijou was... Bijou!
— Ah! no matter, I love it — it pleases me! [sic] It is dashing. It is like a novel — just listen — writing to you with his left hand, poor wounded Monsieur the Count! Ah! no matter, I love it! It proves he has heart!
A little more and she would weep.
— No, truly, Mademoiselle — by talking of him so much he seems like one of the family to me; it is comical — I have grown used to it; I love Monsieur the Count, simply!
Oh! yes — I too love Monsieur the Count.
And now that I have thought of it incessantly, I am accustomed to it — I am no longer astonished; I find it quite natural and tell myself he wrote out of vanity, to strike a pose, taking advantage of so fine an occasion... Well, no — this sudden letter is extraordinary, especially when one thinks of the cards. But how did the idea come to him of writing to me... oh! and so charmingly. He has been thinking of me then! All this time?... or on account of the adventure.
Ah! the romantic turn my days at Naples are taking enchants me...
Here is my reply in small printed letters — but I think of it: Altamura will have committed some absurdity with the flowers, no doubt.
— "It is difficult to reply to flowers one has not received."
The left hand is more agreeable than the right, being the hand of the heart; but one sincerely regrets the cause of this substitution.
Where would you have the violets be, in this season, if not in Naples? Instead of Via Nardones: Poste restante. Give me news.
Violette.
P.S. Wound received on Saturday the 10th of March, is it not?
This [Words blacked out: is placed on the] half of the page, and below this fine writing are extraordinary signs painted by Dachad, as on the first sheet. It makes this: this painting at the bottom instead of the top is original.
I place a few violets in the letter.

Notes

In Italian in the original: "Who is that?"
In Italian in the original: "He is the Prince of Melissano... but he is nothing great... he is one of those wretched nobles who..."
In Italian in the original: "Yes... but is he received in society?"
In Italian in the original: "Oh yes, Signorina, but they receive him like a buffoon — he is always invited to lunch in every house, and then he goes to the Pignatellis, the Muliterno — and did he not stand at the Mirafiore balcony at Carnival?"
In Italian in the original: "Indeed; I know he is a friend of the Comte de Mirafiore... Is it true that the countess, the king's wife, is not received?"
In Italian in the original: "Yes, because they do not know how to treat her."
In Italian in the original: "But is the young countess, born de Larderei, known to the ladies of Naples?"
In Italian in the original: "What countess? Ah! yes, Larderei — the sister of that Larderei — do you know what I have heard about him?"
In Italian in the original: "What?"
Ça m'plait: Rosalie's elided servant speech for cela me plaît.