Sunday, 25 March 1877

I would like to sleep until Wednesday.
We invent a whole story about la Righi in a blue velvet outfit with mother-of-pearl buttons, a Henri III cap with white feather, dancing at fairs, and sending a poodle to collect sous in a bowl held in its teeth. The poodle is Monsieur the Count.
The Gatowskys (and not Holowskys) and Olga Hamontoff being with us, I contrive an excursion on foot to the Skating, where little Santasiglia walks with me with his excellent smile. But it seemed to me the others were laughing at me.
This evening a concert at the Filarmonica, of which here is the programme. I do my hair as usual and put on a white satin dress entirely covered in striped oriental gauze lightly threaded with gold, low-cut to a point front and back, short sleeves. Simply edged with cream lace matching the fabric. Fitted at the waist by a belt with a simple gold buckle; the dress is full and extremely long. Too "dreamy" to put me at my ease —
This sort of ugliness that sometimes takes hold of me like an illness passes — already this evening I was almost my usual self. Not that I am very happy — I know quite well it is not the world, but a thousand times better than nothing at all, for then you are like a madman.