Tuesday, 1 May 1877

I fell asleep so early yesterday that I did not write; besides, there is almost nothing to say. It was raining; we drove about in a closed carriage until six. I could not tire of admiring Florence; the harmony that reigns between the old marvels and the new houses pleases me immensely.
We find Marcuard’s card. And that is all.
Today it rained; there was a promenade at the Cascine, where we saw Silène Righi, the former mistress of Monsieur the Count. I did not get a good look at her; besides, I absolutely must see her naked. Our coachman, as if on purpose, turned out to have served her when she belonged to Larderel; among other remarkable sights he pointed her out to us, promising to show us Niccolini as well.
There were few people — and Marcuard. He is the man who makes me chatter most. His fatherly, close, sly air makes me say a great many foolish things.
At last, passing the Larderel house again (before the end of the drive), we met the Persevering One from the Veglione, the so-called Prince Ruffo; but as he was in his own carriage, I suppose he is a Florentine.
Marcuard spent an hour with us, and in the evening we see him again at the Teatro Pagliano — the Pergola is closed! They are giving Wagner’s Rienzi. I understood nothing of that music.
This theatre is not fashionable; I kept to myself; there was nothing of interest.
I have been chaffing Marcuard again. Chaffing! fie! What would you have!
The wind has turned. Naples was a lovely dream. There I did not feel shut out of everything; we had acquaintances, and without going to the houses of the Neapolitan aristocracy we saw them at the Club, a distinguished gathering and rather hard to gain access to. And everyone expected to see us again next winter, receiving everyone and going everywhere; since people had that idea, it came to us as well — and besides, it is quite possible.
But here in Florence I feel the whole difference again; I see the distance that separates me from that world which I look upon as the promised land.
How lovely it would be to travel, to go to paradises like Naples, Florence, Rome, if one went there as the Mechterskys do, the Soukowkines, the... what do I know — all those people, in short.
For three months I had forgotten all that, and now, all of a sudden, and in a city more beautiful than Rome, which I love almost as much as Rome... You do not understand the love of cities? I shiver at the mere names of Naples (by convention, everyone loves it), Florence and Rome. What an enchanted life it would be!! For if there is anyone who can be perfectly happy, it is I. Indeed, I have only one sorrow; everything that others weep over pleases me. Did I make an outcry over Larderel? Yes, but only in telling the story; it was a great emotion, but life would not be beautiful without such things.
Illnesses, deaths, separations, the cruelties of love — all these are agreeable pains and heartbreaks. One weeps over them, one cries out, one tears one’s hair, but in the end one comes to terms with them; I speak for myself.
What is unbearable is a life like this!!
I was counting on Dina’s marriage to Marcuard. It would have been a real blessing; I should have been in a position to go where I like, to see, to choose. But that happiness will not come. In my distress I cling to the thought that the Persevering One may be some suitable prince, all the more since the cards promise me a fair man.
Ah! My emperor. All the same, I cannot calmly tell myself that if you went into society in Florence you would meet the family of Bijou, and that it would make a very good impression — not that he would fall in love with you on that account, or that you would marry him, no, but simply that it would be a very fine thing.
But do understand... No, you will never understand this torture! Imagine being given a splendid dress and then having a hole made in the back of it! That is the position. Laughable and heartbreaking.
The most dreadful thing is to be unhappy over such a thing!!! It is like losing one’s nose!
If you have read everything, I need not explain myself; besides, I could only utter exclamations, put in dots, cry out that you do not understand, etc. etc.
And above all, to find oneself obliged to lament over something so simple, so natural!!
The more I complain of it, the more I rage, because I am furious at exposing my humiliation like this, at raging over... what is one’s due, what it is monstrous not to have! I rage at finding that it is monstrous not to have it, that it is a thing one is owed, a natural thing...
Ah! Holy Virgin Mary!
We have telegrams from our friends the Neapolitans, above all from Melissano.

Notes

In French in the original: mon empereur — an exclamation of Larderel’s when tipsy, which Marie adopts. ↩
Bijou (“jewel”): Marie’s private codename for Count Larderel. ↩