Friday, 11 May 1877

I have not yet been to bed since yesterday and it is broad daylight. He asked for my portrait... I feel regret, as if I had refused myself something... there is still something there! Oh well — it will pass; everything passes.
But I am stupidly attached to his family, to his city... only I could be capable of such follies, follies... because I don't love him and want to sacrifice nothing for him — firstly because he doesn't even look at me, and secondly because the match is not dazzling... take that word seriously.
I allow myself all manner of follies with a purpose, but like this...
It is broad daylight.
...Without any sort of... not even love on his side... Well, it will pass, and we shall meet again — only mountains never meet again, and even there, they have invented bridges — such convenient ones, so long I mean...
There is still something there! All the same.
What it is to be young — to bed at seven in the morning, up at eleven, and I feel no fatigue at all. I went to bid farewell to the Cascine; one would think I had spent a year in Florence.
I looked with love at the avenues, the Arno, the foreign and indifferent world... my fam... no, no, I cannot laugh. The Comtesse was with her daughter; both, as usual, looked at me a great deal. Comte Gaston reminds me so much... of the other... and we must leave! There is no more money... the exchange rate has fallen, the war.
Marcuard tells us there is a charity concert at the Cercle philharmonique and a soirée at the Skating rink. We went to both. At the concert I saw Gaston and his wife — it is remarkable how well they get on together. Alexandre had told us as much, but what one sees exceeds all telling. They are not perpetually in each other's company like bored or sleepy married couples, but they find each other like friends — at every moment at the races, at the concert, he comes to tell her something, to ask her something. They consult each other, they smile at each other. She is not pretty. Short, stout, dark, with a swarthy complexion, red cheeks, regular features nevertheless — and an air of great goodness, energy, and kindliness that is pleasing.
At the Skating rink — where I arrived at eleven o'clock, having changed my dress — we saw Mme de Mirafiore, Blanche. But the pleasure was not complete; the farewell lacked its full charm, for the Comtesse was not there.
What are they all to me? I spent eight days in Florence, I saw them eight times. I love them and I miss Florence to the point... of weeping over it. They looked so kind, and I grew tender-hearted like a fool!
Have I mentioned that Gordigiani came to see us, encouraged me, promised me an artistic future, found much that was good in my sketches... and expressed a great desire to paint my portrait...
I would so love to have my portrait painted in Florence — what a remarkable thing that would be. He would see it, they would all see it — that is what I mean.

Notes

The French proverb: Il n'y a que les montagnes qui ne se rencontrent pas — only mountains never meet again. Marie invokes it and then immediately undermines it with her bridge joke.
The Russo-Turkish War broke out in April 1877, causing Russian bond prices to fall sharply — a practical blow to Russian families living on investment income abroad.
Michele Gordigiani (1835–1909), celebrated Florentine portrait painter who had painted Queen Victoria and the Prince of Wales.