Wednesday, 13 June 1877

I sat for Biensmuller in an Italian costume, with the mandolin and Pincio, and then we go to see the Anitchkoffs who have buried themselves in the country. My purpose in going is to have Marie Leontievna write some German letters to my mother in Florence. The first is from the Director of the Vienna Opera, who complains of the abduction of his leading soprano. The second is from Mme Schulz, the young woman's mother. The third is from a sculptor named Meyer who has the misfortune of living on the same landing as a woman of easy virtue; he complains of horrors beside which the houses of Turkish brothels are mere amusements. Alexandre has terrified his children and his ailing wife, and has smashed Psyche, a statue commissioned by the King of Holland, and the bust of the Grand Duchess Olga of Russia. The sculptor goes so far as to threaten his own death. The fourth is from François Berron, an eighty-eight-year-old cabinetmaker, to whom Alexandre has not paid a hundred and eighty francs. And finally, a letter signed by two hundred names — the mothers of two hundred ballet dancers, for Alexandre has carried off the entire corps de ballet and, chartering a special train, fled with it, pursued by the imperial police. We shall see about sending all this from Vienna, with additions. What delights me is that it will be Marcuard who serves as translator.
We left my rooms and went to the Anitchkoffs', where there is a great gathering of gangling Russians. Mme Kondareff seems to enjoy my company, which gives me a certain sympathy for her; she has just left with the others.
May the Good Lord grant them to enjoy in peace all the charms of cards and discussions about roulette numbers.
I write a few words to the commandeur to keep him patient while Biensmuller makes the copy of the photograph.
Amen.
I hear Dina, who will not go to bed until she has seen Rosalie for fear that I have prepared some surprise for her.