Sunday, 8 July 1877

I have written to Mme Anitchkoff, and replied to Yssayevitch and to Foster.
I have not sent the Vienna letters to the Comtesse de Larderei. Should the truth be discovered, it would amount to gross incivility on my part toward that lady.
We paid two calls — to Mouzay and to the Boyds', where we are introduced to a M. Lafont. For the first time today I went to the Bois dressed in white; all these last days I had been as though in disguise. White is much worn in Paris and I was not the only one, but some notice was taken of me, which revives me a little. Do you remember a M. Sahnier, with whom I made acquaintance in the reading room at Naples?
We recognised and greeted each other at the Bois. I was so glad to see someone from Naples. Further along, the Durands — and I arrived home almost reconciled to Paris, for the sake of two familiar faces! No — three: Comte Lindemann.
We shall never be in high society in Paris… yes — but in Paris it will be easier to bear than elsewhere, without question.
And then… I shall go for a fortnight to Trouville — it is there one sees Parisian society, and perhaps we shall be able to make the acquaintance of some people for this winter.
Mme de Mertens was playing whist^[In English in the original.] with her husband and Mme de Bailleul. We were talking of the King of Italy and Prince Humbert, and I told how the Prince had one day tipped his hat to me, for a jest.
— So you have not gone into society at all! asked the baronne — you have not had yourselves presented?
I replied that no — and that Maman had been ill.
And in writing that here, I weep.
Do you know that I… truly wept? I thought I was done with all that.
O what suffering, my God! I mean that I adore Italy, that I hate Paris, that I cannot return to Italy without the certainty of being there differently — and that outside of Italy it is no life… and I know nothing to do but weep!
Patience! Patience! Perhaps in some time I shall be able to go back! Those in exile will understand me!
I shall go to Aix and try to meet the Princesse de Piedimonte there… yes, but to be received in Rome one must be presented by one's ambassador! Yet the Princess could do a great deal.
Then I shall go to Trouville, to Como — in short, I shall spend the winter in Paris, a Season in London, a winter in Spain; I shall do everything in the world to marry and to get to Italy!
If only I could recover my health! With a beautiful voice one can do much — yes, before wasting my time searching for I know not what, I must study…
I need to scrawl out arguments to calm myself. Let us see. What do we do first of all? Well: we go to Aix, where either I shall meet the Princess and other Italians, or I shall meet no one. In the first case it will always count toward a Carnival at Naples, and perhaps even Rome. Then I go to Como, where the Boyds will be, and Princesse Troubetskoy — a chance to meet the best society of Paris. But before Como I must go to Trouville for the same purpose as at Como.
There then: in the event of success, I find myself tolerably settled in Paris, where I also study; and in the event that my travels lead nowhere, I shall have my studies — that is to say, another means, slow, slow, slow — but a means.
Then I shall go spend a month in London among the Boyds, the Fosters, and Lady Paget — and return again to Paris, since that is where my studies are, and because of the Exposition. There it is.
Now, in the midst of all this, there may come a fortunate marriage, which will cut through all difficulties and put an end to all tedium.
All these excursions must be reckoned up to the 20th of September; from the 1st of October I can be established in Paris and studying. Through one setback after another, through perpetual delays, through no longer knowing where one stands — it seems to me I shall never be settled. Nonsense!
Above all, let us attend to my throat. I weep at not being able to go into society in Rome, because I should like to study there and perhaps to marry there. But let us be sensible — very sensible — let us tell ourselves that since it is absolutely, absolutely impossible, one must remain in Paris. And then… and then, with time, when one is in a position to do so, to go spend three months of the year in Italy.
I am racking my brains for nothing! Let us be fatalistic — it is the resort of the desperate and the lazy.