Wednesday, 18 July 1877

The elder and younger Gonzalès, whom we have already met several times, leapt from their coupé towards our landau, so that we had to stop in the very middle of the Champs-Élysées, and these two Argentines poured out to us their most exaggerated and perhaps most sincere sentiments, exclaiming that they had looked for us in all the hotels where we usually stayed.
But before that I went to see the Boyds — that is, to pay my court to Mrs Boyd.
M. de Mertens’s niece, a girl who exhibited at the last Salon, dined here, and when the boarders had gone off to the drawing room (which adjoins ours) I could clearly hear my aunt’s voice saying, no doubt in reply to some piece of French boasting:
— But, Mademoiselle, why then do they send French artists to Rome?
crossed out[Five lines crossed out]
Editors’ notenote of the Cercle edition’s editors on the manuscript
[A leaf removed]
On hearing that I was seized with real despair and began to cry. And as my aunt kept repeating the words Rome and Italy now and then, it hurt me so much that I had to send and beg her to speak of it no more.
This seems to you an invention or a whim, but I swear to you that it is very serious and very true.
That one word, Italy! makes me start and shiver as no name, no presence ever has.
Oh, when shall I go there!
I almost regret being in pain. I should be so vexed if anyone thought I wrote my oh!s and ah!s out of affectation.
I do not know why I imagine that I am not believed, and so I insist, I swear — which, besides being unpleasant, is rather stupid.
The thing is, you see, I want to change; I want to write very simply, and I am afraid that, comparing this with my past raptures, people will no longer understand what I mean. But listen to this: since Naples — that is, since my journey to Russia — I was already trying to correct myself, and it seems to me that it is going a little better. I want to say things quite naturally, and if I add some figure of speech, do not think it is for ornament — oh no, it is simply to express as perfectly as possible the confusion of my ideas.
I am so exasperated at not being able to write a few words that would make people weep! And I should so like to make others feel what I feel! I weep and I say that I weep, but that is not what I want; I want to tell it all... to move people, in short!...
It will come, and it comes only of its own accord; one must not go looking for it.
No, listen, I am unhappy!
Before, to describe the slightest agitation, I used the grandest words... Ah, the truth is I am bored! I am not French, not I!
No, let us go on patiently; I have said everything, I think — yes; so it is well established that my past exaggerations will not happen again.
Mlle de Mertens, leafing through my album, lingered for quite a while over the photograph of M. de Larderel and asked whose was that handsome and so very interesting face.
— He is a little gentleman from Florence, said I.
— A very handsome face, she went on: refined, intelligent and distinguished.
At the same time I remembered the spelling of many great men, among others that of the Maréchal de Richelieu, and I went so far as to find my final note less cutting than I had thought, and above all less witty. In any case, my dearest ones, no better one could have been found for the occasion, so that I remain delighted with our correspondence, both its first part and its second.
I am very severe towards M. de Larderel, and I weigh justly and scrupulously his claims to be definitively named by me a gentleman — if not a perfect one, at least eccentric, mad and charming.
I have never seriously doubted his qualities, but in the long run everything fades, and I am glad to come upon confirmations of what I knew long ago; and as I often used to say of him: he is a scamp, a sort of rogue, a coward, a wretched little man — I am very pleased to find the traits for which I called him so in men who are said to be quite chic and high-class, as Rosalie would say.

Notes

In French in the original: grand genre. ↩