Monday, 10 September 1877

How little my journal resembles me! It is not I who writes. I use expressions, I turn my phrases with too much affectation. I am very simple.
Yesterday Maman wrote to Russia about Rome.
Tomorrow morning we leave. I am fond of Schlangenbad. The trees are superb, the air mild; one meets no one if one wishes. I know every path, every lane. One could be happy if one could content oneself with Schlangenbad.
My mothers do not understand me. In my desire to go to Rome they see only the promenades on the Pincio, the Opera, Antonelli, and "painting lessons." And even if I spent my whole life explaining my enthusiasm to them, they might perhaps understand it — but as a useless thing, a fancy of mine. The small daily miseries have absorbed them... and besides, they say one must be born with the love of all that, otherwise one never understands, however witty, distinguished, and excellent one may be. But is it not I rather who am the fool?
I should like to be a fatalist.
I said goodbye to the Countess Benvenuti, whom we have seen often — nearly every day. She is extremely agreeable to me, sed inutilis.

Notes

Latin: "but useless."