Monday, 3 December 1877

No decent place at the atelier. I am horribly irritated.
Salvini, the celebrated Italian tragedian, is here with his troupe — this evening we go to see Othello. The pleasure of finding oneself opposite the Italian Embassy box, in the midst of a half-Italian audience, listening to that beautiful language, so caressing and so terrible. I am in favour of men who strangle — and I know very well what you will answer: you will say that Italians do not strangle but borrow money from women. You will say it because you take as the type of an entire nation some ruffian or wretch of no account. And when I speak of men who strangle, I do not mean only Italians.
Up very high, very high were Maria, Breslau, and Schaeppi. We peer at one another through our opera glasses, bow, and smile.
As escort, invariably Blanc — frigate captain or retired colonel, whichever you prefer.
My aunt keeps teasing him about the Hungarian lady he has been charged with taking about, because Paul has no time.
I continue my anatomy and harp lessons as always — piano and mandolin run alongside — and on Wednesday I begin the guitar in honour of Carolus-Duran, who charmed me with his Arab songs.

Notes

Tommaso Salvini (1829–1915), renowned Italian tragic actor, famous throughout Europe for his Othello. ↩