Friday, 22 February 1878

Florence, 20 February 1878. Dear Mademoiselle,
On arriving at Menton, where I had gone to see my brother, who is gravely ill, I find your kind lines and, so as not to keep you in suspense, I telegraphed you my reply. Carnival this year is nothing — the deaths of the King and the Holy Father have killed every form of entertainment; on the other hand, the weather is ravishing and the sun superb, and all of that is worth all the confetti in the world. Come all the same, and your friends will receive you with all the admiration and respect that are your due. Melissano is here, as is Alexandre, who has just broken his carriage-shaft — he has become very sensible and is beginning to justify all the liking people have for him. I close in haste, not wishing to delay this letter’s departure.
At Monte Carlo I met M. des Perrières of the Figaro, who informed me of your marriage to M. P. de Cassagnac. I believed it for a moment, given your obstinate silence — but with a little reflection I easily abandoned the idea, and I believe I was not mistaken. Would you hide so important a thing from an old friend such as myself?
A thousand kind regards to your family, and believe me always your most devoted servant.
F. de Marcuard
You have read that letter! How detestable of that des Perrières.
I immediately write a reply, in Blanc’s presence, to Marcuard. Having written it, I wished to put a few violets in the letter [words blacked out] the following phrase: I send you a few violets that have been sent to us from Nice. I know they are not worth the roses of Florence!! — and I had written that phrase because for the past ten minutes Maman had been tormenting me to ask Marcuard for flowers. No sooner had I taken up the wretched violets than Madame my mother told me in Russian not to do it, because: you have sent violets to Alexandre and now you send them to this one, and Alexandre will tell him you want an amourette with him too.
Naturally I immediately threw my letter into the fire, and flung myself half-reclining on a sofa — thoroughly vexed, thoroughly disagreeable, thoroughly offended.
That is how any imbecile can unhinge my spirits for twenty-four hours.
I shall go to bed late and be ugly tomorrow.
[Saturday, 23 February 1878]
— The news of my supposed marriage is the most absurd thing in the world. It is as though one were to marry me to the late Holy Father. This M. des Perrières must have had nothing better to do than amuse himself inventing such malicious nonsense, etc. etc.
So Melissano is really in Florence? Tell him that the painting I promised him is at his disposal. I may bring it in person.
But tell me — if there is no carnival, how are we to manage? Our chaperon, for all her thoroughly English rigidity, has no intention of being bored at all. I should warn you that she and her sister are both very elegant and charming. Will there be races? At Naples or at Florence? Where will there be the most society and gaiety? Will there be balls — everything one could imagine for one’s amusement? I am ridiculous with all these questions, but I am charged with asking them, and besides, frankly speaking, for me to consent to leave my work for a fortnight, it must be worth the sacrifice — there must be compensation. Do not let Melissano monopolise you entirely — I know he is charming — and answer us quickly, and above all do not be selfish... you would be punished for it, as the young harpist is not of the party. Nevertheless she was deeply touched by the consoling news you send, which I hastened to transmit to her by telephone. She replied with a long sigh.
So, in brief: tell us where we ought to go to enjoy ourselves for a fortnight, since this journey is to be a pleasure excursion.
Etc. Etc.
I was so firmly glued to the sofa that Blanc, on my aunt’s orders, had to take me in his arms and carry me to my room.
crossed outIt bothers me that this man is in love with me

Notes

Pope Pius IX had died on 7 February 1878. ↩