Sunday, 21 July 1878

I certainly do not think of Multedo — and yet I dreamt of him last night, and this morning I receive the following verses: the Rose sends me a perfume, the troubadour his song, Multedo his composition.
Copied letterVers d’A. Multedo à Marie, [18 juillet 1878]
[Thursday, 18 July 1878] I have smashed in your guitar, But, being not at all a miser, I have sent it to be rejuvenated! When will you manage to sing? I have smashed in your guitar. You will not lose a single natural by it. Wood can always be glued. How is your voice keeping? I have smashed in your guitar. Do not send me down to Taenarus. I find myself at Mont-de-Marsan. My misfortune is great enough. I have smashed in your guitar. As though it were a Bulgarian And I a bashi-bazouk, But I am as gentle as a Kalmuck. I have smashed in your guitar. Suppose that I am Tyndareus And you Leda; which, for you, Would be the sweeter sign? I have smashed in your guitar. If the Duchess of Ferrara Was cruel to Multedo, Have pity on Multedo
The gallant singer did not please me — his candidacy is tainted by financial considerations. The two princes are the object of every jest at table and often elsewhere. Little Mitta (Dimitri) came to report that they are dirty because they put their finger in their mouth and then hold it up in the air, like sailors. Madame Abaza thinks the elder, the dark one, very handsome; so do I, but he looks very ill. Madame Rembelinsky and I have already divided the two deaf-mutes between us.
I take Auguste, the dark one; she takes Hans, the fair one. We have settled our plan of campaign... So far the princes have not failed to notice that their reserve piques us a little, and pique is such a stupid thing, all the more since they are imperturbable. It is not pride, for last year they made conversation at table with a Jewish woman. One of them is trying out On dit que l’on te marie on the piano, and as he cannot find the ending it gets on my nerves. So, as I was saying, the plan of campaign of Madame Rembelinsky and me consists in pretending to avoid them, not even to notice them. We have begun, and despite this we have met eleven times, whether by chance or because they obligingly contrived it.
But tomorrow or the day after, as soon as she can arrange it, they shall have a serenade — which will play as much for us as for them since they are below us — but I hope they will understand to whom it is addressed by the choice of pieces: 1. Funeral March by Chopin. 2. Mein lieber Augustchen (waltz). 3. Funeral March by Beethoven. 4. Funeral March by Mendelssohn. 5. Funeral March x x x. 6. Infernal Galop.
We mock them and they mock us in return. But one must do something at Soden... Madame Antonsky takes an interest in the affair, as does everyone else — I am merely following the others’ example; you understand that personally I do not trouble myself over these simpletons.
Three Italian singers, a woman and two men, gave a concert this evening. I went to speak with them and they took me for an Italian.

Notes

In the poem that follows (081.0507) Multedo casts himself as a troubadour tormented by a cruel lady, «la duchesse de Ferrare». ↩
On dit que l’on te marie: “They say you are getting married”, a popular French song. ↩
Mein lieber Augustchen: German, “My dear little Augustus”, so in the text; a play on the popular Viennese song O du lieber Augustin, aimed at Prince Auguste. ↩