Thursday, 3 October 1878

God bless me if I know... Yes, Doenhoff dined with us yesterday and I was even pretty... This gentleman, as you know, is seeking to remarry a wealthy young lady, and I please him well enough. Good Lord — if he were given an embassy in Paris or Rome, I should very much like... Madrid and London would still pass. But to live in Prussia at the court of Prince Charles or of the Emperor... that does not suit me with a husband like Doenhoff.
I have letters from Abaza and from Florence — I am decidedly not going to stay with Florence; I prefer the Exposition and the rest... the atelier. But you must have found a letter from Mouzay here, which is interesting to me and almost precious, for she is an intelligent woman, though common and mad.
Saturday [28 September 1878]
In your better hours, dear Moussia, you are yourself — that is to say, the warm-hearted child and the amiable young woman! That, believe me, is worth more than ill-bred brusqueness and lapses from politeness and good manners. At fifty, originality is a flower one puts in one’s white hair; but in fair hair it is a thistle that only asses will condescend to eat!! When those around you tell you that a foolish thing is charming, you have wit enough not to feel that you are playing a false note in the human concert — you look at me, divine me, and know where you stand... You hold all the trumps needed to win the game, but you must hold your cards better. Trust in my old affection of eight years in your life, little Moussia — that is something. I adore your nature; I abominate your faults; I feel that my heart would make me snatch you from the flames — cross all Europe to come to your rescue — and yet at certain moments I would throw you out of the window! Perhaps, with all my grumbling, I am the only friend who truly wishes your happiness. In ten years, when you know life, you will know whether I speak truly. See how I brought up my daughter — and yet you will admit that in talent and worth, Marie is a person of uncommon quality. My dear Moussia, believe me — I know life and its consequences better than anyone! Society has but one code, especially for all those born to it: money, wit, talent — these are enquired into only to be envied or exploited, a fine harvest! Goodness and charm — those are the two sole forces of a woman, the only two qualities ever cited, even to the credit of princesses! On that note, thank you, my dear; your Russian concert gave me only its second half — I had people to luncheon. But it made me weep.
I embrace you with all my heart.
F. de Mouzay
Today we spent nearly four hours at an international dramatic and musical matinée.
They performed excerpts from Aristophanes in hideous costumes — so abridged, rearranged, and remade that it was dreadful. What was superb was a dramatic recitation, Christopher Columbus, delivered in Italian by Rossi. What a voice, what intonations, what expression, what naturalness! It was better than music... I believe it would seem admirable even to one who did not understand Italian. While I listened to him I adored him almost as much as the Deceased.
Ah! what power the spoken word has, even when it is learnt, even when it is not eloquence. The handsome Mounet-Sully recited afterwards... but I shall not even speak of it.
Rossi creates great art; he is a great artist at heart. I saw him at the exit speaking to two other men — he is common... he is an actor. But an artist of that degree must have a certain greatness of character even in daily life; I saw it in his eyes. He cannot be a perfectly ordinary man — but the charm exists only while he speaks... oh! then it is marvellous... The nihilists who mock the Arts!
What a dreadful existence. What an impossible existence! If I were intelligent I should know how to extricate myself. But I am only intelligent on trust — and at that, only my own word for it. Where have I proved or shown my intelligence? In bantering with Cassagnac?! That was the sole occasion I had to reveal my high talents... A poor occasion at that: Cassagnac is not a man to — he had too much the reputation of a ladies’ man for it to be taken seriously. I see no one. Come now! Come now, all you like — miracles do not exist; I see absolutely no one, save the rare imbecile to whom I say banalities pitched to his level, or things that bowl him over. That is life for me! And a circle of people who are stupid, tedious, nagging! Were it not for a kind of pride I should say I have had enough and renounce all the struggles!
You will form an idea of our household if I tell you that my greatest happiness is to be alone — alone I am never bored, but I revolt because it is a forced solitude.
If we were entirely unknown it would be entirely easy — but the Nice background... Suppose Mme Gavini speaks of us to her friends: all Europe has passed through Nice. Either people will not know us, or they will say we went nowhere. Let ten people repeat it and it will seem extraordinary, then suspicious. In short, what is to be done? Temporise like some Fabius?
They are stupid, impractical, bourgeois, deadly dull, nagging! What a martyrdom! I swear that at moments one would give the devil everything — pride and all — and wish to die like a dog to escape these family pastimes. These evenings! Impossible to hide: my salon is next to theirs; an absurdity on their part provokes a reply or observation from me, and then a war of words without rhyme or reason, in which I appear as a sort of monster. For they cry at me: you would do better not to do this or that — they will say you do such a thing, they will say you will do another. At bottom they seem to be forewarning me — and that is precisely what is atrocious. One would have to be an idiot or horribly cunning to act and speak in such a way.
“She will scream all day” — or else:
“Nadine, do not answer — otherwise she will break everything.”
Divine justice! What I would gladly break is my head!
Or else they say:
“What have you done with your young existence? You are the one ruining yourself; you are the cause of everything you reproach us for.”
Either this changes, or I die.

Notes

In French in the original: Christophe Colomb. Ernesto Rossi (1827–1896), celebrated Italian tragic actor famous for his Shakespeare roles. ↩
Quintus Fabius Maximus Verrucosus (“Cunctator” — the Delayer), Roman dictator who defeated Hannibal through strategic avoidance of battle. The strategy was controversial but ultimately successful. ↩