Monday, 13 January 1879 — Russian New Year

Well, I am having wild fun as usual. The whole Sunday passes at the theatre. A matinée at the Gaîté, rather dismal, and in the evening at the Opéra Comique — Le pré aux clercs, the favourite and cherished opera of Monsieur Paul de Cassagnac, known as the Deceased. I understand his taste. The music is delightful and needs no repeated hearings to please; it is simple, naïve, refined, and enchanting. I seem to have always heard it — it is like a childhood memory, though I was hearing it for the first time. I would pay dearly all the same to have heard their conversation on the boulevard.
Madame de Daillens, who was with us, said that in that period it would have been charming but that it is ridiculous in ours.
It is all the same to me; I have not even that poetry left in me. I spend the night [from Sunday to Monday] washing, writing, reading, lying on the floor, drinking tea. It is a quarter past five — in this way I shall go early to the atelier, and the next day I shall be sleepy, and the day after I shall wake early, and then it will go by itself. Do not think that I enjoy these delightful arrangements; I hold myself in profound disgust, profound horror. No matter — I greet my new year in an original fashion, on the floor with my dogs.
I worked all day. Mme Gavini sent me two vases with my initials and violets.

Notes

Le pré aux clercs: “The Clerks’ Meadow”. ↩