Thursday, 23 January 1879

I called on Mouzay, still with an eye to Saturday. I had the annoyance of hearing that old fool (and here I declare loudly that I withdraw all the good marks I gave her when she sang my praises; those praises are not worth threepence; she lives in a circle that has nothing in common with me; at her house they play paper games and sing comic songs. In short, if I ever said she had wit or manners or good sense, I take it back and declare that I said it then under the influence of flattery. She is a good soul, that is all.) So I heard that old fool hold forth on growing up, on manners, etc., and, because I have often been to her house these last few days, advise me to take care with my handwriting and not to make ink blots; and then talk about how one should run one’s salon, whom one should surround oneself with, and finally criticise our acquaintances, saying that this one or that one is bourgeois and that her friends (faces from another world) are this and that, budding ambassadors, and... nonsense, in short; and then that a woman of my intelligence should care neither for chic nor for vanity.
Stupid and vain woman yourself, you old fool!
I answered her curtly; such people must be put in their place from time to time.
You understand, after all, how exasperating it is to hear all that talked about by this common, ill-bred woman who does not know what a salon or real society is, who receives a heap of I know not what on the fifth floor above the entresol... and not to be able to tell her that one knows exactly what to think and that she deceives nobody. Just picture this cook talking of dresses and elegance, etc., and criticising my expenses, holding up as an example to me her daughter, with whom one would not care to be seen.
I do not care a fig, as you well know, but I am furious because she thinks I take her seriously.
We are at last in our own place — 34 avenue Montaigne. There is barely enough to sit on. I shall be in a complete continual state of irritation until everything is fully furnished. It is so cold and there is so much snow that I stayed at home.
Paul has returned from Nice. Crowds of people in Nice — Marcuard and Larderel, who is not married; he keeps company with cocottes, and one of them, disguised as a boy, accompanied him to Florence where he was going to visit his fiancée.
He has run up another 100,000 francs of debts, and he is nearly always tipsy, as usual.
That is true rottenness. I beg your pardon for the expression, but it is the one that fits this former ideal.
You know what a state I was in when I went to Naples; I might have been even madder... and yet no — for one instant at the railway station a year before making his acquaintance, that young man had made a very strong impression on me... the rest lived on that impression, with stupor and prostration helping it along....