Saturday, 10 May 1884

This morning to the Salon with Claire; lunch in the rue de Marignan.
Then many callers at home.
I am bored. What does it mean, to be bored? It is fully six years since I have said that — I am bored.
It is May that unsettles me. Probably, yes.
This evening at the Théâtre des Italiens. After Etincelle’s panegyric I am scrutinised through every opera-glass, which embarrasses me, as I am not sure I am looking my best. I had to pile on quantities of violets to conceal the right side of my neck, since the bodice is low-cut. This unfortunate necessity was probably taken by the public for a studied effect of originality. Our escorts are Missak and M. de Azevedo, the Portuguese minister.
They are singing Lucia — but after Gayarre this ordinary, cold tenor seems pitiful to me.
Well, I am not ugly — but the violets on my bodice vex me. After that ridiculous newspaper article about my beauty and my painting I should have liked to appear dressed like everyone else that stupid affectation of dressing as an artist. In sum, it is only the violets — for the rest I wear a black gown, low-cut, grey tulle thrown over the shoulders, and this fatal garland. The garland alone would be nothing — everyone wears those flower-cord sashes — but I had to double the flowers over the shoulder, and people must have thought I was posing as the artist. All those people watched me and trained their opera glasses on me, in every box... Mme de Pourtalès, the Bisaccias, Mme d’Hervey, even General de Galliffet...
On the whole, perhaps those violets were rather pretty.