13 December 1875 – 19 December 1875

To-morrow there is to be a concert at the Cercle de la Méditerranée for the benefit of the free École des beaux-arts. I went to the club to get tickets. Entering through the big door I was ushered through well-heated, well-lighted corridors to the room of the secretary, who gave me the little book containing the by-laws and the names of the members. Men are lucky! The club made a charming impression upon me. There is a fraternity of spirit a homelike air, which reminds one of the convent. I am no longer surprised that these men avoid their badly lighted, poorly heated homes, with household cares neglected, ill-disciplined servants, a wife in a wrapper and a bad humour, to go to a place where everything is nice, comfortable, elegant (in a land where the orange tree blossoms, where the breeze is softer and the bird swifter of wing). O women, don't pity yourselves, but attend to your homes. Long instructions might be given. I am content to say: "Make your house resemble a club as much as possible and treat your husbands as these ladies, L——and C——, treat them, and you will be happy and your husbands too." Now I am calm and I think. O misery of miseries! O despair! What I have written expresses the best portion of what I feel. O God, have pity on me. Good people, do not jeer at me. Perhaps I give cause for amusement, but I am to be pitied. With my temperament, my ideas, I shall never explain what I feel. I shall never give an idea of my unhappiness, it is because while dying of shame, of scorn, of rage, I have the courage to jest. I really do have good health and a good disposition. Provided that what I have just said doesn't bring me misfortune! I have a great many other things to say, but I am tired. I am going to write in big letters, "I am unhappy," and in letters still larger, "O God, aid me, have pity on me!" These big letters represent an hour and a half of rage, tears, irritated self love, and two hours of prayer! I have exhausted all words, I have exhausted my energy, I no longer have patience or strength, yet I still have one resource. My voice. To preserve it I must take care of my health. Another week like this one, and good-bye to singing! No, I will be sensible, I will pray to God. I will go to Rome. I am desperate, I will implore the Pope to pray for me. In my madness, I hope for that. To-morrow I will talk with Mamma about my idea; aid me, my God.