B. is sitting up in his bed a few
feet off, smoking a pipe. We have just finished a light repast of -
what do you think? you will never guess - coffee and rolls. We
intend to put the week straight by stopping in bed all day, at all
events until the evening. Two English ladies occupy the bedroom
next to ours. They seem to have made up their minds to also stay
upstairs all day. We can hear them walking about their room,
muttering. They have been doing this for the last three-quarters of
an hour. They seem troubled about something.
It is very pleasant here. An overflow performance is being given in
the theatre to-day for the benefit of those people who could not
gain admittance yesterday, and, through the open windows, we can
hear the rhythmic chant of the chorus. Mellowed by the distance,
the wailing cadence of the plaintive songs, mingled with the shrill
Haydnistic strains of the orchestra, falls with a mournful sweetness
on our ears.
We ourselves saw the play yesterday, and we are now discussing it.
I am explaining to B. the difficulty I experience in writing an
account of it for my diary. I tell him that I really do not know
what to say about it.
He smokes for a while in silence, and then, taking the pipe from his
lips, he says:
