I was influenza-ish all day yesterday and on Saturday evening - until last night when it passed off. We dined on Saturday and yesterday at Sylvain's, and last night went into the Casino de Paris for an hour or so.
I heard again the story of the life, death and burial of the mysterious pretty Englishwoman from Liverpool who gave lessons in English to a constant stream of messieurs chic, and expired alone at 7 rue Breda after being robbed by a Spanish male friend.The arrival of the English relatives and all that! It seemed to me I might use up a lot of the stuff in "The History of Two Old Women", which it seems more and more likely will be my next serious book.
I went last night to see "Siegfried" at the Opera, and came away in a mood to swear that nothing should ever induce me to go to the Opera again in search of my own artistic pleasure. A tame performance without any distinction of any kind. "Siegfried" is an opera which needs the greatest tact in production. I can easily understand now, how at first Wagner's works were merely laughed at. If they were produced new today they would be laughed at. Their beauty seems to exist side-by-side with their Teutonic gawkiness. Some moments I enjoyed extremely despite all the drawbacks: still the Opera is a European scandal. It ought to be at Bucharest or Cairo.
So I spent an hour at the Moulin Rouge, picking up trifles and boring myself.