Monday, 21 February 1876

Since morning I have been upset in every possible way. First, Maman has a terrible nervous attack. Dina shrieks and maddens me. By three o'clock everything has calmed, and we go to the carnival. Ah! Let me not forget to mention that the wretch Antonelli sent me out to see the tomb of Caecilia Metella, telling me yesterday there would be a hunt meeting there this morning. It is far, but I saw the Via
Appia, the ruins, the columbaria, and the great tomb of Metella, whose sarcophagus is now at the Palazzo Farnese.
The Corso was livelier than on Saturday; we pelted any number of people, and there were a hundred bouquets thrown, not counting the small ones. There was a gentleman lodging at the Hôtel de Londres — a Neapolitan banker dressed all in white, who was not stingy with his flowers. On the whole it was very pleasant — three or four carriages only. I searched for Antonelli in vain. I have the honour of presenting you with a madwoman. Judge for yourselves.
I seek, I find, I invent a man; I laugh; I swear by no one but him; I weave him through everything — and then, when he has lodged himself firmly in my head, which is open to every wind, I shall have vexations, and perhaps sorrows and tears. I am far from desiring that it should happen, but I say it by way of foresight.
When will the real carnival of Rome come? Until now I have seen nothing but balconies and windows hung with white, red, blue, yellow, and pink fabrics, and the common people, and few masks, and the Barberi races. Today there were many soldiers and gendarmes to hold back the furious crowd that throws itself under the horses' hooves.
On returning home I find two visiting cards: Pietro Antonelli, with a count's coronet, Via Alexandrina, 84. And at once I begin to play the fool... with these cards — recalling Antonelli's poses, his gestures, his pronunciation, imitating him.
A letter from my aunt. At last Vigier sang on Saturday the 19th of February. Audiffret was there with his Englishwoman. "It must be either a married woman or Audiffret's fiancée," writes my aunt, "for they are always together."
Here is enough to upset me from head to foot; with great difficulty I manage to dispel the storm gathering in my heart by speaking of Antonelli with extravagance. And even so, I only dispelled it until bedtime — now it is rumbling again.
— Tell Marie to come back, writes my aunt.
This maddening phrase produces the following letter:
— But I truly believe you do not understand what I tell you, since you invite me to come back to Nice! It is wasted effort! I shall not return until the end
of April, and that will be the earliest at best. Besides, there is no use explaining — you will never understand me. It is labour and paper wasted. I am entirely different from all of you. It is because of you that I rot in a foul obscurity; because of you that I am locked away and see no one. I am seventeen years old. You want me to remain until I am twenty-one, like Dina, in a state of blessed expectation. I know very well I am forced to do what you wish, and short of cutting my own throat I can do nothing else. So — since you do not think of me at all, do not irritate me; let me swallow my anger in peace.
And still more talk of Antonelli.
— It is settled, I said; I shall concern myself with no one else in Rome. I am constant.
— It is true, said Dina.
— Yes, I went on; that is why my livery is blue. I wear three colours: blue — fidelity; white — innocence; and yellow — which is precisely the opposite of the other two. Well, if I ever turn yellow, it will only be because of the white.
No, in earnest — I am constant. Perhaps you do not believe me. Witness the Surprising Émile: the habit I have of Nice, of his estate, his manners, of him in a word — it is a very strong habit. There is another one I have made. It has never happened to me to be struck by a thunderbolt of love, to fight it, flee it, shake it off, and find myself unable. A man catches my particular attention, and at once I think of him, I talk of him with great complacency, and I grow so accustomed to him by dint of dreaming about him that I am entirely vexed, entirely astonished, to see that he does not fall on his knees before me.
I spoke of the Surprising One only with my Graces — before the grown-ups I denied it and defended myself tooth and nail.
Antonelli — no, it is not he who is the point. Nor the Surprising One, nor him either! It is my torment that is the point! All reasoning is useless to me — all resignation goes to the devil! What I see, what I feel, is an unbearable, shameful life! I no longer hope, I no longer weep, I no longer pray!
I am furious!
I am seventeen years old. I could remain calm at fourteen. But then I was tormenting myself about the future — and you see
that I was quite right!

Notes

Columbaria: ancient Roman burial vaults with niches for funerary urns, lining the Via Appia Antica outside Rome.
Ma livrée: Marie describes her characteristic dress colours as a household's livery — an aristocratic metaphor for her personal code of constancy.
Mes Grâces: Marie's name for her intimate circle of girl friends, after the Three Graces.