Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Wednesday, 23 February 1876

I was about to begin the account of this great day when I was interrupted by the arrival of Visconti, who shows himself more and more a man of the court. Now I have supped, I have conversed, and I am shut up in my room, quiet and alone — I begin then.
We go to our balcony on the Corso in our dresses, since today only flowers are thrown. Our neighbours are there — the lady is truly an agreeable person. It is very lively; there are two ravishing floats. A leafless tree with men dressed as monkeys perched on every branch.
There was applause, and a battle of flowers. Several gentlemen whom I know from carnival, and who always give me flowers, come today more than ever.
There is one in particular — very young, very blond, and very stout — to whom I gave a camellia attached to a long string. He stretched out his fat arms and his so very stupid face, and I held the string for several seconds, several inches too short, for the pleasure of watching him jump and blush.
Troili and Giorgio are in a fine carriage with two large horses, the manservant and coachman in white breeches — it was the prettiest carriage. They shower us with flowers, Dina goes red, and both mothers beam. The carriages follow one another; this battle is altogether gracious.
While we are there throwing and catching flowers, we see our own landau — and in it, Walitsky, to whom I telegraphed the day before yesterday to come. He buries us under
bouquets — and the others must have wondered who was that handsome gentleman, all alone and so gallant. At least half an hour passed before he managed to leave the Corso and come up to the balcony. But I have not even time to embrace him. At last the cannon sounds, the soldiers arrive — the horses are about to race, and Antonelli has not come. But the young man from yesterday comes, and as our balconies touch, we begin to flirt: he gives me bouquets, I give him a camellia, and he says to me everything that a proper gentleman [words blacked out: can say that is tender and] loving to a young lady to whom he has not had the honour of being introduced.
[Written across the page: A man ought to say nothing tender when he has not been introduced, it seems to me.]
He swears to keep this flower always, to press it dry in his watch.
— Quando lei ritorna a Nizza?
— Nel mese d'aprile o forse di maggio, I replied.
Then he promises to be in Nice to show me the dried petals of the camellia that will remain forever fresh in his heart. It was most amusing. He asked me through whom he might be introduced to Madame my mother, and I named Visconti and Antonelli. I believe I even told him my name.
One is at carnival or one is not at carnival, is one not?
I had prepared another white camellia with its stem for Antonelli, but he did not come — yet Count Bruschetti (that is the name of the handsome stranger) was not making me unhappy; I was genuinely enjoying myself when, lowering my eyes to the vile multitude below, I saw Antonelli saluting me. I became so flustered and blushed so violently that I could only let myself fall onto a chair to hide this blush. Dina threw him a bouquet; ten villainous arms stretched out to seize it in flight; one man succeeded — but Antonelli, with the most perfect sang-froid in the world, seized him by the throat and held him in his sinewy hands until the wretch released his prize. It was so beautiful that the man had an almost sublime air — I was transported; and forgetting my blush, then blushing afresh, I gave him my camellia, and the string fell with it, and he took it, and put it in his pocket, and disappeared. Then, still quite moved, I turned back to Bruschetti, who was watching for a favourable moment to address me again with some compliment — on the way I speak Italian, or on anything at all.
The Barberi pass like the wind amid the jeers and
whistles of the crowd; and on our balcony there is talk of nothing but the adorable manner in which [word blacked out: which] Antonelli reclaimed the bouquet. Indeed, he had the air of a lion, a tiger — I never would have expected such a thing from this delicate young man. It is, as I said at the outset, a strange mixture of languor and force. I can still see his clenched hands gripping the lout by the throat.
You may laugh at what I am about to tell you — but I shall tell it all the same. Well, I assure you that by an action such as this a man can [words blacked out: make himself] loved madly, at once. He had such a calm air while throttling that villain that I lost my breath. And during the evening at home, each time we recounted it — and we recounted it twenty times — I blushed like a Nice rose.
Three quarters of an hour later, at the height of my flirtation with the neighbour, I saw at the end of a long staff all adorned with gold and coloured paper an immense bouquet, carried by a lout who did not know to whom he ought to offer it — when a cane, pressing on the staff, made it tilt toward me. It was Antonelli returning my camellia.
At first I had not understood — I had not seen Antonelli; I really do not know what was wrong with me — but after a second's hesitation I lifted the magnificent bouquet with some effort and took it in my arms, smiling at the dreadful priest's son.
— Oh! But it is splendid! cried the English lady.
— E bello veramente, said Bruschetti, a little vexed.
— It is charming, I said to myself — enchanted to the very depths of my heart.
And carrying my trophy, I got into the carriage and we set off. I knew perfectly well that there was nothing more adorable in Rome than the dreadful priest's son.
[Written across the page: One can see perfectly that all this was new to me.]
After seeing me take his bouquet he saluted me in his calm manner and disappeared again — one knows not where.
The whole evening I speak of nothing but this, and interrupt every conversation to speak of it again.
— Is Antonelli not adorable?
I say it as though in jest — but I fear I truly think it. I cannot write tonight; I forget; I stop.
At present I try to persuade my family that I am interested in Antonelli, and no one believes me — but the moment I say
the opposite of what I say now [words blacked out: they will believe] and they will be right.
I am impatient again; I want to sleep to shorten the time — to go to the balcony, and above all to go on Friday to the masked ball at the Apollo. I want to sleep until Friday; I am impatient; I feel drawn toward one knows not whom, one knows not what. The beginning of a fever, like last spring in Nice.

Notes

Homme de cour: courtier — a man skilled in the social graces of polite society. ↩
White breeches: formal livery dress for coachmen and footmen on ceremonial occasions. ↩
Italian: "When do you return to Nice?" In Italian in the original. ↩
Italian: "In April or perhaps May." In Italian in the original. ↩
Antonelli seizes a peasant by the throat who had caught the bouquet thrown to him — an act of aristocratic violence performed with such composure that Marie finds it almost sublime. ↩
Fils de prêtre: lit. "priest's son" — Marie's ironic nickname for Antonelli, whose uncle was the Cardinal Secretary of State. See entry for 15 February. ↩
Italian: "It is truly beautiful." In Italian in the original. ↩