Saturday, 26 February 1876

I did not close an eye — the cut finger made me suffer horribly. I get up at three in the afternoon, exactly like Antonelli. At four o'clock we appear on the balcony.
Si è molto divertita ieri? Bruschetti asks me.
Dove? I asked in my turn.
Al teatro, he said, looking me in the eye.
Io non ero ieri al teatro, I said, meeting his gaze admirably.
Come — all'Apollo? he said.
Ma, ieri all'Apollo non c'era la rappresentazione — c'era un ballo, I said with a rare naturalness.
Sì, è quel che dico — il ballo.
Non vi sono stata — mi doleva la mano, non ho potuto uscire.
Come! Non erano loro!!
Mademoiselle Bashkirtseff, I offer you my sincere compliments — you are the greatest rogue I know.
Besides, it had been prepared since yesterday — but in general,
planned things do not succeed — and this one succeeded like a true sucre.
One had to see the poor wretch's consternation, and hear the questions I put to him. I was enjoying myself like a madwoman; I did not lower my eyes, I did not blush. O sublime hypocrisy! O Truth — where art thou?
And people want me to believe in others! Not so foolish! Why not suppose that others know how to lie as well as I do? In the end, the Italian repeats to me what he said yesterday. A genuine declaration of love — upon my word of honour — accompanied by a genuine proposal of marriage — upon my faith as a woman of honour. All this across the width of a balcony rail. One had either to stiffen or to laugh; I laughed, and told him we were at carnival, which is why I permit many things I would not otherwise permit. He tells me he is not speaking in carnival terms, and almost weeps that I laugh, and says that if I ever fall in love and someone laughs at my love, I shall know how dreadful it is. He has never loved, he says — having seen me, he loved, and he became a child. He says child; I say fool.
This man speaks true — he is sincere, and he believes he is saying nothing in excess. He offers me every proof I might desire; I refuse, saying all this is carnival talk, that I shall see once he has been properly introduced. He goes hurrying off to call on Rossi.
He asks my permission to give me a letter. A bonbonnière as well. Give it then. He tried to pass it over gently — but I only took it when he had raised it to a proper height.
Dio! se almeno non la mostrasse che alla sua famiglia — ma a tutto il pubblico! he cried in despair and confusion.
At this I told him that the public could not suppose I was capable of receiving a letter in secret. And I tucked the letter into my bodice. All this astonishes me and would wound me if Bruschetti did not do it from the bottom of his heart.
He is handsome, and the ladies fight over him, they say. As for me, he is disagreeable to me. God! Would it be because I am agreeable to him? That confused, love-struck air disgusts me. I feel bored by it.
Never the one I want! Must I have such little luck! He is very good, very handsome — but he has no wit, no education. I hate brutes. I prefer a hundred times over a bundle of nerves like the cardinalino. As for that wretch — he did nothing but pass under the balcony and honour us with a tip of his hat. And I had scarcely caught sight of him when my tender neighbour
monopolised me.
All this is absurd, and I am displeased.
Volkonsky, to convey that he has recognised us, throws us three bonbonnières — little masks.
The stout Prussian, whose name is Loëbecke, gives me a large bouquet — a little less large than the cardinalino's. It is very lively, very gracious.
Back home I read the letter — here it is, pinned in: [The letter is missing from the manuscript.] You may read it — it is full of treacle. Where did he copy it from? It is absurd.
— You would not say so, if it were Antonelli, I reply to myself — but it cannot be Antonelli; it is not his style, it does not resemble him. Antonelli is not one of those men who write such letters.
I have reviewed all the men I know by sight or otherwise, imagining each of them in love — and in this way I am able to say which would be repulsive in that condition.
Doria the First — no. Doria the fair one — yes, I think. Cesaro — yes. The agreeable blond — yes. And so on. Antonelli — no. Certainly not. Just so — I have never seen love from a man like Antonelli. Bruschetti has become disagreeable to me. For a moment he redeemed himself a little by showing some anger over his mistake at the ball — but then... And besides, he takes everything I say in earnest. I should very much like to know — but no. I cannot judge Bruschetti. Is this then the fate of all those who love me?
He has the air of a... no — I say that I cannot judge him.
Come, what is the cause of this great discontent? First the slap, then Bruschetti, then... then that is all. Truly it is not worth the trouble of being furious. No matter — I am bored.

Notes

Italian exchange beginning here, in full: "Did you enjoy yourself last night?" / "Where?" / "At the theatre." / "I was not at the theatre last night." / "What — at the Apollo?" / "But yesterday there was no performance at the Apollo — there was a ball." / "Yes, that's what I mean — the ball." / "I was not there; my hand hurt, I was unable to go out." / "What! It was not you!" In Italian in the original.
Comme un vrai sucre: French idiom meaning the plan worked perfectly, without a hitch — lit. "like a true sugar lump."
Italian: "God! If she would at least show it only to her family — but to the whole public!" In Italian in the original.