Tuesday, 29 February 1876

As it is the last day, we go out early.
The whole city is in excitement — everyone wants to enjoy themselves, everyone runs and shouts. We drive along the Corso. Princess Margherita, sweet as an angel, is out as well. The Corso is too short for the quantity of carriages. I do not know whether others received as many bouquets and bonbonnières — but as for me, I am flooded and covered with them. The fair Doria throws me a pretty bouquet from his balcony; everyone, in a word. I enjoy myself like a madwoman. I have thrown two large bouquets to the Princess, and when we pass again later before the balcony she occupies, she throws me a white satin bonbonnière, which I keep.
I will not undertake to convey the furious gaiety of Mardi Gras in Rome. It was so entertaining that I did not notice Antonelli's absence. We go to the balcony only for the Barberi race, and there find a large bouquet from Loëbecke for me — he gave me one yesterday as well. I speak to Bruschetti; he asks me whether I have read his letter.
[Seven lines cancelled.]
I reply that yes. And why do you say nothing to me? I say nothing because it is far too soon.
— Gather all the information you wish.
— The only information I want will come with time. I am astonished at the speed with which love came to you.
— For that one needs only an instant.
— Oh! With me it is not like that — it takes me a long time.
Imagine — the brute asks me how long!
— Oh! I said — I need a very, very long time: three or four months at least.
He asks whether, while waiting for love, there might not be a little liking. Inwardly I am outraged, and I reply that I shall say nothing; that he must know I am excessively strict; and that it is fortunate enough already if I consent to listen to him and permit him to wait.
I deign to introduce him to Madame my mother, at which he is delighted. Enough of this creature. Plowden brings me a bouquet of roses and begs me to introduce him to Madame — which I do. He is a man received everywhere, and a great friend of Antonelli's.
Dusk falls and the moccoli game begins. Our balcony and the Englishwoman's are the only ones illuminated with Bengal lights — great effect. Apropos the Englishwoman — all these gentlemen say her name is Madame Oliver, and Antonelli spoke of her in a most unpleasant tone.
From what I have gathered about this person, I see that she does not go into good society, does not live with her husband, and is surrounded by men — which in my view cannot compromise her, fat, short, and painted as she is. But let us not swim against the current; let us bow to general opinion, and defend only ourselves — that will be quite enough to do.
The whole Corso is illuminated with moccoli that light and extinguish, leap up and down, like devils' eyes — pursued by fans, brooms, and handkerchiefs, like so many great moths.
The crowd shrieks — it knows nothing but shrieking.
Loëbecke considers himself entitled to salute me, and he has so frank, so gay, so simple an air that I salute him and smile at him as at an acquaintance.
I return home somewhat bored — the dress is stained by Dina's moccoli; she, growing excited, has lost all sense of herself.
Toward eleven o'clock a pink domino is brought for me and a red one for Dina. I have a mad desire to be gay this evening — it seems to me I shall intrigue everyone, that I shall even have the courage to approach the great Doria.
Dina, Lola, and their mother go to see the cremation of Carnival; I stay with Maman — it does not interest me; there will be nothing but the crowd.
Since this morning I have been begging everyone not to spoil my mood. I am an unfortunate character — the smallest contrary word, a pin's head in the wheel, and it is finished. And Walitsky and Maman have spoiled everything! First they say the words,
depravation, eternal shame, [words blacked out: not a] stone, never! Like Jules Favre.
It was a way of starting the battle. I say nothing — only I end by weeping at my wretched nature, which is subject to every influence. They do not understand, or perhaps understand too well, how sensitive I am. The least thing inflames or freezes me. Well — what is to be done? It is so. Seeing my distress, they cheer up and we go — but I am completely discouraged.
There are so few people that it is ridiculous. Pietro, doubled over, is chatting with a very rich red satin domino. Walitsky is in a black domino — he has the air of a pregnant woman; his figure distracts me. Not a single man I know. But there is Doria, seated with a black domino.
I dare to approach him. But he gives not a fig for a pink domino and barely replies. I go to be bored elsewhere. Antonelli is still with the red domino — but now in a box.
A little later he comes down alone; I speak to him for a time. I cannot say whether he recognised me — I was disguising my voice and speaking Italian. A barely masked lady beckons him from a box; [words blacked out: I tell him to] go, so that he should not go away on his own.
— You know, he said — still in Italian — we ought to marry.
— I do not want to.
— Why?
— Because you are ugly and I detest you.
— So much the worse for me and so much the better for you. Come — no matter what you do, your foot always betrays you. So you detest me — and has it always been so?
— Always.
— Then I am unhappy.
— No — you are stupid. Go away.
We were seated on the edge of a box — he is so quick that I had no time to prevent him from seeing my glove.
Meanwhile Maman was approaching Doria.
— Lord, how bored you must be, I said to him in passing.
And without turning, without stirring, he let out a mocking sound at me that I found enormously pleasing. Listen — I have been struck by a thunderbolt. Of all those I see in Rome or elsewhere, Doria is the only one who is a gentleman in every sense. Beside him, all the
others are cheap goods. Antonelli — a monkey; the others — peasants.
Doria is a prince in every sense of the word. I said before that in Margherita's place I would choose another. No — I would never choose another. What manners, what language, what nobility in the smallest actions! I was very pleased with the way he treats unknown dominos.
Heu-hé! he said when I told him he must be bored — it was admirably done.
— I return troubled, agitated, confused. I do not want to think about Doria — it would be madness.
He was waiting for a domino, he told Maman.
— You may be an angel from heaven, he said — but I cannot stay with you. I am waiting for a domino who is expected. I shall wait another quarter of an hour, and then I shall leave — for I am not accustomed to being stood up, and I will not endure it.
His voice chills my blood — upon my word of honour — and I am afraid of this man. It seems to me I could adore him. I do not smile thinking of him, as I do thinking of the cardinalino — I want to weep, to tremble; I am afraid.
I have never seen him close before tonight — I have never heard him speak. There is something strange about him; he renders me mute; he drives me to despair; he makes me afraid.
I fall asleep like a madwoman — I do not weep — but I cannot prevent my brows from knitting at every moment, my lips from pressing together; and I feel strange, and that imperious voice disturbs my whole being, and I am afraid.

Notes

Princess Margherita of Savoy (1851-1926), future Queen of Italy — then Princess of Piedmont. Marie has encountered her in Rome's carnival society.
Mardi Gras: Shrove Tuesday — the last day of Carnival before Ash Wednesday and the beginning of Lent.
Moccoli: small candles (lit. "wicks") — the traditional finale of Roman Carnival on the evening of Mardi Gras, in which everyone tries to extinguish their neighbours' candles while keeping their own alight, accompanied by cries of Senza moccolo! ("Without a candle!").
Feux de Bengale: Bengal lights — coloured chemical flares used for theatrical illumination, producing vivid red, green, or blue light.
The "cremation of Carnival" (funerale del Carnevale): a mock funeral procession marking the death of Carnival on the last night, with an effigy burned or buried — a centuries-old Roman tradition.
Jules Favre (1809-1880): French lawyer and republican statesman — famous for his impassioned, rhetorical oratory. Marie invokes him as a type of theatrical moral indignation.
sensitive: Marie writes this word in English in the original French text. In English in the original.
Coup de foudre: lit. "a thunderbolt" — the overwhelming, instantaneous experience of falling in love. See entry 21 February for Marie's self-analysis of this phenomenon.