Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Saturday 11 March 1876

Yesterday Rossi was greatly relieved to learn that Antonelli had not justified by his conduct the nickname pazzerello.
"I confess to you, Mademoiselle," he says, "that while I was in Florence I trembled for you after having presented him."
What a delightful triple promenade: Borghese, Pincio, and Corso. Crowds of fashionable people. All those coronets and coats of arms on the carriages have quite turned my head. Doria in his coupé — he lowers his eyes and almost smiles despite his thrice noble air, as Pietro calls it; he chills me. There is a man I never dare look in the face directly; as for the fat king and Prince Humbert, I look them straight in the eye like animals. Torlonia is nowhere to be seen. The detestable Bruschetti follows us everywhere. I am alone with Dina and it is cold, so I keep on my furs.
And people speak to me of Nice! I want none of it — I will not go there in autumn, in spring, in summer, nor in winter. And why should I go? To admire Audiffret? Oh yes, of course! Those two beauties are what occupy me, perhaps! Bigre, no! When there are such fine young men here, I shall go to Nice to see Galula. Faugh! How wretched!
Pietro goes about in a cab to the Villa Borghese, the Pincio, and the Corso, and bows at every encounter. I believe it is the Italian custom.
I greatly wanted to get out and walk, or at least stop to listen to the band from the carriage — but Bruschetti is watching for me, Pietro too; I make the driver go behind the other carriages instead of along the main path; they think we are stopping and make for the carriages, but we are only passing and drive off on the opposite side. It is great fun, this trick, and the topography of the Pincio lends itself to it admirably — I repeat it twice. But I catch sight of Torlonia at last! He comes down, we come down too — but his magnificent horses run three times as fast, and we lose sight of him on the Corso.
Paparigopoulos is no longer to be seen — the day before yesterday he called on us again, and again we were not at home.
There is nothing more amusing than Rome. By now I know everyone by sight; I have learned to distinguish the tiresome street poseurs from the good ones, and no longer attend to that multitude whose glances alarmed me so at the beginning. In front of the Caccia-Club: z…z…z… Zucchini, Belmonte, Don Alfonso — that Don Alfonso has a singular way of saying hello, he gives a tap of his cane. And today he attached a piece of paper to a companion's coat, and the man had no idea.
Passing again a second time, I see five or six of them on the balcony, and the others still before the door.
M. de Monterreno always bows to me — I should like to know why.
Ah! Dog of dogs! How wretched I am not knowing anyone! How I should like to receive all this world at home! It is enough to die of, upon my honour! Ah! Son of a dog! Eagle and parrot! Vibrio and rotifer!
It will be the death of me!
There is Torlonia again, stopped in the middle of the Corso and turned to his left to speak to someone. I turn round and look at him; at that moment he turns round too; I feign a slight confusion and turn back toward Dina. A moment later he passes us and looks back at me in his turn.
Such turnings-back! Well, no matter — I have seen him, he has seen me, we have seen each other. Poor Pietro! I ask nothing better than to cast him to the four winds. Only I do not think he loves me — he is too mad for that.
This evening at the Valle they are performing La Vie Parisienne for the first time — so we expect no one. Visconti comes, and while I am dressing he goes away, having seen only Dina, for Maman is still in bed. I sit down to write, and hear ten o'clock strike not without a small disappointment.
"Mademoiselle," says Léonie, coming in, "you have a visitor."
"Who?"
"That gentleman — I do not know his name — who came the other day."
I rose in anger — I thought it was Bruschetti, and that Léonie, who is not in my pay, wanted to trick me into coming out. But it was not Bruschetti — it was Antonelli.
He first made a show of wanting to leave on learning that Maman was still ill.
"There are days when you are sweeter and others when you are less so."
"And today — more or less?"
"More."
"So much the better."
I knew it well enough without his telling me. While we were alone he tried to take my hand with a very amorous air, but I drew back and forbade him. Then Walitsky and Dina arrived, and the evening was spent wrestling, playing at tug-of-war, at horses, and committing other follies.
[Written across the page: It was Walitsky and Antonelli who were testing their strength.]
He is very amusing, but I want someone more important. He is not handsome, and yet when I touch his hand — so ugly — I shiver with pleasure. He has a pretty mouth. I want Torlonia. Torlonia was in the army at the same time as he, and they are still friends — but he will not present me, and every time I pronounce the name of Torlonia he changes the conversation. We should very much like to go riding tomorrow, but Maman being ill…
Instead we shall go to a clairvoyant — it will be very amusing.
I taught him to imitate a fly before saying Zucchini, and now he never says it any other way: z…z…z… Zucchini.
Poor Zucchini!
I want Torlonia, or Doria, or some other. It is foolish not to know these gentlemen. It is absurd.
If I went into society I should have great success — since without going I have found two admirers, perhaps even three. I might even marry. And why not?
No, seriously — I must marry. Not so much to have a husband as to live as befits my station.
Why is it Bruschetti and not Torlonia? What a fine name: Duke Clément Torlonia. The Duchess Marie Torlonia. What a triumph it would be before the swine of Nice! By swine I do not mean Audiffret — on the subject of that gentleman, my aunt writes that he is at Robenson again and that there is talk of a marriage. God bless them. All of that seems so small and paltry beside the grandeurs of Rome.
Plutarch gives the etymology of Rome as romo or rumo, meaning breast.
It is foolish to come every day as Antonelli does. He will grow tired of me.
"When you know me better, you will love me, perhaps — a little?"
He wants to be known better. It is pointless — if he conformed to the programme it would already be done. But alas! No — Antonelli is truly not a husband. He does not even have a watch.
"They are very rich," Rossi said — and Rossi measures wealth like a Roman. Olympia Doria will have one million five hundred thousand francs as a dowry, and Rossi thinks that is not a great deal.
But no, no — Antonelli, no. Torlonia, yes. Torlonia is not entirely indifferent to me. Who knows? We shall see.
"Do you know the news?" as Barnola would say. The news is that Antonelli has never ceased to believe that the pink domino was me. He is convinced, and I assure him in vain.
Antonelli's father may be rich — but he himself is only a child.
Well! What would you have one do.

Notes

Pazzerello — Italian: "little madman," a playful diminutive. ↩
"Vibrio and rotifer" — microscopic organisms; one of Marie's characteristic exclamations borrowing from natural history vocabulary. ↩
Plutarch (Life of Romulus) suggests the name Rome derives from the Greek rhôme (strength) or rhoumé (flowing), and notes the Latin ruma or rumen (teat/gullet) — referring to the wolf that suckled Romulus and Remus. ↩