Sunday 12 March 1876

Maman, Dina, I, and Antonelli in the landau, with Walitsky following in a cab — we go to the clairvoyant. This respectable lady falls asleep, mesmerised by her husband, and I question her; but as it is in front of everyone I ask nothing in particular — besides, she guesses fairly well. Then it is Pietro's turn, and the clairvoyant describes his character with great accuracy, which is not surprising: that little gentleman is very well known.
"If you only knew, Madame, how many tears his mother has shed!" said Rossi the other evening.
After the clairvoyant we go to watch the telegraph lottery draw at the Piazza del Popolo. Afterward I say we should go home so that Pietro will leave, but he has no thought of it — so we make thirty-six circuits together at the Villa Borghese. This boy does not inconvenience us in the least; I speak before him as before one of our own; I recount how Zucchini makes me laugh, how Mme Soukowkine makes me weep, and how Doria frightens me. As for the last, I am not inventing. We have met him several times; he cast down his eyes and almost smiled. I wonder why? Before, he never did.
Z…z… Zucchini makes me laugh till I cry. Pietro tells all his family affairs — he is a charming child.
"Here is Torlonia," he says.
"Ah! Yes — he has very pretty horses."
"Yes, very pretty — I believe he is selling them."
"Really!"
"Would you like me to ask him?"
"Yes, yes — ask him. Are they not lovely?"
Torlonia's horses — what an idea.
From the Villa Borghese we go to the Pincio, to the Corso, and home.
"Will you dine with us?" asked Maman, "but I warn you the dinner is not very good at the hotel."
Only too happy, no doubt. This whole day spent with Pietro has finished making him seem one of our own.
It is incredible how masquerade balls bring people together. All those I addressed as tu at the balls feel like friends to me. We seem, I do not know why, to be on a journey all day. After dinner everyone lights cigarettes — I too, but with great grimaces, like someone who has never smoked.
A little later tea is served, and I go to sit on a marble step in the window embrasure. It is a charming spot, barely veiled by white curtains. And Antonelli comes to join me after a few minutes of hesitation. That's more like it! That lamp, Dina, Maman, Walitsky — they all weary me.
However we speak rather loudly, and Maman begins to read a newspaper aloud.
Thank you — it was for my benefit.
In this way the conversation could take on a more intimate character; he begged me to go riding in the evening and see the Colosseum by moonlight.
"I am having my quarter-hour of poetry," he says, "it will be poetic for us, who are both materialists."
"Speak for yourself — I am not at all."
"Then we shall go."
"Very well."
"Do you love anyone in Rome?"
"And you?"
"You must not ask me that."
"And why not?"
"As if you didn't know."
"Of course I don't."
"O innocence!"
"My God, yes — only you, you cannot believe in innocence; you are too corrupted for that."
"That is not true!"
"You must tell Plowden to come."
"Ah! So you want him to. He is courting you, is he not?"
"Do I know? Everyone courts me."
"But not I."
"You are an exception."
"The thing is, I do not know how — I have always thrown myself into the arms of easy women, and it was they who courted me, so I do not know how to do it."
"But why," he resumed, "will you not believe me?"
"Believe what? What you told me on horseback?"
"Yes."
"Because it is not true and it is nonsense."
"Yes, there you have it! You always say I am lying, that I am a hypocrite — and again at the Capitoline — how you insulted me!"
[Written across the page: As you can see, this Antonelli ought to have been shown the door. I received no one, went nowhere, and spent my evenings among a few men, one of whom was an Antonelli! I was seventeen — it was not my fault.]
"And just think — then I did not know you; now I should say far more still."
"No — listen" — and he fixed me with a gaze that made me lower my eyes — "I must have a long conversation with you on that subject. When?"
"When we go riding" — his gaze weighed on me; I was not free either in mind or in tongue.
"But I beg you," he says, with an almost suppliant air, "without Plowden — just the two of us — I beg you."
"Very well, very well — we shall see; I do not know."
He turned his eyes away; I recovered my strength.
"Plowden must come," I say.
He speaks to me again of his love, but I listen little and go to sit at the table, where we speak of the Cardinal. The cardinalino says that he is furious with him because he has joined the Caccia-Club and keeps company with the whites and bows to the King, the Prince, and the Princess.
"You must go to him," says Maman, "and have yourself forgiven."
"Oh! No — I cannot ask forgiveness; otherwise I should say impertinent things. I asked my other uncle to take me with him to the Cardinal; he said he would see. My father ought to, but he too is very angry with me. No — to be reconciled with my uncle there must be an occasion, a serious circumstance."
I believe he would never have gone at all had Walitsky not drawn out his watch and said it was time to go to bed.
He was recounting all his quarrels with Papa and Maman.
"Well then — do not forget Torlonia's horses," I say, for the tenth time.
"I shall not forget Torlonia's hair."
"Not the hair — the horses. Do not confuse them, I beg you. I have a desperate wish to have those horses; tell him I want to buy them."
"I shall tell him — besides, he knows you very well by sight."
"I am going to lay out the cards for Torlonia's horses."
"And for the hair," says Pietro.
"And for the hair — very well."
Ah — it seems I shall have both, if the cards are to be believed.
"I believe," says Antonelli, "that z… Zucchini is going out of fashion, and that Torlonia's horses are the thing now."
The poor little wretch mocks Torlonia's stoutness and suspects nothing. So much the better.
"When do we ride?" he says before leaving.
"The day after tomorrow," says Maman, "and give Plowden notice."

Notes

Somnambule — here used for a clairvoyant or medium who falls into a trance; mesmerism and somnambulism were fashionable forms of spiritual entertainment in 1870s society.
Tombola télégraphique — a lottery whose results were transmitted by telegraph, a novelty combining modern technology with traditional festivity.
Les blancs — the "whites," supporters of the Italian monarchy (the House of Savoy), as opposed to the noirs (blacks), the papal loyalists who refused to recognise the Italian state.