Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Thursday 16 March 1876

I made Torlonia's acquaintance under the most unfortunate auspices. A Monday, the 13th of the month, in bad weather — and I was dressed in black.
Is that not enough to discourage one entirely?
At eleven o'clock this formidable — or feared — man comes with his friend Pietro. We go outside the Porta del Popolo, and there Pietro gets into the carriage while I mount into Torlonia's panier and take the reins. These horses run very fast and soon we leave far behind us the landau and all its contents.
Do you know the news? I wager you do not — but I am going to tell you. I am in love with Torlonia. It came over me during the drive. I am enchanted by his distinguished manners, his conversation so refined, his very pronunciation, his person, his face, everything in short. He contained himself — but even so he said a silly thing.
"I have never seen oxen with such immense horns," I said, watching a cart pass harnessed to a pair of these very well-horned animals.
"Yes," replied Torlonia, "it is very well developed here."
I did not pursue the matter — besides, I could have pretended not to understand.
Apart from that, he was perfect.
"I always admire your figure," he says, as we were approaching the Porta del Popolo. "Really, you have a remarkable figure."
"Really?" I said rather stupidly. "I thought my figure had nothing remarkable about it."
"I detest paying compliments — I never do — and when one is pretty as you are, one must hear a great many?"
"And there is one!"
"Oh! No — but tell me, it must bore you, must it not?"
"Well, I never know what to answer."
"No, really — you hear an enormous number and it bores you?"
"Well, yes — it is awkward. And what can one say? Thank you."
"Or — how very kind of you."
"Or — how very good of you — casting one's eyes down."
"That's it exactly."
"And has Princess Margherita a fine figure?"
"Yes, but not for a princess — she has a petticoat arrangement too drawn in, and not right for a princess."
"I do not like wasp waists, and if I did I could not lace myself tight — I tried once and suffered greatly. A pretty figure counts for a great deal."
"I should think so — it is enormous," he said with the air of a connoisseur.
"It greatly enhances a woman."
"Yes — but you have no need of it. It is truly admirable, such a figure," he added.
We had arrived; I was very fresh.
I saw Pietro saying something to Maman after looking at me, and I learned this evening that he had said to her:
"Madame, why is she so red?"
"Let us go to luncheon at Spillmann's," says Maman. I take the landau again; Pietro gets in with Torlonia, and we go to Spillmann's.
Pietro and Torlonia reminisce about their military life; Torlonia recounts the desperate telegrams he used to send his mother. Alone and independent — as he said yesterday.
At luncheon he looked at my ears — I mention this because it always seems to me that no one notices them.
How mistaken one can be in this lowly world! The only one who is truly a man, I had said — is Doria. And as it turns out Doria is not a man at all. Dina having said that this immense gentleman frightened me, Torlonia burst out laughing heartily and, leaning toward Walitsky, whispered something in his ear. Later I learned what he had said.
Zucchini's wife has left him — she had very strong reasons for doing so — and Doria is in the same condition as Zucchini.
How one is mistaken sometimes, all the same.
From Spillmann's someone proposes going to the clairvoyant, and we all go on foot. On the last day of carnival, the Duchess of San Faustino, I know not which other princess, Torlonia, and various other gentlemen had dined at Spillmann's.
"We were all rather gone," says Torlonia with a significant gesture, "and the plates that ornament the walls of Spillmann's were in great danger. Oh! Roman ladies!" The San Faustino is Rome's reigning lionne.
But all the pleasure of the drive, the luncheon, and the clairvoyant is spoiled by Prater, to whom there happens a very disgusting accident. We restrained ourselves but finally burst out laughing — and it was dreadful. Fie! The abominable creature.
I am tired. After resting for an hour I went with my family to Besnard — he is going to paint my portrait. I asked his advice about which boots I should wear.
"For today I am disgracefully shod," I said. "We went to the countryside and I put on riding boots."
"An outing?"
"Yes, almost — there was only ourselves, Duke Torlonia, and Count Antonelli."
"Clemente Torlonia?"
"Yes."
"Torlonia is the lion of Rome — is it the young Antonelli you know?"
"Yes, the youngest — the dark one," says Maman.
"Or rather the grey one — since he is no longer black and not yet white," I said.
"It is Torlonia who is often grey," said Besnard, laughing.
"Really?"
"Oh! Yes — besides, he is very much run after here, very fashionable. Antonelli too."
On this Maman recounts her eternal "of that one I take no account."
"Oh!" said Besnard. "Clemente Torlonia's reputation is made for just that."
"How do you mean?"
"I mean in that regard."
I knew all this before this conversation — but I prefer to repeat what others say rather than speak myself.
But I am eager to get to the evening. Let me say only that we were at the Pincio, that Walitsky and Pietro amused us with monkey-antics in the avenues, and that Pietro went so far as to wager he would bathe fully dressed in the Pincio fountain.
In the evening we have the two Swedomsky brothers, the artists, and Bruschetti. I go to the salon making a supreme effort. Bruschetti is handsome, noble, rich, very brave in war — he has a military medal for valour — and I cannot stand him! Fie!!! Fie!
Around ten o'clock Pietro arrives. The salon is very large and handsome — we have two pianos, a grand and a small one. The small one has its back to the room, being placed in a corner. This spot is charming and I go to seat myself there on the pretext of playing something trivial. Antonelli asked for nothing better. Bruschetti had departed after hearing me say I liked nothing but dogs, horses, and guns; the Swedomskys were talking with Maman, Dina, and Walitsky.
I began to play softly the Songs Without Words of Mendelssohn, and Pietro began to sing his own romance to me. The more earnestness and warmth he put into it, the more I laughed and the colder I became. It is impossible for me to imagine Antonelli serious. Everything said by the one we love seems adorable; I am amusing sometimes even for indifferent people — all the more so for those who are not. In the middle of a phrase all tenderness and love I would say something irresistibly droll — for him — and he would burst out laughing; then I reproached him for this laughter, saying I could not believe in a child who was never serious, who laughed like a madman at everything. And so it went several times, to the point of exasperating him. I let myself be caught and have my hand kissed, and he began to recount how it had all begun — from the very first evening, at the performance of La Vestale.
"Bruschetti loves you?" he asked ten times in succession; I gave answers which, while negative, said yes.
"Besides, everyone loves you — it could not be otherwise."
I did not do it on purpose; I do not know how it came about — I know only that I put him in an impossible state. He laughed, but he laughed because he could not weep. I forbade him to speak Italian, and speaking a foreign language is always constraining to a degree.
"In heaven's name, I beseech you — tell me that you detest me, drive me away, let it end! You are an ice-cold coquette; you have a mania for making victims — I see it clearly. Drive me away!"
"No."
"And why?"
"Because I do not detest you," I said, pausing for a moment from accompanying the conversation.
"Tell me to go away — I will go. Tell me that you detest me!"
"But no — I will not say it; I do not detest you."
"I will come here no more!" he cried furiously.
"So much the worse for you," I said, resuming my Song Without Words.
"Why?"
"Because you will see me no more — and you will be unhappy."
"Then — love me!"
"Gently, Monsieur — I believe you are losing your mind."
"How old are you?"
"Sixteen."
"By Jove — it is incredible! You see — we are young; we have a splendid future before us! Listen to me, I beg you — do not torture me. It was foolish of me to have told you that I love you, to have shown it — and now you are laughing at me!"
"But not at all — I assure you."
"You laugh and you do not see what harm you are doing me! I have a sensitive nature and you are tormenting me!"
"The clairvoyant said so."
"I beseech you — do not mock me," he said again, staying my right hand on the piano and pressing against it his burning cheek.
I let it be. I saw eyes that looked at me with love and fear; I felt a loving hand pressing mine; he was charming thus — pressing his cheek like a child against my hand. But I did not stir from the domain of cold superiority — they say it impresses young men most.
Then I began to persuade him that he was too young, and to give him many good reasons to stop loving me — but the boy, instead of listening, showed himself more and more obdurate.
"I shall love you so much — I think of nothing but you; I have not a moment's rest. Be kind — you love Chocolat; I shall be your Chocolat; you shall give the orders!"
"Very well — I shall go to Russia, I shall marry, and you shall be my Chocolat."
I said this in all seriousness, and he flew into such a rage that I was obliged to take his hand.
"I love you so much," he said, "that I would do anything for you — tell me to put two revolver bullets into myself and I will do it!"
"And what would your mother say?"
"My mother would weep, and my brothers would say — well, instead of three, we are two now!"
"That is unnecessary — I want no such proofs."
"But then what do you want? Tell me — shall I jump from this window into the basin down there?"
And he sprang toward the window; I held him back, and he would not let go of my hand.
"No," he said, swallowing something that resembled a tear. "You see — I am calm now; but a moment ago! God!… do not reduce me to such a fury — answer me; say something!"
"All this is madness!"
"Yes — perhaps youthful madness, but I don't think so; I have never felt what I feel at this moment; just now, here, I thought I was going mad!"
"In a month I shall leave, and everything will be forgotten."
"I shall follow you everywhere."
"They will not allow it."
"And who will stop me!" he cried, leaping toward me.
"You are too young," I said, changing the music and passing to a nocturne softer and deeper. "Your father will not permit you to marry."
"But my father desires nothing else — he begs me morning to night; my mother too. Let us marry — we have a superb future before us!"
"Yes — if I wished it."
"Ah! By Jove — then you do wish it!" he went on, growing more and more exalted; I did not stir nor even change colour.
"Well," I said with a wise air, "let us suppose I marry you — and in two years you stop loving me."
I thought he would choke. "No — why — how can you," he said in a broken voice, "why such ideas, I… you…" — panting, with tears in his eyes.
"No, no," he cried, "I must —" and before I had time to hear the end of his sentence, I felt his trembling arm around my waist and his lips on my cheek… the right cheek. Note that in my case the right side always comes before the left.
[Annotation: ! 1881. Proof that it is the right lung that is affected first, along with the ear.]
I drew back, red with anger. O protective piano! What should we be without you. And yet I, who only yesterday wished to move it!
What more would you have me say? I have already said too much, I believe — such things do not bear repeating; and when they are repeated they seem absurd.
I was furious at the kiss and he went down on his knees to beg my pardon — as one begs pardon of God. I was red, and looked at him with as much cold fury as I could muster.
"You must have a good nature," he said.
"I should think so — without it I should already have had you thrown out," I replied, turning away to laugh.
I had nothing more to hear; Maman called my admirer — uneasy, no doubt — but he came back after a moment to ask whether he might hope, and a heap of things of that kind. I smiled, answering without answering; then I rose, calm and satisfied, and went to be agreeable to the Swedomskys, who are leaving soon.
As for Antonelli — to prolong his stay — he proposes feats of strength and dexterity to Walitsky, and the two of them, one dark and thin, the other fair and stout, roll on the floor, leap over chairs, and distinguish themselves — one must do them justice.
But it was time to go.
"It is time, is it not?" he asked with questioning glances.
"Yes," said Walitsky.
Having given Maman and the others a very brief summary of the affair, I shut myself in my room and, before writing, spend an hour with my hands over my face and my fingers in my hair, always trying to account to myself for my own feelings.
I think I understand myself!
Poor Pietro — it is not that I feel nothing for him; on the contrary. But I cannot consent to be his wife. The wealth, the villas, and the museums of the Ruspolis, the Dorias, the Torlo­nias, the Borgheses, the Chigis — they would crush me. I am ambitious and vain above all else.
And to think that people love such a creature! Because they do not know her. If they knew her, this creature… ah! Bah! They would love her all the same. Ambition is a noble passion.
Why the devil is it Antonelli instead of Torlonia? Oh! I always repeat the same sentence with changed names — only the second name in the last sentence is always the first in the next.
It is not that I am corrupt and do not know what I want — but simply that I do not know the circumstances. At present Torlonia seems good to me; who knows if it is true?
Ah! Something about Torlonia comes back to me now.
"Have you visited my uncle's villa?" he asked me.
"No — I detest visiting."
"Same as me. The other day Zucchini… why are you laughing?"
"Nothing — it is the name that always makes me laugh; it brings me luck. There are people who make me laugh, others who make me weep."
"Ah! You suffer from antipathies?"
"I should think so!"
"So do I — but I like people who suffer from antipathies, for they are also capable of…"
The carriage arrived at a freshly paved stretch of the road and I lost the end of the sentence.
Torlonia has an adorable mouth — a child's mouth.

Notes

Panier — a light, fast two-wheeled carriage with a basket-work body. ↩
In Italian, corna (horns) were the traditional symbol of a cuckold — a husband whose wife has been unfaithful. Torlonia's remark "it is very well developed here" is a double-entendre implying that Rome has many cuckolds. ↩
Juponnage — the art of arranging petticoats beneath a skirt to achieve the fashionable silhouette. Torlonia criticises Princess Margherita's figure management as too artificial. ↩
The implication, conveyed in whispered gossip, is that both Zucchini and Doria were sexually impotent, giving their wives cause for desertion or unhappiness. ↩
Lionne — 1870s society term for the most fashionable, admired woman of the moment; the female equivalent of "lion of the season." ↩
Lion — the most admired, sought-after man in society; Rome's social celebrity of the season. ↩
Marie plays on the political colours of Rome's divided aristocracy: noir (black) = the papal/clerical party loyal to the Pope; blanc (white) = the liberal party loyal to unified Italy under the House of Savoy. Pietro Antonelli, nephew of the late papal Secretary of State, was transitioning between the two camps. ↩
Gris in French means both "grey" (colour) and "tipsy/drunk" — Besnard pivots the wordplay from politics to Torlonia's known drinking. ↩
Songs Without Words (Lieder ohne Worte) — Mendelssohn's celebrated series of short piano pieces (1829–1845), each suggesting a song-like melody without text. ↩
This annotation was added by Marie in 1881 — a grim self-diagnosis noting that it was her right lung that was first affected by the tuberculosis that would kill her in 1884. ↩