Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Sunday 19 March 1876

I came home vexed — almost furious. I had the carriage stopped at the outdoor concert and we stayed half an hour, while Torlonia drove by in his carriage and did not think to get out. Torlonia is going to please me greatly — because he pays me no attention. If Pietro played at indifference (not now — now it would be an insult), if Pietro played at indifference, I say, I might perhaps love him. But he is all devotion, all honesty, all mine — and instead of loving I let myself be loved, which is still something.
Torlonia and a very violent wind have put me in a bad humour.
Pietro is lying. Torlonia must have more than twenty-five thousand francs a year. With twenty-five thousand francs one cannot lead the life he leads. For the present that income might suffice — since I have double. Prince Alexandre Torlonia has several nephews and a daughter married to the third son of Prince Borghese. Supposing four heirs — supposing the fortune divided equally — each one of them will be very rich. And then, apart from the fortune, Torlonia has a most brilliant position, and Torlonia is a very handsome man. He is short but appears tall. Before seeing him I detested beards — but he wears his so well that I detest them no longer.
I dined again at the table d'hôte. Prince and Princess Tricase Muliterno, their daughter and their son were there! It is for them that I mingle with strangers — which is very foolish.
Yesterday that creature Antonelli kept me up until half past twelve — it is absurd to stay awake and tire oneself for nothing. If it were at least Torlonia I should understand — but for Pietro, from whom there is nothing more to be gained!
Irritated I am! All this is stupid. The best I can do is go to Russia and try to please Miloradovitch, who alone has a fortune such as I need. It is ridiculous to hope that I, with my habits, could live in modest circumstances. In a moment of passion I may perhaps let myself be blinded — but it will be madness, madness, madness! And the misfortune of myself, my husband, and us all.
It is half past nine — it is highly probable that Antonelli will arrive and I shall stay up again — for nothing!
Loëbecke is in Nice — someone had given him a letter for my aunt, who received him and invited him to dine with Barnola and Bihovetz. They visited my room; Bihovetz said that in such a room one could only pray — not sleep.
If only Torlonia would come this evening!
Yesterday Pietro brought us a photograph of his uncle, signed by him: G. Cd Antonelli. It is an interesting signature to have: Giacomo Cardinale Antonelli.
He comes, as I well expected, and brings great news. Doria is dead! Do not be alarmed — it is not my scarecrow Giacometto, but his father, aged sixty-three. Only yesterday he had gone to the Valle to see La Jolie Parfumeuse. And that same night he died of an attack of gout, so they say, driven up to the heart. Poor old man — who so desired to see one of his sons married. Now Giacometto will be free to love his dear Mme Leghait, the wife of the secretary to the Belgian legation. Princess Margherita was only one of Maman's fantasies — whereas the passion for Leghait's wife has lasted three years. I have seen this woman; she has a parrot's face. It is remarkable how much luck such faces have. I could cite at least ten examples.
We spoke of the fortunes of Rome: Torlonia is the richest — six or seven million a year; Borghese comes second, and Doria third.
Think of it — six million a year! Clément will be very rich; they ought not to have told me, for since he pleased me when poor he will please me far more when rich. No — do not think me so mercenary. Torlonia pleases me rich or poor.
That cursed cardinalino has kept me up again until one o'clock. Every day is too much. Little pleasure and no profit.
We devise making a dummy in Walitsky's bed; the comings and goings, the rearranging of furniture, permit plenty of blazing glances, hand-catching, and even two more kisses on the hand — always the right one. We laugh like madmen — I, he, and Dina — at the dummy and the arrangement we make in the bed, for the moment Walitsky lies down he will sink right in.
Yet I am not entirely content; neither is Pietro. Dina went to fetch a nightcap.
"What a misfortune," said Pietro, taking both my hands, "to be able to say nothing to you!"
"I am so unhappy," he said later.
"Really!"
"And my happiness depends on you!"
I should think so, you toad! If I, without loving you, desire you — how much more must you desire me… And you have not chosen badly, you scoundrel. That choice speaks in your favour.
But I am horribly shocked to learn that the Antonellis rent out the first floor of their palazzo — a palazzo that could easily pass for a house and of mediocre appearance at that.
The Borgheses rent — the Dorias too — but that is another matter: they rent the surplus of the surplus, whereas here!… I am so shocked that I very much regret having given my hand to be pressed and kissed.
The young pup pleases Dina — she blushes to her ears at the sight of him.
Bigre de bigre! Torlonia does not even think of me. Could anything be more absurd in this lowly world!
Bruschetti dares to love me — I abhor him! Antonelli loves me — he amuses me. Torlonia couldn't care less about me — and I could love him.
Little Antonelli has charmed everyone here. Maman adores him and defends him against all and sundry; Walitsky too. God, grant that I do not begin to detest him for that!
He comes every evening.
Ah! All this bores me — wearies me! One must leave Rome. One will not die of it. One must go to Russia.
The truth of it all is that I love no one, and have never yet loved anyone in my life — except the Duke of Hamilton, but that was so long ago.
I should very much like to love for an hour — but to love madly, to understand what people say to me. Only for an hour — and that would be enough. One must be horribly tormented; but one must also have dizzying moments.
I love, you love, he loves, we love, you love, they love. Amen.

Notes

G. Cd Antonelli — abbreviation for Giacomo Cardinale Antonelli (1806–1876), Secretary of State to Pope Pius IX and the most powerful figure in the papal administration. He had died just months earlier, in November 1876. ↩
Giacometto — Italian diminutive of Giacomo (James); here used affectionately-ironically for the young Doria whom Marie found intimidating. ↩
La Jolie Parfumeuse — a popular operetta by Jacques Offenbach (1873); the elder Doria attended a performance the night he died. ↩
Palazzo — a grand Italian noble house or palace. Renting out floors of one's palazzo was a sign of reduced circumstances — acceptable for the ultra-rich Borgheses but scandalous for the relatively modest Antonellis. ↩
The Duke of Hamilton — Marie's first great passion; she fell deeply in love with William Alexander Louis Stephen Douglas-Hamilton, 12th Duke of Hamilton, when she was around fourteen, during her time in Baden-Baden. The attachment was never reciprocated. ↩
Marie conjugates the verb aimer (to love) through all persons of the present tense and closes with "Amen" — a mock-liturgical joke noted in the LAN annotations. ↩