Tuesday 21 March 1876

I painted for two or three hours and then we went out as usual.
It is cold and it snows now and then — but I don’t care a bit about the weather; besides, there is sunshine.
We met Torlonia as we were going up the Pincio; he was coming down in a closed carriage, for it had begun to snow at just that moment — but the hood of his victoria did not prevent him from raising his hat with as much style as possible. He still hopes to sell his horses. Fie! What misery. For today I adore him all the more — because he is distant and does not look at me.
I have just gone back over my last book and I see that it is not yet hopeless with Torlonia. Antonelli was introduced on 20 February, paid his call on the 21st, and after that we did not see him again until the 28th. On the 28th he came onto the balcony and was invited to come to us that same evening.
We met Torlonia on 13 March; on the 14th he paid his call. On the 16th we lunched at Spillmann’s and spent half the day together. But let us go on: Antonelli came for the second time in the evening on 5 March — between the two evenings there are five days. Let us keep going; these calculations console me. The next day, 6 March, we went riding with Plowden, Loëbecke and Antonelli. On the 8th another cavalcade, but tête-à-tête. On the 9th Antonelli again spent the evening with us; after that there is no more counting. But the main thing is the beginning — look: 26 Feb. — 28 — 5 March!
So there is no need to despair. Torlonia has not had the time (console yourself, brute!).
Look at the dates: 13 March — 16 March. That is all for the moment. Today is the 21st. From the 16th to the 21st there are only four days — five, counting the 21st. Let us not weep, it is not yet hopeless. Ah! By Jove. How plaintive that “By Jove” would sound if I said it instead of writing it!
The King has ordered seven days of mourning for old Doria. Now that is chic! That is what sends poor Antonelli rolling to the devil! That is the kind of grandeur I need!
I groan over it, on my word as a gentlewoman!
On the Corso we met the Marchese Borgagli, an old acquaintance from Nice about whom, I am surprised to see, I have never said a word. He is back from Cairo and will come this evening to tell us about his journey.
Borgagli is from — the devil! I forget the town, but bah! he is practically Roman, and his uncle was a minister here for twenty years. He may be anywhere from thirty-five to forty, the inconsolable widower of a wife who died a short while ago, leaving him a son.
At last Antonelli brought Fosti, the most sought-after and fashionable singing master in Rome. He gives lessons to Princess Margherita, and all the grandees of Rome shake hands with him and suffer him almost as an equal.
For the first time in a month and a half I tried to sing. I could show only half of my instrument, and Fosti found it very beautiful.
And then an avalanche of people (admire the distinction of the style). The two Swedomskys, Borgagli, Rossi and Baron Visconti. The last stays his usual length of time, during which he says things that are not at all usual, as I learn later.
Antonelli leaves early with Fosti.
“Stay,” I said to him.
“I can’t!”
“Very well, then I shall be cross.”
I said impertinent things to him and let him go, staying behind myself to laugh with the others — with Borgagli, who remembers my dresses like Danis and who “has been studying me for four years.” He is astonished to see me so tall, and something else besides. We go into my studio, which is next to the big salon. But I was bored without Pietro. After half an hour this gentleman, so much desired this evening, comes back.
Rossi examines us so as to go and make his report to Monseigneur and to the Antonellis. They are so eager to marry off this naughty boy; he himself has told me so a hundred times.
I behaved stupidly this evening. I talked in low tones with the scamp and gave every reason to believe things that will never be. Pietro in company does not amuse me; he amuses me when the two of us are alone, for then he talks to me of love and marriage. We find a way of isolating ourselves in the studio. The priest’s son is jealous, furiously jealous. Of whom? Of everyone — of Z... Zucchini, of Torlonia, of every man. Well and good. I listen to these speeches laughing from the height of my cold indifference, and at the same time I let him take my hand, take his hand in turn with an almost maternal air, and if he is not yet quite stupefied by his passion for me, as he puts it, he must see that while I drive him away with my words, I hold him back with my eyes, and while I tell him that I do not love him and never shall, I love him, or at least behave as though I loved him. I say all sorts of nonsense to him and treat him as at the ball at the Capitol. Another man would be content, an older one, but Pietro tears a napkin, breaks two brushes, puts his fist through a canvas. All these manoeuvres allow me to take him by the hand and tell him he is mad.
Then he looks at me with a curious fixity; I do the same, and when his black eyes lose themselves in my grey ones, I say to him without laughing:
“Pull a face” — and he laughs, and I pretend to be displeased.
But a telegram is brought in; I read it, I show it round and show myself put out, annoyed, a little furious. They have bought me horses in Nice when I wanted Torlonia’s! It is abominable. Pietro will take the telegram to Clemente. I am sorry about it.
This creature stays on after everyone else and, passing through the anteroom, stops by my door.
“Is this your room?”
“Yes, it is my room.”
Walitsky goes back to the salon, knowing what that means.
“How do you expect me to believe you when you have just said in the salon that marrying before thirty-five is foolishness!”
“But I was joking in the salon — can’t you see that?”
“No.”
“Then try, and you will see for yourself.”
It seems I shall not leave Rome, for that is impossible — he cannot live without me; he will follow me or I shall stay. He must see me now, otherwise life has become impossible.
Do you see what audacity? But there is a Russian proverb that says: “He is a bad soldier who does not wish to become a general.”
The good soldier kisses my hand, barely touching it with his lips, as always.
“You don’t even know how to kiss a hand.”
“That means others have kissed your hands, since you know how it is done!” he cries, hoping to confound me.
“No doubt, Monsieur — young ladies’ hands are made for that. Besides, why should you be the privileged one?”
He takes a furious turn about the room and comes back to say:
“So you don’t love me?”
“No.”
“Not even a little?”
“Not at all.”
“I must not hope?”
“Good heavens, Monsieur, one must always hope, for hope is in the nature of man; but as for me, I shall give you none.”
And as I was laughing while I spoke, he goes off fairly satisfied. I have made it a principle to speak in such a way that no one can ever tell whether I am telling the truth or mocking. It is exceedingly convenient.
By the way, he has confided nothing to Torlonia.
But do you know what Visconto Visconti said? Questions about me and about Pietro. Where do you wish to marry your daughter? The Pope meddles in all the Antonellis’ affairs and will consent to a marriage only on condition that the children are Catholic. The young man is very nice and very rich, and he will inherit immense fortunes; he will have a very fine position And so on and so forth! Just as if... well, what do you expect — the good soldier has no doubt told his parents that he wishes to become a general. But what audacity, to ask for my hand in marriage! Maman answered that she regarded Pietro as a child, that her daughter too was much too young, that she had no settled plan, was thinking of nothing, and firmly believed that the destinies of men were written up above.
Up there, up there on the mountain, You can see that fine castle there I...
Ah! By Jove, there’s Girofla’s lament.
Ah! if the King were not master of Rome, it would be done at once.
Meanwhile, let us drag it out as long as possible.
crossed out[words crossed out]

Notes

Victoria — a light four-wheeled open carriage with a folding hood (capote), fashionable for promenading in the 1870s. ↩
In French in the original: bigre (here and in the next sentence, where Marie remarks on the word itself). ↩
La complainte de Girofla: Marie’s own comic lament on Émile d’Audiffret, «Girofla», written in Nice on 21 September 1875 (043.0368–0379, fair copy 044.0002–0011); its opening lines are those just quoted (055.1000). ↩