Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Wednesday 22 March 1876

We called on Mme Lwoff, and spoke of my dear Princess, whom I so stupidly nicknamed Beast. She writes letter upon letter, asking what has been done for me and whether I am making a great impression.
Someone spoke yesterday — I know not where — of the strange behaviour of Mme Ixkull toward us; all the more strange since, being the wife of a maréchal de noblesse, my mother has every right to be presented at the Italian court, and even to go to the Russian one. Mme Lwoff thinks one can be presented independently of the embassy — she has spoken of it to a lady and believes it can be arranged. She only begs not to be named, since it is to go against the embassy. I understand nothing of all this — was Maman right or wrong not to go to the embassy a second time? In all this, the Soukowkine woman has much confused matters by her intervention. But let us pass on. The fact is that everyone is talking of it, astonished and wondering what caused the coldness — or rather the impoliteness — of Mme Ixkull. The worst of it is that people believe Maman asked in writing and was refused this presentation.
All this bores me. I go from this lady's house to refresh myself at the Pincio, thinking of a heap of quite different things.
There is a crowd — the Villa Borghese being closed today. Scarcely have we arrived at the outdoor concert than Antonelli comes to the carriage door. This vexes me, for people are beginning to talk in Rome. We know nothing of it because there is no one to tell us — but I know that people talk, just as they talk of the presentation at the Quirinal.
He is quite astonished at my reserve. He has not seen the last of it.
Torlonia arrives in his hired cab right beside us, bows, gets out, and disappears. I feel as if I have been plunged into cold water. He has gone to talk to some English young ladies — one of whom, they say, he is courting.
[In the margin: Duke Torlonia
Duke Clément Torlonia]
There were two of them — Clément and Plowden. Clément was, without doubt, preferred; Plowden took to slandering him, and the result was that Plowden's door was closed to him. It is only now that I understand why Plowden made such a crestfallen face when he was told I knew Torlonia. Poor Plowden — I shall send word for him to ride with me. No one in Rome likes him; it was with great difficulty that he managed to get into the Caccia-Club. "He is antipathetic," they say.
There is nothing to weep over — I do not please him, and that is all. It is sad to say. This conviction seals my lips and dries them throughout the promenade. I look without seeing; I listen without hearing. And, curiously, it is in this state that I speak best — when I speak at all. We encountered the Greek minister; we stopped him on the Corso to tell him we have moved. Well — I was very pleasant, simple, and cold. All this is owing to Torlonia. In Torlonia there are not nine letters, and the name does not begin with A — and yet, you see! I thought that with Audiffret all these miseries would end. Indeed! Here it is the same thing. I am afraid of Maman's and Dina's eyes and thoughts; I am afraid of meeting the man; I blush; I turn pale; I am stupid.
You can see that with Audiffret it was nothing but wounded pride — since I feel the same thing for Torlonia. And who is to say I am not in love with Torlonia? I confuse myself on paper as in thought. Mignon was forgotten; I come home and sit at the piano — the aria "Connais-tu le pays" is the consolation of afflicted souls and the accompaniment of all sorrows. I see that now.
I do not walk — I drag myself; I do not speak — I murmur confusedly. I am very bored, upon my honour.
I regret having taken a box at the Opera. I wish the theatre would burn so I need not go. Swan and owl! What boredom!
I was dressed, and lazily put on a pale blue silk gown which — despite my laziness — suits me to perfection. We are in box no. 23, on the right — my favourite box. In the barcaccia there is only Prince Belmonte — my enemy, as I call him, because it seems to me he must speak ill of me — and Count Angelini, whom I had seen a hundred times in Nice taking him for a Niçois. Pietro says he knows us very well by sight (I can well believe it!) and above all that he knows Paul — in the cafés, and other places infinitely less respectable. It is only now, in Rome, that I learn a portion of my brother's adventures. There would be enough for a man of thirty, and were it not for certain sordid things you doubtless remember, I could say that Paul is a delightful eccentric.
There is a large audience, in spite of the receptions at the Quirinal.
I am as if in a dream. Belmonte ogling me — I look at him without seeing him and yawn from time to time. Clemente's box, on the ground floor facing us, is occupied by three nondescript faces.
Bruschetti is in our box; I speak to him in Italian; we have a conversation full of philosophical abstractions; I end by saying that for me there is only Nothing — and he tells me I am made to drive men mad. I reply that they are wrong — because I no longer remember why.
"But what would it take to please you — to appear worthy of your attention?"
"A kingdom, Monsieur."
He is not at all stupid — but if I spoke to him it was because I wished to be overheard by our neighbours on the left: the young Princess Ouroussoff, born Abaza, Count Blondoff, and others.
For the hundredth time I cast my eyes toward Clemente's box and catch a glimpse of his beard beneath the curtain. I blush as I used to in Nice — and at the same instant Pietro appears in the barcaccia. Let us hope he does not attribute my blush to himself.
After a few moments Bruschetti goes off to the Quirinal; I breathe noisily and settle into my chair with a very visible air of contentment.
Pietro makes eyes at me from the barcaccia, which is separated from our box by three boxes. Clemente… I do not know what Clemente is doing — I do not dare look downward.
Antonelli comes — but I continue to be reserved, and even a little sad, so that no one thinks he particularly pleases me. I do not want Torlonia to get silly ideas. I am hunting two hares at once. The situation is delicate — and suits me. Torlonia comes into the barcaccia, places himself directly facing me, and we look into each other's eyes the whole time. To Pietro I appeared to be watching the stage.
"How attentively you are listening tonight!" he said to me ten times an hour.
And when I looked at the stage I felt that Torlonia was watching me too. He has the most agreeable countenance in the world. I should adore him if he wished to love me. No! It is absurd — here I am again in the lake of humiliations! All this time in Rome I have reigned — and here I am again in servitude. I hesitate; I fear; I dare nothing.
Tomorrow for mi-carême there will be a veglione at the Argentina. I think I have wounded Pietro — but the wound will quickly heal; one good smile and all is forgotten. A woman's power is incredible, and I no longer regret being a woman — for the fine part is indisputably hers. It is a hundred times more pleasant, more easy, and more convenient to be on the defensive than to attack. One accepts or one repels. Whereas a man is forever subject to rebuffs.
Note that in Nice I was of a diametrically opposite opinion. I was a few months younger in Nice — and a few months, at my age and in matters of love, is an immense lapse of time.
Torlonia is not in evening dress and will therefore not go to the Quirinal. Indeed he stayed to the end.
How could I listen to Faust? Clément below, Pietro beside me! I heard nothing. I was particularly pretty this evening (speaking always of my own person) — of which Maman was very pleased.
We leave accompanied by Antonelli and Bruschetti returning from the palace.
I had already said good night to these gentlemen and was at the back of the carriage when, to my very great surprise, I saw Torlonia — apologising for not having been able to come to say good night to us, on account of his not being in evening dress.
"Mademoiselle," he said, "I have perfectly understood your antipathy — perfectly."
"Bah! Really! But you have heard of my misfortune — someone has bought me horses; I don't know what sort they are — perhaps white, grey, yellow, red!"

Notes

Maréchal de noblesse — in the Russian imperial system, the marshal of the nobility was an elected official representing the noble assembly of a given province or district; a rank carrying considerable social prestige. ↩
The Caccia-Club (Hunt Club) — Rome's most exclusive aristocratic club, essentially restricted to black-nobility Roman families; Plowden's difficulty gaining entry confirms his social marginality. ↩
Marie had earlier noted a superstition: her great passions had names of nine letters beginning with A (Audiffret = nine letters). "Torlonia" is eight letters and begins with T — yet the same symptoms have appeared. ↩
"Connais-tu le pays" — the famous aria (Kennst du das Land) from Ambroise Thomas's opera Mignon (1866), based on Goethe's Wilhelm Meister; in the opera it expresses yearning for a lost homeland. ↩
"Swan and owl!" — one of Marie's invented exclamations; the LAN annotations note it as chirp/bizarre personal invective. ↩
Barcaccia — see note to 1876-03-10. ↩
Mi-carême — the Thursday of the fourth week of Lent; traditionally a mid-Lent holiday with masked balls and carnival-style celebrations. ↩
Veglione — an Italian grand masked ball or evening dance, particularly popular during Lent and carnival season. ↩