Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Saturday 25 March 1876

Torlonia does not come. And to think I got tipsy for him. Sometimes I think I am stupid — no, not stupid, but mad; and mad with premeditation.
Ah! If only Torlonia would come this evening. Is it possible that he does not love me at all!! It is outrageous! Is there no means of making oneself loved! Is it possible that my so great desire should be in vain!!!
Tiger and hyena! Torlonia does not consist of nine letters and does not begin with A — but in the name there are eight letters, as in Hamilton, and Torlonia is a duke, like Hamilton.
Misery of miseries — and dog of dogs!
[Blacked-out words: We spent] the evening with Plowden. He is very shrewd and understands his world — but says a great deal while appearing to say nothing.
Naturally — as Loëbecke used to say — he lays his heart at my feet. I don't greatly care about it, but it is always flattering. How much I should find to write if it were someone other than Plowden.
"The only means of touching you," he says, "is to irritate, provoke, and thwart you."
"Plowden — you have wit, by my faith as Marie."
Antonelli did not come. At first I was uneasy — but seeing that Maman and Dina and everyone at last took the matter as they ought, I calmed down, and am very calm.
Antonelli does not believe he has offended me — on the contrary, he believes himself to be the one offended. He might perhaps acknowledge the justice of my conduct if I had not been rough with him for two days without any reason. The last evening at our place, I came very seriously to ask him to account for the vile things he had said about me to Torlonia and to Fosti. He turned quite pale with offence and begged me to give him the name of whoever had slandered him.
"I have never yet fought a duel — this shall be my first!"
The scoundrel would fight. I know that once roused, he is capable of anything.
Now he believes himself offended; I give him twenty-four hours to feel very unhappy; once in that state he will begin to find himself at fault and will end by accusing himself entirely. Once he acknowledges his fault, he will know what [blacked-out word: he] must do. But I shall tell you — [blacked-out words: it is ridiculous, no doubt,] but I shall say it all the same. I am mad about Torlonia. What if I were to love him in earnest? Oh! No — I shall not commit that foolishness. Him, his mother, his horses, his calling card — all of it pleases me; all of it interests me! I shall never stop speaking of it; I shall write about it endlessly. It is absurd — since he does not think of me. His so agreeable face, his ravishing smile, his assured, haughty, and candid air all at once… Do not laugh — there is reason, you will say perhaps. I know it is not proper to use such expressions speaking of a man. But since I adore him!
We walked in the Villa Borghese, which caused great astonishment to all the regular visitors in general and to z…z…Zucchini in particular. That gentleman's nose is just as before. He was with a young court marquis whom we had seen at the Valle a few days after our arrival in Rome — the Marquis Guiccioli.
The air was heavy and warm, so the rain that comes around six o'clock surprises no one.
At the moment of the downpour we were already on the Corso. Torlonia on foot under an umbrella passed unnoticed. I saw him again under the portico of the club with z… Zucchini. It is foolish to laugh on seeing that gentleman — but I can't help it
Why did I refuse to be introduced to him? Pietro asked me ten times to present Zuccone Zucchini.
This evening Fosti is coming to give me my first lesson.
I wonder whether Pietro is coming?
I am absurd to wait for Torlonia — he will not come; if he were coming he would already have come.
Let us see what the cards say — for I am becoming superstitious again, as in Nice.
The cards said no. Now let us see if Antonelli will come. Again no.
If that were true it would be dreadful. We shall see.
This morning, to test the veracity of Napoleon I's patience, I asked whether Fosti would come this evening — being certain he would. The cards said: no. I laughed. We shall see.
Scarcely had I written we shall see than they bring me Fosti's card with his apologies — he has a bad eye.
This incident plunges me into consternation. Then Pietro will not come. And straightaway it seems to me that Fosti does not wish to give me lessons. It is stupid to be like me.
It is nine o'clock; I do not know if I shall have the patience to wait until ten. What to do — read? I cannot. Write? I have nothing to write. Play the piano? I am agitated, miserable.
What a wretched character! Easy to say — but I should like to see someone else in my place. There is no reason to torment myself — but I do torment myself!
Bigre de bigre! Dog of dogs!
Double brute! Stupid, senseless fool! No — one must not maltreat oneself to such a degree. I do not deserve such vile epithets; I am not stupid — I am only young.
I am not yet experienced — another time I shall know better. I was afraid, poor innocent! I was afraid in vain — quite in vain — for Antonelli arrived a quarter of an hour earlier than usual: pale, interesting, sad, and calm.
Scarcely had Fortuné announced him than I armed myself from head to foot with a cold reserve mingled with drawing-room politeness — calculated to madden people in such cases.
I let him spend ten minutes with Maman. Impatient to go to the salon, I told Léonie to change my boots — to force myself to make him wait.
Poor creature! Jealous of Plowden!
"Now you may go riding — Plowden is well!"
And this with a very piqued air. How unpleasant it is to be in love. We could not explain ourselves in the salon. We part coldly. I go to my room [crossed out: and he goes to the ante-chamber]. I had no candle; I had to go to the ante-chamber. We met. He handed me the candle.
"How mad you are!" I said, taking it. "Do you know that I am seriously angry?"
"Ah! Really — you are angry — you have cause to be angry!"
"I should think so!"
"Ah! This is too much!"
"Yet it is so."
And I began a fairly long discourse explaining that such things were not done — without saying what things.
"But what have I done!!"
"You don't know!"
"I left?"
"You are too vain, my dear Monsieur — and your departure could cause me neither joy nor anger."
"Then — I broke the fan?"
"Nonsense!"
Either I am mad and imagined something that never happened — or Antonelli is a rogue like me. But why would it have seemed so to me? Why would he say now you can judge the difference?
If it really happened, one cannot trust him — for he had the air of perfect innocence in shouting it.
"But what have I done?" he kept repeating.
"I cannot say it. If you did nothing — if it was only in my imagination — so much the better. And you will understand that I shall not tell you, so as not even to give you the idea that one can be so impertinent."
"It is you who said impertinent things to me — it is you who said I was drunk. One may say I go to drink at the club — but that I come drunk into a box!!"
"Let us drop the matter; I was mistaken — so much the better. Good night."
"I had sworn never to come here again."
"Why did you come?"
"I thought it would be very rude toward Madame your mother, who is so kind."
"If that is why, you may leave and not come back. Good-bye."
"No, no — it is for you."
"Then that is another matter."
After the Valle, the wretched fellow stayed in bed thirty-six hours — from rage.
He takes my hand and recounts his despair.
"I was greatly at fault," he says. "I know it."
"What fault?"
"That of making you understand — of telling you that… That?"
"That I love you," he said, pressing his lips together like a man who does not wish to weep.
"Tut, tut — that is no fault."
"It is a great — an immense fault, for you take advantage of it, and you play with me like a doll, like a ball."
"What an idea!"
"Oh — I know; I know you are like that. You like to play — well, play on! It is my fault."
"Let us play!"
"Then tell me — was it not to dismiss me that you said that to me at the Valle?"
"No."
"Not to get rid of me?"
"Well, Monsieur — I have no need of ruses; when I wish to rid myself of someone I do it quite simply, as I did with Bruschetti…"
"Ah ha! And you said that was not true — with Bruschetti?!"
"Let us speak of something else."
He pressed his cheek against my hand.
"Do you love me?" he asked.
"No, Monsieur."
"Not at all?"
"Not in the slightest."
He does not believe a word of it.
At that moment Dina, Maman, and Walitsky arrived, and after a few minutes Pietro had to leave.
I have had enough. He occupied me so long as I had something to wait for. Now I have all that I need. I drag on out of vanity.
Two or three times the name of Torlonia was mentioned — and that name pleases me.

Notes

Marie's name-superstitions: she had noted that Hamilton = 8 letters, and Torlonia = 8 letters; both are dukes. This coincidence feels portentous to her. ↩
can't help it — In English in the original. ↩
Zuccone — Italian augmentative of zucca (pumpkin/head): blockhead, dunce. Pietro's nickname for Zucchini. ↩
"Napoleon I's patience" — a card-based fortune-telling game (réussite) attributed to Napoleon, popular in the 19th century. ↩