Sunday 26 March 1876

We were at church and there encountered M. and Mme Sarasin — Mme Sarasin is the daughter of Admiral de Bock, Governor and aide-de-camp to Grand Duke Voldemar. Bock is our old friend. While we were lunching at Spillmann’s, they called at our apartment. Sarasin is Swiss.
Enough! Enough! Enough! It would be beneath my dignity to speak of it further. I shall not say another word about it. I have called Prater by his name; I have sworn only by him and by his beard all this time. Enough!
We met at the Borghese — we on foot, he in his carriage; at the Pincio we were stopped; he passed and repassed right by us without stopping. I do not please him; I do not interest him — let us leave him!
That would indeed be fine — if it were as easy to do as to write.
I cannot leave him in peace. I desire him everywhere; I look for him; I think I see him everywhere — mistaken a hundred times, actually seeing him ten; and I come home, dine in haste, shut myself in, and lie down on the floor! Admirable.
written across the page
It is Torlonia I am speaking of.
Justice must be done to Torlonia. He is absurd. I shall prove it. By taking me, he would have a pretty wife who would love him and who would not deceive him — and a handsome fortune too. I would give him my love and my money and he would give me a fine position. That is all I ask: a place in society and at court. It is not so easy to find, a woman who brings you sixty thousand francs a year — at present — and nearly a hundred thousand in time. A villa in Nice — let us not forget the fine villa on the Promenade des Anglais, which is worth four hundred thousand francs and can easily bring in fifteen thousand francs a year at the very least.
If he knew this, he would act differently.
See, good people, how I have come down in the world! I was for sale before — now I am trying to buy.
Visconti has brought me the portrait of the Pope, with these words written by the Holy Father’s own hand: Peace be with you. “I only obtained it,” he says, “by saying that it was a young Russian girl who is marrying a Catholic.”
crossed out[Three lines crossed out]
I am miserable; I saw all this world at the Borghese — the ambassadress with Princess Mechtchersky, then the Roman ladies and Roman gentlemen — everyone, in a word.
We had the carriage stopped near the group of Russian artists headed by Botkine and Walitsky. This Botkine is a curious man — he is rich, he is received everywhere with open arms, and he spends his life in taverns with squalid artists. All together they looked like beggars sitting on a cold stone. Walitsky appeared a dandy beside them.
Without appearing to, Botkine knows everything that goes on and goes to the best houses. I say this with pleasure — because he asked Walitsky how I received Bruschetti’s proposal. That proves that everyone knows about it. It is a consolation. What good would it be to me if no one even spoke of it?
Antonelli was in a hired cab with Rospigliosi.
My hair was done differently than usual. The hair falling down the back, and in front a tumbling mass of transparent golden curls rising up to a small baby bonnet in otter fur. It suited me very well. But I must have had a bored, disagreeable air — for I was bored and disagreeable.
Petit croquis encadré : une tête vue de dos, les cheveux longs tombant sur le dos, un bonnet de boucles sur le front
Croquis de la coiffure de Marie, cheveux sur le dos Mon Journal, t. 7, p. 178
Plowden in his coupé, drawn by two pretty horses.
But let us drop this and resume from the moment when I threw myself on the floor after locking my three doors.
I cannot endure opposition. I am furious.
Visconti had barely gone when Plowden entered. He is beginning to be very much in love — and to become foolish.
This evening I amuse myself tormenting two men — Plowden and Pietro.
I play Beethoven. Plowden sits beside me and listens while speaking to me of many things. Pietro cannot find a place for himself — he throws himself headlong into conversation with Dina and tries to hear what we are saying, but in vain, for we are speaking English. I was equally attentive to both, and both were displeased: when I spoke to Pietro, Plowden blinked and fidgeted; when I spoke to Plowden, Pietro rolled his eyes and was visibly furious. One to my left on the floor, the other to my right on a chair. At the end of each musical phrase I lowered my eyes now toward the one, now toward the other. It would all be most interesting if there were spectators.
If I went into society I should certainly enjoy being courted — but at home it only serves to keep one up until one o’clock. No, I am ungrateful: without these men I should die of boredom. But in all of this Pietro is my favourite — he is so amusing. For instance this evening he says to me:
“You love Plowden? Plowden is your love?”
“Yes — and who is yours?”
“You know very well — but it cannot be when there is no correspondance” (read: reciprocity).
He said this hoping for a reply — I know what reply. But he got none.
A few words were said about the Boyds — about Blanche, who has married Lord Henry Paget (who will be Marquess of Anglesey after his uncle’s death), and about Berthe, who was in love with the Duke of Hamilton. Plowden knows them all very well.
Ah! It is like a thunderbolt — my one true love floods back into my heart, [words crossed out] my vast hopes flood back into my mind. I am miserable, miserable, miserable. Tomorrow I shall not go out! I need twenty-four hours of solitude, of writing, of lying prostrate on the floor, to calm myself, to dull my senses, to make myself ashamed of my folly. How I have come down! No — I have not come down; I still want what I always wanted. Millions, grandeur and celebrity!! I shall work until I drop — or I shall have what I demand.
Knock and it shall be opened; ask and it shall be given. These are the words of Christ — they cannot be empty words. God! God! Will You never make me happy! Cannot You satisfy the thirst of my vanity! Do You not hear my prayers! Not these present ones — now I am corrupt, unworthy — but those of before. Those which I offered You from morning to night, when I prayed for the Duke!
Have pity on me — take me into Your grace!
Peace be with you, the Pope has written — he guessed truly; it is peace that I need: everywhere and always tormented, envious, miserable!
Why am I of a merely noble family!
I am bursting with envy, with rage, with despair!
Such is my state that I cannot write!

Notes

In Italian in the original: Basta! An exclamation of finality. ↩
In Latin in the original: Pax vobis. The traditional papal greeting, echoing Christ’s words to the disciples. Pope Pius IX’s handwritten inscription. ↩
Marie and Plowden converse in English — which Pietro evidently does not follow — to shut him out of the conversation. ↩
Blanche Boyd married Lord Henry Paget in 1874; he succeeded his half-brother, not an uncle, as 4th Marquess of Anglesey in 1880 (Wikipedia, “Henry Paget, 4th Marquess of Anglesey”). ↩
Frappez et on ouvrira, demandez et on donnera — “Knock and it shall be opened unto you, ask and it shall be given” (Matthew 7:7). Marie quotes from memory, in French, reversing the Gospel’s order. ↩