Wednesday, 29 March 1876

I said that Pietro had not yet trampled everything underfoot for my sake.
— I love you, he said to me — I would do anything for you!
— The Pope will curse you, the Cardinal will curse you, and your father will curse you.
— Ha! What do I care for all those people when it comes to you! I don’t give a damn for anyone when I choose! When I love you!
— You do care about them — and I care very little about them.
— If you loved as I love you would say what I say. If you had a passion for me as I have for you, you would not speak as you speak — and you would see in all the world only the one you love!
Well now — that seems to me something made up to my own prescription. What do you make of it?
I shall leave, go to Russia, try to arrange everything, and come back to Rome. During my absence he may forget me a little — but on seeing me again he will love me all the more. I do not wish to commit myself to anything, because I may find better than Antonelli.
I spent the day finishing the portrait of the Pope. It is done, and a success. So much the better. I began it yesterday and finished it today. I did not go out, and in the evening, having dressed my hair like a Greek courtesan with a gold fillet across my brow, I settled down to read Shakespeare in the salon.
— Mademoiselle, said Fortuné, coming in — Count Antonelli and the Duke Torlonia.
I felt such a corkscrew in my heart that I knocked over a chair and ran to my room to catch my breath.
And Maman in bed! But it made no difference, for there was neither Torlonia nor Antonelli. It was a trick of Walitsky’s. I was so furious I would have beaten him had he been within my reach. Scoundrel!
Toward ten o’clock Antonelli really did arrive. I was bored — or rather Walitsky and Dina bored me; Dina especially, with her knowing little looks, her continual pretexts for withdrawing and leaving us free! I detest that! I have no need of such obligingness. The girl is in love with Pietro and silently jealous of me — which infuriates me.
— Don’t show me the Pope’s portrait again, he said — the other evening you showed it to me and I had such bad luck!
— What misfortune??
— A very great one.
— Which?
— I cannot say, but it is a very great misfortune.
I almost do not need him to tell me — I can guess the very great misfortune. A conversation with old Antonelli. I should like to know to whom they applied for information.
By Jove, by Jove — I need to speak with Pietro. I need to ask him a great many things, for it is not fitting that this wretched uncertainty go on any longer. My position is false. Whether to accept or refuse is my affair — but things must be done properly. It is beneath me to drag on in this way; he comes to amuse himself while his father refuses to consent. I must speak to him. Where? How? Besides, it is for him to ask me for this interview. It seems to me that he loves me no longer — I am jealous of everyone.
Poor Yourkoff! He was only thirty-six.
He stared at me so this evening. I was dressed and coiffed rather too… you understand? He will dream of me tonight. You understand? I wager you do.
— I do not love you, I told him the day before yesterday — but I tolerate you, and that is quite enough.
— No, it is not enough — I do not wish to be merely tolerated!
— What do you want, then?
— I want to be loved.
— Ah, ha!
Pietro is not a mere boy. I was mistaken about him — he is becoming more and more defined as a character, and I am beginning to have a certain regard for him.
One single evening he has not said I love you to me, and it seems to me that he loves me no longer. I hate vagueness in such cases — and I am up to my neck in vagueness at present.

Notes

In French in the original: Bigre, bigre. ↩
A position fausse — an equivocal, socially ambiguous situation. ↩