Thursday, 30 March 1876

All night I did nothing but dream of Torlonia, so that when my model arrives I am incapable of painting.

The dream had begun to make me miserable, and Maman finished the work. I was foolish enough to go to her room, and though she was ill she found so much to say that I came away and locked myself in my room in a state of agitation difficult to imagine.

Driving people to distraction is, moreover, her specialty.

Now that I am alone, locked in, I shall reason through the great matter. Why is it that for some days I have begun to feel a certain falseness in my position?

It comes from the fact that for some days my position has been false. And why is it false? Because Antonelli asked me to be his wife, because I did not refuse outright, and because he spoke of it to his parents, and because his parents are not easily managed, and because Visconti said to Maman what he said. What did Visconti say?

— One must know, Madame, where you intend to marry your daughter, said Visconti, after having praised Pietro’s person and fortune.

— I have no fixed idea, replied Maman, and besides my daughter is so young.

— No, Madame, one must speak plainly — do you wish to marry her abroad or in Russia?

— I should prefer abroad, for I think she would be happier abroad, having been brought up there.

— Hm, very well. One must also know whether your entire family would consent to seeing her married to a Catholic, and to seeing the children born of this union raised in the Catholic faith.

— Our family would look with pleasure upon whatever might make my daughter happy.

— And what would be the relations between your family and the husband’s family?

— Why, I think they would be excellent relations — all the more so as the two families would see one another rarely, if at all.

— Pietro Antonelli is a charming young man and will be very rich — it is not even necessary to speak of that, since it is well known that he will have a magnificent fortune — but the Pope concerns himself with all the Antonelli affairs, and the Pope will make difficulties.

— But, Monsieur, why do you say this? There is no question of marriage. I am very fond of this young man — but as I would be of a child, not a future son-in-law.

That is about all I have managed to extract from the memory of Madame my mother.

The Antonellis are balking. Very well. They do right — for the moment they balk I become docile. That is my wretched character. It would be most reasonable to leave, especially as nothing will be lost by putting things off until next winter. I judge by myself, and that makes me fear absence. Out of sight, out of mind.

But no — he loves me entirely.

— I know, he said, rising after a dozen coldnesses on my part — I know it is a great misfortune to love at twenty-three, and to have one’s whole life upended and poisoned from that age. I am not speaking of the small loves one feels twenty times — but the great love, the only one, the true one, ought not to begin at twenty-three, above all when it is unhappy.

Wretched uncertainty, tedious waiting! He must feel himself that this cannot go on.

I must leave! From tomorrow I begin to prepare — that is to say, to go and visit the Roman wonders I have not yet seen. Yes — but what vexes me is that the opposition does not come from our side but from the Antonellis’. It is ugly, and my pride revolts.

Let us leave Rome. But who tells me there is opposition? Everything, by God! Pietro’s half-words more than anything.

Having to deal, even indirectly, with the Pope and Cardinal Antonelli — that rather pleases me. If we cannot do anything else, let us make a scandal or at least sow discord. Pietro is no lamb, and when he comes he is quite willing. He wants me — that is going to create an uproar among the priests. Why oppose this marriage? Religion. Bah! So long as the children are Catholic, the rest matters little. I should like Maman to lead Visconti back to the topic. I would give her my instructions. The whole affair is not clear.

It is disgusting, upon my word of honour. Difficulties excite me; nothing would be easier than to marry the man and defy everything. But I want to defy nothing — therein lies the difficulty. I want everything done properly. In truth, Pietro’s love had led me to think that the Pope and the Antonellis were mere nobodies. You are mistaken, my girl. I can see that perfectly well now, by God.

I await a decisive blow. I wait and little by little I am irritated — and when I am thoroughly irritated I… shall do nothing at all. And what can I do?

Visconti said more than I thought.

— As to the match, he said, it is a very fine one in every respect — but I must warn you that the Pope will not permit¹ it.

— But I assure you, Baron, you astonish me. I am far from thinking of a marriage for my child. However, I am curious to know why the Pope would not permit him to marry whomever he loved?

— A question of religion, Madame — a question of religion.

I should very much like to know whether the old papist spoke simply of his own accord, or whether what he said was the consequence of a conversation with the Antonellis. No doubt Pietro has spoken. I laugh, I amuse myself, I think of nothing serious — but he and they are another matter; they view the question seriously, they discuss it, they attend to it. That strikes me as strange, yet it is very natural. I must make Pietro talk.

It is truly very disagreeable to me that they should pretend not to want me when I myself do not want them. Rome is such a gossipy city! Everyone is occupied with the matter, and I am the last to notice. It is always like that.

I went to the Borghese, the Pincio, and the Corso with Dina and Walitsky, Maman being still ill. Visconti came yesterday and today — he is very agreeable.

I saw the Duke Braschi, who they say has one look — just one — which no woman can resist. No doubt he has already bestowed a quarter of that look upon me, for I am beginning to find him handsome — he whom I always found very plain. Braschi is a cousin of z… z… Zucchini.

No, but can you conceive of such audacity! The Pope will not permit it! What do they want for a dissolute, depraved third son, and whatever else he may be! Are they mad? Do they imagine I am attached to him? By Jove², no — not as a match. I am furious at the idea that they wish to take Pietro from me — but I want more for myself, and I aspire to greater things, thank God. If Antonelli answered to the programme I should not be angry — but a man I have inwardly refused as insufficient, and for this man they balk! One must clear this up!

I was nearly intoxicated, because before going home I encountered Torlonia, who was very surprised to receive no reply to his greeting — but I had not seen him. I am mad about him; he will make me leave Rome.

The only one I want does not want me! By a thousand cardinals!

I am drawing caricatures of Torlonia and am delighted whenever I manage the least likeness. I adore him. Find me a single woman not more or less inclined to do the same. I defy you to find one! I can see he is rated among the fashionable men of the day — good heavens. He is adorable, upon my word of honour. Let us go — since he spits on me — and let us forget him. Forget? It is the only thing to do; I forget easily, which is fortunate.

Ah! blasted Clément!

By Jove. Fie! What a scoundrel I am.

Let us go to Russia and come back. There will be yet another hundred Cléments and two hundred Antonellis. Each time it seems to me that no one other than the present one could please me again — I thought that no one other than the Surprising One³ would interest me any more. You see that others do. Let us not despair and let us wait. Always waiting — it is enough to drive one mad.

Pope’s spleen!⁴ I am irritated. And Maman who keeps saying to me:

— But he hasn’t proposed to you? But what does he say to you?

I am furious.

But wait a moment — evening comes, and with evening Antonelli; we receive him rather coldly in consequence of the Baron’s words and a host of suppositions, for since Visconti’s speech everyone has done nothing but suppose.

— Tomorrow, said Pietro after a few sentences — I am leaving.

— What?

— Where?

— For Terracina — I shall stay there eight days, I think.

That was a true thunderbolt!

— They are sending him away, Maman said to me in Russian, they are sending him away — I knew it — but what a shame, I shall weep with rage!⁵

— Yes, it is disagreeable, I replied in the same language.

I should think so. They are sending him away from me as from something unwholesome (ah, those damned priests!).

You will understand that it is humiliating beyond measure.

The conversation suffers accordingly, and I explain this sudden coldness by the impression that Yourkoff’s suicide made upon us. Maman is so offended and furious that her headache redoubles, and she is led to her room; Walitsky goes with her, Dina withdraws — for some reason I don’t know. Besides, there was a tacit understanding to leave me alone with Pietro to learn the wretched truth.

There was some joking — they asked whether it was on account of debts that he was being sent away, or why, etc., etc.

Once alone with him I attacked bravely, though a little trembling:

— Why are you leaving? Where are you going?

Ah, indeed! If you think he answered me as plainly as I questioned him, you are mistaken. I asked, he evaded; at last we arrived at bitternesses, at reproaches on both sides, and then he said:

— But how is it — you want everything and you yourself do nothing!

— Naturally.

I explained my character to him.

— What is your motto? he asked.

— Nothing before me, nothing after me, nothing outside of me!

— Well, that is mine too.

— So much the worse.

Then began protestations — true, so very true that they were distorted by their very intensity. Words of love without beginning or coherence, outbursts of anger of… may I call it passion? Reproaches. I sustained this hail of words with as much dignity as calm.

— Prove it to me. Speak.

— Ask me anything you please — except that!

— I want nothing except that!

— I have no trust in you. I love you enough to die of it — but I have no trust in you. You have always mocked me, always laughed, always been cold with your examining-magistrate questions. What can you want me to say to you, when I see that you do not love me and never will!

I listened, rigid and motionless, not even allowing him to touch my hand. I wanted to know at any cost — I was too miserable in that uncertainty seasoned with a million suspicions.

— Prove that you are speaking the truth. Speak!

We got up, we walked about the salon, I beseeched him.

— I, yield to you! Never in my life! I will not live to see such a humiliation!

— Really, Monsieur, you are very strange — you want me to love a man I do not know, who hides everything from me. Speak and I shall believe you; speak and I promise to give you an answer. Listen to me well: tell me everything, I promise after that to give you an answer. If you love me you will consent; if not, go away — do not enjoy the spectacle I am giving you, do not take pleasure in seeing a woman implore you. You don’t love me… Be silent! One cannot see the woman one loves humble herself as I am humbling myself!

— But you will mock me if I tell you — you see what a secret it is — to tell you is to bare myself entirely. There are things so intimate that one tells them to no one in the world!

— To no one in the world, agreed — but one tells them to the one one loves. Speak, I beg you, I said, placing my hands in his and drawing near to him with as much restrained tenderness as I could manage. I do not command you — I implore you.

— If you do not command me it is because you have no right to — but if you had the right you would command, I know that. I have a dreadful character, yours is like mine — that is why we are never in agreement; neither of us will yield, neither will stoop. You cannot love — you are made of ice!

— I assure you I am not, I said, smiling gently into his face and entirely surrendering my hands to him. Come, speak — you must tell me everything.

— I will tell you — but you will mock me!

— I swear I will not.

— You swear?

— I swear.

— You will tell no one?

— No one, I swear it. Speak — I am waiting.

After many promises not to laugh and not to tell anyone — he told me at last!

Last year in Vicenza, while in the army, he ran up thirty-four thousand francs of debt. Since his return home — that is to say, for ten months — he has been on bad terms with his father, who would not pay. Finally, some days ago, he pretended to be leaving, saying he was too ill-treated at home. Whereupon his mother came to tell him that his father would pay the debts on condition that he lead a sober life — and to begin with, before reconciling himself “with your parents, you must first reconcile yourself with God!” He has not confessed in a long time. In a word, he is going to withdraw for eight days to the convent of San Giovanni e Paolo on the Monte Celio⁶, near the Colosseum. I had quite enough difficulty keeping a straight face, I assure you. To us it seems bizarre — but it is entirely natural among the Catholics of Rome. So that is the secret! He certainly put me through enough torment.

— But if you are deceiving me! I said. If you have invented all this!

And I leaned against the chimney-piece, turning my head away; my eyes were, the devil knows why, full of tears. He leaned beside me and we remained for a few seconds without a word, without looking at one another. The ice was broken; my hands in his hands and my eyes in his eyes, we stood there for an hour, speaking of what? Of love, by God! I know everything I wanted to know — I drew it all out of him, allowing him to kiss my left hand while I rested the right on his shoulder. Everything seems permitted with him; he seems one of us, one of the family.

He has not spoken to his father — he has had no serious conversation concerning me. He had one, but it was in connection with the convent. The misfortune the Pope has brought him is these eight days at the convent; only today did he decide upon it. But he has told everything to his mother — he has named me.

— Besides, he said, you may be sure that my parents will have nothing against it — there is only the matter of religion, but as for that—!

— I know perfectly well they will have nothing against it — and they can have nothing, for if I consented to marry you, it is you who would be honoured, not I!

I am careful to present myself as severe — prudish, even — and to set forth moral principles of fantastically extravagant purity, so that he may recount all this to his mother, since he tells her everything. He asked me a hundred times if I loved him.

— A little? he would ask.

I answered nothing. He has never spoken to me as he did this evening.

— I love you, I adore you, I am mad, he said very low and very quickly — do you love me, a little? Say so!

And he put his arm around my waist and drew me toward him without my noticing; besides, I have the greatest difficulty finding it improper — with him everything seems entirely natural.

— I have told you everything — I have no more secrets from you — I am entirely yours. Love me at least a little.

— And if I love you, what will come of it? What good will it do?

— To make us happy, by Jove!

— I cannot decide for myself — there are fathers and mothers.

— Mine have nothing against it — I can guarantee you that!

— We shall see.

— A kiss, he said, so quietly I could barely hear him — give me a kiss, just one.

And this with eyes that would set the very devil in one’s blood.

— What nonsense! I said aloud, to keep my head — I would not even kiss my own fiancé.

— Let us be engaged.

— Not so fast — what did you say to your mother, how did you speak to her?

— I told her — well, no, I said: you have so much wanted me to marry, and now I have found someone I love and I want to marry now and live properly. And my mother replied that one must think very carefully before taking such a serious step, and all sorts of things.

— That is very natural. And have you spoken to your father?

— No.

— I ask because people are talking of it in the city — someone spoke of it to Maman, who was very displeased.

— Who spoke? Rossi? A monsignore?

— Yes, a monsignore. But you yourself have said nothing to your father?

— Nothing, I swear it — but my mother has doubtless spoken to him.

It is past two o’clock — I should never finish writing if I set down even the half of it. And besides it is silly: one can only write the hard things; as for the tender things, they cannot be written — and they are the only things that are amusing to read.

Sunday at three o’clock I shall be in front of the convent, and he will show himself at the window wiping his face with a white cloth, so that I shall not mistake him.

— But how, he said, to go there you will have to explain — ask the coachman, and he will ask why!

— No, no, I shall manage — no one will suspect anything. I shall consult a guidebook as a cover — do not worry.

With great reluctance he takes his leave after kissing my hand a hundred times. I was kind — tender, even; his love has rubbed off on me.

He does not promise to love forever — but I can sign you a guarantee of at least one year if I do not marry him. One year is a great deal when one is twenty-three and when one is not loved in return.

At once I run to soothe Maman’s wounded pride — I recount everything, everything, laughing so as not to appear in love. For the moment that is enough; as I remember more I shall set it down. I am calm, happy — above all happy and proud before my own people who had already lowered their tails and ears in defeat.

It is truly late — I must sleep. I regret now not having kissed him; after the convent that will be better — but no, it is needless; when I am quite decided to send him to the devil I shall give him a kiss as a consolation prize.

He is dear to me now — I have found him again; he had seemed to me already lost. One loves far more the thing one recovers, the thing one thought lost. I am talking dreadfully — I am half asleep.