Friday, 31 March 1876

— 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 will yield, neither will humble oneself. 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 Celio, 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?
— 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.
With my letters to the monks of Cimiez, and by forever dressing Emile in a friar's habit, I have found a real monk here. It was a premonition. Brother Peter of Misery and the Rope.
It is a signal proof of love to have confided what he confided to me. I did not laugh — I said it was very right. He begged me to give him my portrait to take to the convent.
— Never, Monsieur — what a temptation!
— I shall think of you all the same, all the time!
Is it not ludicrous enough — these eight days in a convent! Poor Pietro! What would his friends at the Caccia-Club say if they knew! What would Torlonia say, what would Pandola, Cesaro, Zucchini say! Poor child. I shall never tell anyone. Maman, Dina, and Walitsky don't count — they will be as silent as I. Poor Pietro — in a convent! It is comical. And if he invented the whole thing? Tiger and hyena! No — why would he invent something so ridiculous? It is that in our century it seems to me so enormous, so incredible, that I cannot bring myself to believe it.
I have finished with the Vatican — I have seen everything, admired everything, approved of everything. I should like to own the Vatican. Such an assemblage of treasures cannot be imagined; the mind is confounded by it.
I missed the appointment. I was to have been at the Pincio between two and three o'clock to see the wretched hermit. He must have been very disappointed! I did it on purpose — if he deceived me, he deserved it. I doubt everything! Now it seems to me that he was mocking me. What a dreadful character. I have confidence in no one; all men are scoundrels — one must change them like gloves. I was making this reflection as I came down from the Pincio at six o'clock. I think one must not dismiss a suitor merely for the pleasure of sending him away — one must let things go; yet the moment one begins to see a certain negligence, a certain distancing, one must hasten to show him the door, both to have the last word and to retain him — for it is the only way to retain him.
What do you know of it, child dazzled by a few successes? What do I know of it — bigre, everything. For such things one needs a little experience and a great deal of aptitude, and one becomes expert. I am learned enough now — in time I shall find myself more learned still, but that will not prove that I was not so at present.
I had settled in for an evening in my dressing-gown, but Plowden came, and it would look badly not to appear. Entering the salon I found we had more than one visitor. The second was… I give you a thousand guesses, as that confounded Sévigné would say — Bruschetti. I spoke only to Plowden.
— He wishes to repeat his proposal, the Englishman told me.
— He will be wrong to do so, I replied — I am astonished he comes at all.
Plowden begged me not to marry until next winter, because: "I love you." And that makes three!
— But who is in love with you, he said — it is Antonelli.
— What a joke.
— No, I assure you — and he courts you; only after his own fashion.
— You know his ways?
— Yes, well — as he courts others; Antonelli is never serious. I know his ways from the manner in which he courts… everyone, in short.
You understand the stone thrown into Antonelli's garden?
But that is nothing to me! I don't give a fig for these people. I saw Torlonia on the Corso — he was walking with the Baron de Saint-Joseph, a rather plain Neapolitan. Torlonia does not find me attractive — must one say it without end! Confounded magnetism! Poor Pietro — in a habit, in a cell, locked up! Four sermons a day, a mass, vespers, matins! I cannot accustom myself to believe in so strange a thing. I think I shall be bored without him.
[Written across the page: If I could believe for certain that Antonelli truly courts a great many people and mocks them all, I should be pleased. It gives him a certain standing and reflects more credit on me.]
Is it really possible that Torlonia does not love me! You see — it is very possible. It is very ugly. Brutto!
Fanny Lear has been expelled. Count Mirafiori, who is married to the sister of the Count de Larderel, had compromised himself too greatly with her, and the King, acting as a good father, had Fanny Lear summoned to the minister's office, which invited her to leave Italy, paid her hotel bill and travel expenses to the frontier. She listened to everything politely and in silence, and when the minister had finished:
— How very stupid you are! she said, and without adding another word, turned her back and walked out.
Poor woman! She is credited with a quick wit and a turbulent character — but to see her one would take her for a good, quiet, simple little woman. By these persecutions she has been made famous, and her continual contact with more or less crowned heads, from whom she obtains compromising letters which she publishes, may yet give her a place in the scandalous history of this century. Happy woman! She published in England letters from Grand Duke Nicholas in which that young madman spoke of the Emperor's intentions against British India. What a woman. Unable to do anything else, she creates scandal! She does well.
God — if Pietro invented the convent, and if my first suspicions were founded.
This idea may torment me.
Ah! Torlonia.

Notes

"Ferré" — literally "shod" (like a horse), idiomatically: well-versed, expert.
"I love you" — in English in the original.
"Brutto!" — in Italian in the original.