Saturday, 1 April 1876

We visited the ruins of the Baths of Caracalla. Is it possible to see anything more immense? I was very frightened going through the entrance gate, as our pockets were full of fragments of mosaic and carved marble. From there the coachman took us to a church — San Stefano Rotondo, I believe — which is quite near the convent where Pietro is confined. In this circular church, the walls are covered with frescoes depicting the martyrs of the early Christians. It is impossible to imagine even half the atrocities represented there. I myself was unnerved by them.
But the most interesting thing is the convent of San Giovanni e Paolo. I saw no one at the windows. Is it possible that he is truly shut up in there? It cannot be! But then why invent such nonsense? We shall see tomorrow at three o’clock. I cannot believe such a thing.
How bored he must be! He has been there since yesterday evening; he still has… let me see, he has until Saturday — counting today that makes eight days. Wretched little monk.
At one o’clock we lunched at Spillmann’s and I came home; it is five o’clock now. My people are going for a walk and I am staying at home to write, to read, to sing, to play, and to do nothing.
— If you are deceiving me, Monsieur, I swear that not only shall I never speak to you again — I shall not even greet you in the street!
— Very well — I accept! I accept! You see perfectly well that I am not deceiving you.
No — all the same it is strange, I have never heard anything like it. Shutting a man of twenty-three up in a convent! You have behaved so badly, you have quarrelled with your parents and with your God; you must confess, perform your devotions — but you cannot confess until you have prayed properly, away from the world and from bad company; and for that you must withdraw for eight days to this convent, after which you will begin a sober life, the financial affairs will be settled, and you will live at peace with your parents. Those are, word for word, Countess Antonelli’s words to her son.
It is incredible! Well — the white towel will decide, and even that is not certain; he told me he did not know which way his window looks — most of the windows give onto a courtyard-garden, and it may be impossible for him to show himself. Is it not stupid enough, extraordinary enough, savage enough!
After the Caccia-Club, after the Barcaccia, after Fanny Lear, Marie de Saxe, Torlonia, Saint-Joseph, Pandola! I am curious and impatient to see him on his release from the convent.
My aunt asks me how things stand with Torlonia. I replied with a triple “alas.” I should think so. Wretched Clément! He pleases me and I do not please him!
Not having gone out I have not seen him, and not having seen him I am not content.
That rogue Fanny Lear! Bills of exchange with a forged royal signature have appeared these past few days, and the court at Bologna has issued a summons against Count Mirafiori. All this has been denied — but the German newspapers have already seized upon the scandal.
I have done nothing but feel hungry and eat, and play solitaire. These cards disturb my reason — I am anxious and consult them. It is silly, for they do not tell the truth. A matter of chance. But I am anxious. I shall never forgive myself if I was duped by Antonelli! He was not lying — one cannot lie like that! Yes one can, once one is launched. It is very well not to believe anyone, for then one is never deceived, never disillusioned — but it is also very tormenting. If I believed what he told me, I should pass these eight days in calm beatitude, lamenting the fate of the wretched monk. But then what a disillusionment if I were to learn that he had lied to me, if he were not to return! Whereas now I am prepared for anything — but if he deceived me my fury will be no less furious. By a thousand monsignori! The Duke of Hamilton, high society, wealth, Torlonia, Antonelli, the lawsuit — all is confusion in my head, everything whirls and makes me as miserable as the mosaics of the Baths of Caracalla!
Z… Zucchini’s name is Antonio. He can say, as in the Apocalypse: “I am the alpha and the omega, the beginning and the end.” That is to say: I am the A and the Z. No matter. I am sad.
Pietro kept me from my gloomy preoccupations — he is gone now, and I am up to my ears in my torment. He is in league with his parents to distance himself from me — he left on purpose for that, to begin the cooling-off, to bring about a break! And I let myself be taken in by that crude invention and did not send him packing! Eagle and lion! It is too humiliating. Why am I unworthy to be his wife! No — it is not true; I am talking nonsense. He is in league with no one and no one wants to separate him from me. They would all be only too happy to accept me. I am mad this evening.
No — it is not Antonelli I need. I need a Hamilton. Nobility, high position, and fortune — I do not want to be among the great; I want to be above the great. By taking Pietro I should be in high society, but I should not be a star — I should be merely one of the small constellations that make up the Milky Way. I should rather be first in Nice than second in Rome. I am tormented — not only this evening but all my life — by this mad ambition. If at moments I do not speak of it, it is because I am weary of speaking of it, or because some Pietro or other makes me forget it by drawing me toward younger and simpler thoughts. That is why I care for Pietro — that is why I cared for Audiffret.
Why is it Antonelli and not Doria! I do not say Torlonia, because Torlonia is the son of a younger son and fairly poor. I wager you would say: you desire Doria because Doria does not want you, and if he loved you you would desire someone else. I prove you are talking nonsense by the fact that I do not desire Torlonia, even though Torlonia does not want me in the least. And who knows — perhaps Torlonia will be rich and great. No one knows the future, but I know the present. At present Torlonia has twenty-five thousand francs a year. Is it not ugly that the Duke of Hamilton is married and can no longer be mine! You may think the idea of Hamilton has passed from me. I am always the same — you may convince yourself of this by reading my journal. The details and nuances change but the broad outlines remain always the same. God — is it possible that all this is in vain? God, do not punish an unworthy and vain creature. I swear to you that I am fundamentally honest — incapable of cowardice, meanness, cruelty, depravity. I am ambitious. That is my misfortune. The beauties and ruins of Rome go to my head; I want to be Caesar, Augustus, Marcus Aurelius, Nero, Caracalla, the devil, the Pope! I want — and I can do nothing, and I am nothing!
Poor Pietro — how bored he must be in his cell; he is thinking of me, and I too am thinking of him — perhaps not as much, or in the same way, but thinking of him all the same. I want to believe him, I want to pity him, I want to know he is at the convent — and I cannot!
Lord, give me faith!
I believe that is correct — besides, most people do not know Latin and will accept mine for whatever it is.
Saturday is a long way off. I miss Pietro. I should like to take him with me to Nice — I would give him assignations in the garden in the evening; I detest seeing him with everyone else, and I adore being alone with him, listening to him, touching him. What a pity he is what he is! I could love him greatly, perhaps.
— I will love you always, he told me the day before yesterday.
I am not asking for that much.
A fine thing, to be shut up in a convent — he must be very bored, poor fellow. I was wrong to have told the whole business to my people; I am not to be trusted. But I could not do otherwise — Maman was furious.
— How can it be, she was saying — they pretend to refuse us, when we don’t even want them; they imagine it would be such a great happiness for us! It is humiliating, it is wretched, it is wounding! My mother was right — well, it was necessary to calm her and restore my standing in her eyes.
But how humiliated I should be if all this is only an invention — if Antonelli has been mocking me!
Plenary perpetual indulgence for the living and the dead. Amen.

Notes

“Faire ses dévotions” — to perform one’s religious devotions: confession and communion. ↩
Pietro had promised to wave a white cloth from his convent window as a sign that he was truly there. ↩
“Réussites” — patience or solitaire card games, sometimes used for fortune-telling. ↩
Revelation 22:13: “I am the Alpha and the Omega, the first and the last, the beginning and the end.” ↩
An echo of Caesar’s famous remark: “I would rather be first in a village than second in Rome.” ↩
In Latin in the original: Domine, dona mihi fidem ! ↩
In Latin in the original: Indulgentia plenaria perpetua pro vivis et defunctis. Amen. A standard Church formula. ↩