Saturday, 8 April 1876

How disagreeable this hotel is! Plowden called two days ago and the day before yesterday, and no one told us; it was he himself who mentioned it yesterday. He brought me his photograph in costume.
I rode with Paul at the Villa Borghese. I had an excellent horse; we created a superb effect and I am delighted. I saw everyone — Torlonia included, though only once. It goes without saying that I have an incomparable figure — no, listen, I do not say this in jest; seriously, I have a remarkable figure. This black riding habit, all in one piece and close-fitting, merely covers me but conceals nothing.
From Prince Humbert down to the humblest nobody, everyone looked at me with visible approbation.
The weather was fine, the horse was beautifully trained. I am pleased, pleased!
Bruschetti was also on horseback with a lady and two gentlemen — all of them ugly and badly mounted — and his trouser leg had ridden up almost to the knee, exposing white drawers and red stockings. Paul told me about it; we laughed; Bruschetti was furious.
In general, people who ride badly — who do not feel at ease, who are ashamed of themselves, so to speak — look at the public with furious eyes, as if it were the public’s fault! Madame Oliver called something amiable to me; the Swiss people did too. I could see only Prince Humbert — I do not know why he amused me so; perhaps because he looked at me, and because I can well imagine what he and his aide-de-camp said about my seat on horseback.
Well, that is that.
I do not know where to put myself. It is Saturday evening! Pietro is to come — if he does not come I shall weep like a wretched creature! And Maman beginning her suppositions again, resuming that offended air of hers!
The interval between nine o’clock and half past ten seems longer to me than all the past eight days together — I am breathless with impatience. God, if he should not come! They have kept him away, they have hidden him — he has deceived me, he has mocked me! Oh! What a face I shall make before the household. God, God, God! He will come, will he not — tell me he will come. I renounce Torlonia, if only he will come. I shall be too miserable if it is true that he has deceived me, that he never seriously loved me, that he was merely amusing himself!... Walitsky, do not say that! I refuse to believe such a villainy of Pietro. I am accustomed to regard him as honesty itself — lionhearted, impetuous to the highest degree! God! I believe my clock has stopped — no, it is going — no, it is crawling. It is only twenty past nine. Another hour to wait. I do not know which I would prefer: to be disappointed at once, or to remain still in this furious suspense. Can one decipher this? I doubt it. I wait, I wait, I wait.
No, listen — tell me, tell me: he will come, will he not? I beg you, say yes. Ah! The cards... I no longer believe in them; let us try all the same — it will kill time. They say no! Must one torment oneself over this? Let us wait still. Dear God, I beg you — let him come.
How foolish I am!
My fingers were quite cold when the clock struck ten — I was alternately cold and hot until half past ten. At eleven o’clock I turned my back to the lamp and listened to the stories of Walitsky and Issaïevitch. At half past eleven Maman gave the signal and everyone went home.
I stole six cigarettes from Walitsky, dragged myself to my room, locked the doors, stuffed the keyholes with pocket handkerchiefs, looked at myself in the mirror, took everything off, put on my dressing gown, and lay down on the floor with my head thrown back on a small low armchair, my eyes wide open and fixed on a hideous garland on the ceiling.
I made the observation that in the very moment of weeping one does not know what one weeps for — one feels only a need to weep.
I moved my head because between my neck and the collar of my dressing gown on each side there was a small lake. The armchair withdrew its charitable support! and I fell onto the carpet.
I could think only of how glad I should be if my room were set apart; here I had to hold my breath at every moment, for I was breathing so that I could be heard through the door, and that made me choke.
I am not weeping. I am making a minute description.
What torment, not to be able to howl!
He has deceived me shamefully. I believed in nothing and I believe in nothing — but I had believed him. He has made fun of me. His father explained our position to him and told him, in a friendly way, that he must gently break everything off. He let himself be won over by reason, and he played his part very well.
I ought to have made him swear. Ah, yes indeed — as if people did not swear every day; besides, one swears only when one means to deceive. If he were in the convent he would have come out by now. He is not in the convent. They have sent him far away, no doubt; I ought to have suspected it when I saw the abominable smiles of his brother, who, as a steady, respectable man, has doubtless acted in concert with the count, “for Pietro’s good”.
I do not know what I ought to believe. Is he away of his own will, or are they keeping him away by force, or by cunning?
No, I cannot believe that he deceived me all the time, in everything! It would leave one nothing to believe in in this world. I say that I believe in nothing, but deep down I cannot really think so! It would be enough to make one despair! Enough to disgust one with everything!
I had not yet risen from the cold stone when I was already consoling myself that perhaps I should see him tomorrow. No, I cannot live on that idea. I must weep again! ... I can write again. What is the use of writing! Is my story not always the same? It always ends in a paroxysm of tears on the carpet of some hotel or other. Either he has deceived me or he is the victim of his family.
Perhaps, to be rid of a man who has committed crimes as abominable as turning soldier and becoming a member of the Caccia-Club, they have shut him up in that convent for ever. For Jesuits, for a cardinal, that is not so impossible.
His brothers are sensible, they are; they belong to a club where nothing is played but chess and nothing is drunk but a thin, well-watered little wine. They do not go to the Opera and know no one but clericals — the blacks.
There I go, wanting to make a martyr of Pietro.
No, no, no, no, no! He was not lying, he was not deceiving me! He is not a scoundrel, a hypocrite, a coward!
Maman wants to leave on Tuesday. I shall not leave!
They are waiting for me to leave before they let Pietro go. They will wait a long time. Besides, if he loves me, he will find me easily enough.
— If I went off to be a soldier without my family’s permission, he said to me on the evening at the piano, do you think I will not go anywhere for you, without waiting for the permission of any devil! Ah, by heaven!
I smoke and grow stupefied little by little.
Tomorrow I go to confession and take communion.
I opened a drawer and shut it again sharply because I saw Pietro’s portrait in it; that portrait hurts me now, and I am dying to go and take it and write while looking at it — as though it would give me the words to make myself understood, to say how much I look like a drunken woman, half stupefied and utterly wretched. I was shivering all that time; now I have a headache, and I smoke and smoke to stupefy myself.
No, but can you see me weeping before a man’s portrait! Certainly the woman who writes is not the same as the one who weeps!
I have sometimes wept reading novels; I should like to know whether anyone will weep reading me. No — for I only say the word weep and say nothing touching. I do not know.
Shall I never see him again? Come now! God would not do that. Pooh! He does plenty of other things!
Let us not blaspheme.
I even had the idea that he stayed away this evening on purpose, to lose his wager. The cards did say no. Let us consult them for tomorrow. The cards say no. They lie! Why? Because they do not say what I want?!
I was mad indeed to believe that anything could go right for me. Has it not been clearly proved to me that everything, everything, everything is denied me!
I have the dreadful conviction that I shall never see him again and that all is over.
Well, what is so astonishing in that? Is it not known that I am to have nothing but sorrows in this world?
Everyone who sees me laughing and wild says to me: You will end up in a convent.
I believe it. Disappointed and weary, weary, weary of constant disillusionments, of eternal unsatisfied desires, I shall go and hide somewhere to weep, to pray, and to blaspheme!
Sick in mind, uneasy at heart, I am going to resort once more to the consolation of the weak: the cards. Once more I shall ask them whether I shall see him tomorrow. Just once more — it will be the last time... for today.
No again, and always no! Let us ask the book; perhaps it will tell me something: “Roman cement, which covers it entirely and protects it.” I do not understand. Again. No, I will not!
Resign yourself and be quiet! I am so used to the burlesque manner that I cannot say anything. Besides, it is useless. Who cares about the journal of an unhappy girl! There are so many!
It is one o’clock. I am going to sleep. Sleep is the happiest of states: one is dead when one sleeps.
I look at the portrait and blow my cigarette smoke into his face.
Soroka, Count Antonelli, Pietro! Mockery of mockeries! And every time I let myself be taken in, and every time I believe that this time it will be different from always.
Mad, mad, mad! No, not mad — unhappy.
I love him above all because he loves me. No, he does not love me. He will not come back! If he were going to come back, he would have come this evening.
I still have a cigarette and a half. Let us smoke the lot.
— He will not come any more, we shall not see him again, Maman said; the monks and the priests will send him so far away.
The cards say I shall not see him again. “And once more I am seized by a fit of despair”! The stupor lifts; I feel, I see, I weep!
But I have his portrait; I shall adore it. If he has deceived me, I curse him; if they are holding him back by force, I love him, I love him dearly, I love him utterly, I adore him, I want to love no one else, I want to concern myself with no one!
Folly, this Torlonia — a pale and unworthy work of a sullied and unworthy heart.
written across the page
I understand that feeling perfectly and am ready to feel it again for any man who, because of me, found himself in so romantic and pitiable a situation.
I am punished for my stupid words!
Because he loved me I treated him like a cad! If he died, I should make a god of him and adore him all my life — without loving him, however. All these disillusionments are going to make a fine rogue of me: I believe in nothing, I love nothing, I esteem nothing.
Incredulity, cynicism and misanthropy!
That is what I am — and not because I wished it. They make me so! God makes me so! Let us deny God and it will be complete.

Notes

«amazone» — a riding habit: the long, close-fitting skirt worn by women riding side-saddle in the 1870s. Not a reference to the Amazonian warriors. ↩
In French in the original: noirs, the papal or clerical party in Roman society. ↩
In Italian in the original: Via ! ↩
Soroka: Russian for “magpie”. Here probably the name Marie gave the unknown Roman who stared at her at the Opera before she knew him as Count Antonelli, i.e. Pietro (054/1876-02-15); in Nice the nickname had been Audiffret’s. ↩