Sunday, 9 April 1876

With a fervent faith, a moved heart, and a well-disposed soul, I made my confession and received communion. Maman and Dina too. Then we heard mass — I listened to every word and I prayed. I asked for nothing but to see Pietro again.
We lunched at Spillmann's, after which I returned home and had an amusing argument about Russians and Italians with Paul. In an hour I am going to ride. I am going to devote half an hour to writing, smoking, and stupefying myself.
— We shall not see him again — it is useless to think of it, Maman keeps repeating. And as what she says corresponds exactly to my most desperate fears, I am in a dreadful state.
I do not laugh, I do not rage. I suffer — that is all.
I used to think that the situations described in novels were invented. These difficulties of finding each other again — these obstacles.
Well, you see, good people! How am I to find Pietro? Go to the convent of Santi Giovanni e Paolo — nonsense. Whom to ask? And what to ask? Count Antonelli, if you please. Absurdity.
He is lost. But does he himself not wish to see me again — will he not do everything in his power to that end? Ah! I know nothing of it. I am on edge. And I must go riding! The slightest word puts me in a fury.
Is it possible that a man can simply be made to vanish in broad daylight?
Miserere! Have mercy — I have the greatest difficulty in the world keeping myself still. Dear God, do not torment me forever.
The horses do not arrive and we go out by carriage. I hoped to see him at the Borghese — after two circuits I had a small satisfaction in thinking I would find him at the Pincio, and I deliberately delayed in order to preserve the illusion. From the Pincio a devil drew me toward the Corso — but at the Corso as at the Pincio and as at the Borghese I saw only a motley, enormous, tedious crowd.
Maman spent the entire time recounting the story of Pietro from the age of eighteen to the present, ending each paragraph with these words:
— He is dead — they have forced him to take his vows — those Jesuits have walled him in — it is over, he is dead.
You may imagine what effect that had on me.
Is it not infuriating to be subject to an unknown and unassailable power! I mean the power that has taken Pietro away. Oh yes, it is infuriating, humiliating, dreadful! I rack my brains to guess where they could have stowed him. What is impossible for a cardinal when it is a matter of ordering the people of the Church! The power of the priests is immense — it is not granted to honest people to penetrate their tenebroso-mysterious machinations. One is astonished, one is afraid, and one admires. One need only read the history of peoples to see their hands in every event — their invisible power, their perspectives so far-reaching that they dissolve into vagueness for untrained eyes. Since the beginning of the world, in every country, supreme power has belonged to them — openly or in concealment. It is still so in our day; one does not suspect it, but let one look carefully. The revolutions in France, the troubles and bloodshed in Spain, nihilism in Russia — in modern times; in ancient times it was the murders of kings, the conspiracies of the great. What is the cause of these? What provokes them? Progress — new needs.
Ah, bah! You are too simple. It is quite simply because the priests, for purposes unknown to us, had need of it — and they made it happen, by exciting fanaticism, ambitions, consciences, covetousness.
I should very much like to see some scholar go deeper into this most interesting subject.
Everyone has gone to see goodness knows what — a marvel, a conjurer, or a devil. I am shut in, expecting him to arrive in triumph, bringing the wager he has lost.
In vain, in vain!
No, listen — it would be too much if, just like that, all at once, he were taken from me forever. Without my knowing what has become of him, what they have done with him!! He cannot not come back to Rome. He said so absolutely — he would be here by Saturday at the latest.
And to be able to do nothing! And not to know where to go and look for him! But he — he, he! Does he do nothing to come back — does he not cry out — does he not smash everything — does he not want to!
No, it is impossible. He loves me — and he goes away, and he does not return, and he does not strike down those who are keeping him!
It is the woman, decidedly, who is the energetic and weak and miserable creature. He lets them do it! And I wait for him in vain. Just like that, at a stroke, he is made to vanish as if by a wave of a wand.
Where, when, how! Nescio.
Bigre de bigre!
Tiger and hyena — three tigers and six hyenas!
My God!
I have made confession, I have received absolution — and I am swearing and raging.
A certain volume of sin is as necessary to a person as a certain volume of air — for living. That is why the moment one is rid of it, one hastens involuntarily to sin again, to acquire that certain volume which is necessary in order not to be pure. Why do people remain attached to the earth? Because the weight of their conscience holds them there — if their conscience were pure, they would be too light, and would float up toward the heavens like red balloons.
There is a bizarre theory. No matter.
It is half past nine. Ah — but what is the use of all this? He will not come.
What profound sadness — what emptiness — what rage!
I have just heard Maman order tea.
He always used to arrive before or with the tea.
I have thrown myself on the floor and bitten my nails and fingers, sobbing.
Ah! Accursed priests! They would be pleased if they could see me as I am at this moment.
They are calling me to the drawing room — can I possibly go to the drawing room!
God — is it possible that everything in my life ends this way!!
I do not see why I am being punished here. I have never harboured toward Pietro the kind of intentions I had toward Audiffret. Besides — can one compare them! Audiffret is a shameful memory, because Audiffret turned away from us not as Émile from Marie, but as a young man of society turns away from a family despised and insulted by everyone.
And Audiffret never loved me. At most he was infatuated.
I pace about the room like one possessed — I sit on every chair, on the bed, on the floor; I cannot find a place for myself.
And against my will I wait. How can one not wait for what one desires!
He will not come — because if he came I would meet him in the small drawing room, almost dark, I would take his hands and lean against his chest, and I would say to him: Why have you delayed so long — you have made me spend two dreadful days — I thought I would never see you again. I cannot live without seeing you —
[Written across the page: A phrase I had read in a novel, which was running through my mind.]
But as it is impossible for a well-bred young lady to say such a thing, he will not come. I say he will not come — so that he will.
I tremble at the slightest sound. Prater barked and I ran to the door, listening with all my might, barely breathing! And nothing.
I sing and I think of Mignon. That infamous music is made to tear my heart apart.
Ten o'clock! I will not look at the clock any more. Oh! My God — you see plainly that I am weeping, that I am wretched, annihilated — let this torment last no longer! Have pity on me!
Am I mad to pray? Name one thing for which I have prayed that has been granted to me.
Dreadful! I am saying dreadful things!
Holy Madonna, take me in your mercy!
Let me at least know whether he is away because he wishes it or because he is being kept! If it is his own will — I crush myself for having so humiliated myself, and I fall silent, mad with rage and disillusion. I am perhaps being punished for what I have done and am making Bruschetti endure. But is it my fault that he loves me and that I hate him!
They irritate me — they call me — they announce the tea for the fortieth time! I'm coming, I'm coming — and the devil take them all...
God, what torture!
I have played a comedy for an hour. I can bear it no longer — do not think I am raging as before. I am weeping — that is all; I am weeping like a wretch, like the accursed creature I am!
I contain myself for three minutes that seem like three hours — then I burst out; I reach such a pitch of exasperation that I must either fall to the floor like a dead weight or fling myself out of the window! I choose the former.
Truly, I did not believe myself capable of this!! But just think! They have taken him, they have shut him away — I shall never see him again!
Oh! I can bear no more! I cannot scream — my teeth are chattering and my jaw clenches convulsively — I must be hideous in this state, but what do I care! I scratch my chest and bite my fingers, and God sees it and has no pity.
What have I done! Let us see — what have I done! What have I done to deserve this martyrdom! Have I murdered anyone, stolen, shamefully deceived, destroyed someone's life!
Rossi must know where they have put him — I must go to the theatre, oh! not to amuse myself — you do not think, I hope, that I am capable of amusing myself.
[Written across the page: Well then! A man who almost rather displeased me — yet he disappears mysteriously and here I am in a fury!!]
I must go to the theatre to see Rossi — to ask. The old dog no doubt knows, but he will take very good care not to say!
If they have shut him away on my account, once I am gone they will release him. There is a luminous idea! Maman has been crying out to go to Naples. I shall go to Naples — the day after tomorrow.
I shall return in a week. It is the only way. Oh! But I have not the courage to leave Rome — one must carry me off by force.
I ask myself why this great despair, since I do not love him! I know not why — I know only that there is a mortal grief, such as there has never been before; I know that I cannot find a place for myself! And every instant I cry out in thought: it is not possible that this should last! God cannot be so cruel! Ah! Indeed He can! Oh! Much good it does me to strike my knees, to pinch my face! Nothing helps — I cannot stupefy myself — I cannot smoke!
I am suffocating!
No, listen. He came every day — then all at once, in an instant, there he is vanished — where, how? One does not know. Gone forever!!!!!
Oh! Let us not think that — let us not think that — I am tearing my hair over it and it serves no purpose!
Let us pray — no, let us not pray. Oh! yes, let us pray — I am going to pray, greatly, like a madwoman, as no one has ever prayed!... But I cannot! I have just tried — I could only sob. My journal is no longer enough for me! I must go and complain to Maman — I must tell her I can bear no more. I am calm for a minute and then it begins again.
There was nothing he could do! And to leave without learning anything — without a word of explanation!
I care nothing for what my family will say when it is a matter of this man! The devil take everyone!
It is not possible that I shall not see him tomorrow — on the Corso, near the club, or at the Pincio.
Ohimè, it is possible — it is probable — it is certain!
No, no, no, no.
I can write no more!
---
[Annotation: (1881. To think that I worked myself into such states over all manner of worthless follies.)]
I do not wish my journal to be printed — for the handwriting alone gives an idea of my agitation. I have just read everything over. I am a little calmer — it is one o'clock; I cannot sleep.
I would give a year of my life for words.
I have never felt this before.
If he were to come in now I would fall unconscious.
I would give two years of my life to see him for one hour — I want to know something! On Tuesday I am going to Naples; they will release him and I shall return unexpectedly. Besides, I need not worry: once free, he will come to Nice.
He loves me. Do you hear — he loves me!
He told me that when angry he would throw himself on the floor, smash everything, hurl furniture out of the window. He must be doing all of that now. He loves me — and besides there is nothing surprising in that since I love him too. Little by little I am growing calmer. Perhaps I shall see him tomorrow.
Inaction is atrocious. I am a hundred times less miserable when driving through the city, for I always hope to encounter him.
I know that he loves me — I would swear it on the Gospels, I would swear it on my mother's life, on my salvation in eternal life!
If he knew they were separating us forever, he would not have been so calm the other evening — he would not have left so smiling. He would not have agreed at all to enter that convent. How he must be suffering! I should be reasonable in thinking that he suffers more than I, for he loves far more than I.
Besides — hand on heart — I do not know whether I love. I think yes, for after all one does not spend two hours like those I have just spent for nothing.
I want to be reasonable, calm — and I cannot!
It is the papal blessing and the Pope's portrait that have brought me ill luck. They say it brings bad luck.
My face is quite swollen — I have pinched and pressed it quite enough for that.
You see — half an hour ago I could not hold the pen and was tracing letters two centimetres high; now I write as usual — because I forced myself to smoke and have dulled myself a little.
There is some kind of whistling in my chest — my nails are bitten down and I am coughing.
No! I must not! I was about to hide my face in my hands and think. I must not — it would bring on another crisis. I must write — no matter what; there is beautiful moonlight tonight; I was meant to go and see the Colosseum with him. I shall see it no more... Let us speak of something else. Let us speak of nothing.
There is nothing more dreadful than being unable to pray. Prayer is the only and greatest consolation for those who cannot act.
I pray, but I do not believe. It is abominable. It is not my fault.
Oh! The handwriting is no longer steady — I am going to do something foolish again.
Ah! If you only knew how miserable I am! If you only knew how dreadful it is to be able to do nothing.

Notes

«Miserere» — Latin: "Have mercy" (from Psalm 51, Miserere mei Deus — "Have mercy on me, O God"). Also the name of Allegri's famous choral setting, ubiquitous in Rome. Here used as a spontaneous exclamation.
«tenebroso-mystérieuses» — Marie's neologism, combining Italian tenebroso (dark, shadowy) with the French adjective to create a hybrid: "darkly mysterious."
«Nescio» — Latin: "I do not know." In Latin in the original.
«Emile de Marie» — a reference to Rousseau's Émile, ou De l'éducation (1762). Marie is likely contrasting a sincere and idealistic attachment (Rousseau's Émile) with a merely social rejection.
Mignon — the opera by Ambroise Thomas (1866), based on Goethe's Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahre. Its heroine's yearning arias were among the most celebrated of the period. Marie was studying singing and knew the role intimately.
«A la bonne heure» — idiomatic: "Well then!" or "That's something!" (not literally "at a good hour"). Used here as an ironic exclamation of self-reproach.
«Ohimè» — Italian: "Alas! / Woe is me!" In Italian in the original.
Day: in English in the original — Marie writes "en plein day" mixing French and English.