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?
Have mercy! 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 dark-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 had said so insistently that 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!

Notes

In Latin in the original: Miserere ! (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. ↩
In the original: tenebroso-mystérieuses, Marie’s neologism, combining Italian tenebroso (dark, shadowy) with the French adjective to create a hybrid: “darkly mysterious.” ↩