Monday, 10 April 1876

I have just woken and my dreadful dream is still fresh. I saw Visconti taken ill and catching his foot against mine to keep from falling. I called for help and four black servants arrived, dressed in black with livery of embossed red velvet over it, like the Vatican footmen. And at the moment I was bending over the baron, who lay stretched on a bench insensible, one of them put his arms around my neck: There is no one here, he said, and I am going to kiss you.
We were in a railway station; I ran out onto the platform, shrieking furiously, just as someone was calling to me from the train that was about to depart: I am going to Nice, from where I shall go to the village of Ragon — and I am taking Pietro with me!
Walitsky, Dina and others came to my rescue; the servants were seized, and two chambermaids also in black and red. Then I saw a plaster head that moved and spoke. Then I was lying beside Maman, and a young boy in the manner of Cima stood there and I found it perfectly natural to be in my nightgown before him. These servants and this Visconti making me fall by catching hold of me, Visconti in the grip of an apoplectic fit — all this makes an unpleasant impression on me, and I am already interpreting the dream, as one may easily guess.
Scarcely out of bed, I cannot stand upright but droop like a wilted flower — it seems I would fold in two. I cannot take the situation in, and I begin to feel an immense anger rising from my wounded pride.
I have consulted the cards; they told me I would see him today. But that is not possible — if he were going to come back, he would have come back already. It is this despairing thought that makes me wish I could howl like two dogs!
No, do admit — this is a strange affair.
The ugliest part of it is to know nothing and to be able to do nothing!
It is foolish to consult the cards, and yet I can do nothing else — and the cards console, despite the little faith one places in them.
They mean to drive me mad, these accursed cards! Now yes, now no! God, God, God!
He was an embarrassment to his whole family; no one knew what to do with him. He went to ask his mother for a reconciliation and the means to live independently — they saw their opportunity and got rid of him:
— Reconcile yourself with God!
That is the Jesuits for you!
— When you come out, you will be at peace with everyone, you will be independent, and you may marry if you wish.
What contemptible cowards! They have shut him away forever. No — they have shut him away for the duration of my stay in Rome. But we shall see. Tomorrow I go to Naples. They cannot have foreseen that trick. Besides, once released he will come and find me — it is not that which concerns me, it is the present uncertainty, this blow that was anticipated yet came as a shock!
Have mercy, Lord!
I pace my room, moaning softly like a wounded wolf — I had opened the box, but I could only press my forehead against the lid and remain God knows how long in that position. I still have the ivy branch he gave me on the Capitoline.
What sadness!
I can no longer hold myself up; I sigh and let myself collapse like a dead weight.
I truly do not know what ails me. It is no doubt ridiculous, but there it is.
Besides, it is foolish to be indignant, to weep, to pray. Is it not always thus, in everything? I ought to be accustomed to it by now and no longer weary heaven with my useless lamentations.
At one o’clock we had a visit from Plowden, who brings a little dog to show me.
I went riding again with Paul. A ravishing ride from a physical point of view, and as tedious as could be from a moral one.
Afterwards I changed my hat, put on a fur-lined cloak, and we went to the Corso. Nothing.
Paul claims that I keep the big baroness and her son from eating by making them laugh so much.
In the evening we go to the Valle; they are giving Madame l’Archiduc for the benefit of the prima donna, Preziosi.
I kept myself hidden the whole time. The set in the club box has changed. There was neither Pandola, nor Cesaro, nor Z...zuchini, nor Antonelli; Torlonia comes in a little before the start of the last act. I cannot help admiring that shameless personage. I did nothing but look at him from behind Dina’s shoulder, in the shadow of her coiffure.
The operetta is truly charming. I had nothing to do, so I was obliged to listen with all my ears, on pain of having to converse with Issayevitch. A conversation would have been unbearable to me.
When we got home I went in to Maman and asked her what had been done with Pietro.
They have sent him away, as I said at first, she answered; they are providing him with every possible amusement and keeping him away so that nothing may come of his love for you — no doubt with some very rich Roman girl in view.
And you think he would consent to stay there?
Why, yes — you know yourself that he is strong only in words and always ends by giving in. They write to him to be patient a little longer; they threaten him with a scandal over the payment of his debts.
He would run away.
Perhaps he consented of his own accord.
That is hardly likely — but I will tell you one thing: he did not know they were sending him away for an indefinite time!
Yes, that is true, he did not know it. Oh! if he knew, he would not go. But do you think they are so foolish as to tell him?
Surely not. This affair is as strange as can be; I am determined to get to the bottom of it — it occupies me enormously.
It is not worth the trouble.
Nothing in this world is worth the trouble, and the best thing, according to you, is to put on the air of a Polish nobleman insulted by a Russian gendarme and say in a lofty tone, with a pained curl of the lip: “It is not worth the trouble.”
No doubt it is not worth the trouble.
We never agree — that is natural, or at any rate habitual. But listen to this. If they have sent him away because of me, once I have gone they will let him go?
Yes.
Well then, on Wednesday or Thursday we shall leave for Naples; we shall come back after a few days and we shall know something.
We have no money.
Why, good heavens, Madame, then we must get some. I shall telegraph my aunt. I tell you I mean to understand this mystery.
But it is not worth the trouble, said Maman, deeply wounded at heart.
— Everything that amuses me is worth the trouble. If I had other distractions, if I went into society (take that!), it would certainly occupy me less; but in my present position it interests me greatly, and you ought to be very glad to see that something interests me. So that is settled.
She tried a few more objections, full of outraged pride — eh! Madame, I understand you perfectly; I am outraged too, but all the same this must be cleared up.
I do not know what to think of him.
Victim, dupe, cowardly scoundrel — or else a bullied child.
I am excessively calm, but very sad.
One need only take up a certain position to find that nothing in this world “is worth the trouble.”
Once in that position, one is nothing but a brute, a feeble parody of Diogenes; and on that reckoning, since nothing is worth the trouble, why live? I understand Maman’s idea perfectly well. She says it is not worth the trouble, meaning that Pietro is only a child, that he does not suit me as a husband, that he is neither rich enough, nor highly placed enough, nor loved enough by me for it to be worth the trouble. It is not worth the trouble, she says, because he is only a plaything in the hands of his family, because he has neither a will of his own, nor an opinion, nor any firm desire of his own. Now, what is such a creature?
I am in perfect agreement with Madame my mother, but to agree still more perfectly one must know exactly.
All I know is that it is a strange affair.
Ah! by the way, Maman sent to ask after Visconti, because of my dream. Visconti was very unwell yesterday. Is that not strange? Decidedly there is something we do not understand. What am I saying — there are many things we do not understand. But let us not be over-subtle, shall we.
All the same, it would be a fine thing if Pietro had been playing a part the whole time and, seeing that it was going too far, had withdrawn so as to break it off there, as Visconti says.
I shall not be at peace until I know what all this means.

Notes

Madame l’Archiduc (“Madam the Archduke”) — an opéra-bouffe by Offenbach (1874); it has no established English title. ↩
In Italian in the original: barcaccia — the ground-floor box taken by the young noblemen of the Caccia-Club at the Valle (see the note to 1876-04-12). ↩