Friday, 21 April 1876

On entering the drawing-room this morning I was almost stifled by the scent of flowers — the room is literally full of them: flowers from Doenhoff, from Altamura, and even from Torlonia. The table has been replaced by a table of flowers. But that is not what I wanted to speak of. Listen to this: since the soul exists, since it is the soul that animates the body, since it is this ethereal substance that feels, loves, hates, desires — since in short it is the soul that makes us live — how is it that any tear in this vile body, or some inner disorder, excess of wine or food — how can such things drive away the soul? I set a wheel spinning and stop it only when I so will; this stupid wheel cannot stop my hand. In the same way the soul that sets in motion the instruments of our body ought not to be chased away — she, the reasoning essence — by a hole in the head or a surfeit of lobster! She ought not to be — and she is. Whence one must conclude that the soul is a pure invention. And this conclusion brings down one after another, like stage-sets in a theatre on fire, all our most intimate and cherished beliefs.
One ought to re-read Plato in detail and with attention. No, on second thought — that sage had his own mind; I have mine. It is wrong to cling to the skirts of old science, and it is this timidity, this imitation, that has caused the world to make so little progress. Instead of leaving old wisdom in its place and advancing from it as a foundation, one launches it forward like a bowling-ball and then follows after it. Certainly I do not say this out of self-conceit, but it would be equally foolish to fold one’s arms across one’s breast, bow one’s head hypocritically, and forever humble oneself like Don Alonzo in the Barber.
Well, the moment has passed and I have lost the thread. Bah! Another day.
I have come back from the museum, which is truly one of the finest I have seen. The Danaë of Tiziano Vicellio held me for some time. From the museum we went to the Aquarium — among those hideous fish there was one whose lower lip protruded and moved just like that of young Muliterno. It was the companion piece to the Danaë.
On the Toledo — Larderel with his cocotte. He simply turned round, just like Antonelli. He is so handsome and so plobster. Further along, three cabs: in the first Clément Torlonia with Saint-Joseph, in the second Muliterno père, and in the third Muliterno fils. Further still, the Accademia and two people on the balcony who have already noticed me (honni soit qui mal y pense). How does it come about that these gentlemen recognise me at once and I them in an instant?
Sympathy? Perhaps.
I do not want to go anywhere any more — I am very happy in Naples. Provided tomorrow goes well for me, I am preparing to enjoy myself and above all to see Larderel, who will race, I hope. How ugly it is to show oneself everywhere with a cocotte! Like Wittgenstein.
The gentlemen’s race is a divine amusement; it recalls the tournaments of the Middle Ages. If I were a married woman I should wear Larderel’s colours, but as I am, such extravagances are not permitted me.
We have just enough money to get to Rome. A few hundred francs, no more. Real bohemians. It is funny and sad.
To Rome on Sunday morning. Ah! I no longer mind it in the least.
Besides, by Tuesday there will be no one left here. The Rome races are fixed for next Thursday, and this whole fashionable fair will move to the Eternal City.
The weather turned bad today from six in the evening; I fear for the races.
The sea was magnificently stormy, and I do not know how, while we were walking along the Chiaia beyond Queen Joanna’s palace, we came to speak of Antonelli.
It is quite simply this, I said: he went and said a great many things... about me, and they did not consent, and they forbade him to think of it.
Yes, perhaps, said Maman.
No doubt, said Walitsky; old Visconti did not say what he said for nothing.
As for Visconti, Maman went on, the old man talked about all the young men; but Saint-Joseph said yesterday how changed his friend Antonelli was, etc., etc.
We shall see what he says, said Walitsky.
He may say what he likes, I said; I shall not speak to him.
What?!!
Yes, I told him: Monsieur, mark my words well — if you lie, I swear I shall never speak to you again. He lied; I shall not speak to him again.
And how do you know that he lied? asked Maman. Perhaps he did not lie at all; perhaps they kept him three days longer at the convent, and that is all.
Nonsense! Besides, he is a coward.
What?
A coward, a coward twice over.
Why?
Because — no, but listen to this: I am not in love with him, I am very fond of him and that is all; but imagine what a misfortune if I loved him! And then there is this too: he was forbidden to be a soldier, and he defied the prohibition; and here he obeys, he bows his head! That means he is cowardly and base. Because...
Because what?
Because he keeps silent and obeys when it concerns me, and because he has not the courage to want anything. That is cowardice.
No one had contradicted me, and I fell silent, not very angry. I had spoken coolly and with conviction.
Altamura came at about six to bring the bets he had lost at the races. They were a pair of gloves for Maman and one for Dina. And imagine what he brings: two ravishing glove boxes, full! Hang me if I can guess what this man wants. It was he who paid for yesterday’s carriage, refusing to give the address to the coachman and all but quarrelling with Walitsky, who wanted to pay. It was he who brought the tickets for the races — everything, in a word. He is an honourable man, received in society. He knows all the plobsters. So one cannot suspect him... and of what? His conduct is not natural.
Only the other day at Pompeii, we found in the carriage an enormous album of views of Pompeii.
He does not even want to be thought in love; he loves everybody. Walitsky is his friend, and he tells him that from the very first moment in Rome he felt an irresistible liking for all of us.
I dined at the table d’hôte. And after dinner Mme and Mlle Larsky came to see us. Maman made their acquaintance here at the hotel; they belong to Petersburg society and are relations of the Souvoroffs. One of Mme Larsky’s daughters is none other than that Mme Zwegintzew who was part of the whole circus around the shameless Princess Souvoroff. The one who is here is still unmarried. They seem pleasant; it is a pity they are leaving tomorrow morning.
When they had gone, I busied myself drawing ink caricatures of Larderel on horseback, of Saint-Joseph and of Muliterno. Larderel is a good likeness; by not putting a single stroke on the face I managed to render his pallor. He is exceedingly pale, but there is nothing sickly, sallow or grey in that pallor. I used to like ruddy men, but since Pietro pallor charms me — above all a fresh and... powerful pallor like Larderel’s. His sister is married to Count Mirafiori, the King’s son, the one who had the affair with Fanny Lear.
Yesterday’s charming melodies, my memories of Pietro and Larderel’s handsome face together put me in a state of irritation that is not unpleasant.
God! When shall I come back from Russia to go into society, to be part of the world, to recognise all these people, to receive them at our house!
Woe is me! Alas! Alas! Alas!
Coward, coward, coward!
And that is called loving!
Profanation! Ah! I should only like to find someone worthy, to show how one loves and what is called Loving.
- I will follow you everywhere!
Thrice conceited, thrice a coward!
Six hours away, the races for an excuse, and he did not come!
I do not know which I would rather believe: that he did not love me, or that he is weak and cowardly.
I am curious to know whether he went to the Hôtel de la Ville.
Probably not; he knew, on entering Rome, that we were no longer there. And yet... no, let us not make conjectures on paper; it takes too long and only muddles my unhappy mind, which does not know what it ought to believe.
For ten minutes I have been holding my pen, and the ink has dried three times, and it was about to dry for the fourth time when I begin writing again... what? I know not.
I believed myself loved and I was grateful, happy — and I was mistaken!
Tiger and hyena!!

Notes

Don Alonzo — a character in Beaumarchais’s The Barber of Seville (also known from Rossini’s opera). ↩
Tiziano Vecellio — the Italian name of Titian. Marie uses the Italian form. ↩
Via Toledo — the main street in Naples (now Via Roma). ↩
Cocotte — a courtesan, kept woman. ↩
Plobster — Marie’s private code word (apparently from English “lobster”) for a fashionable young man-about-town and potential admirer; here she even uses it as an adjective. ↩
Honni soit qui mal y pense — “Shame on him who thinks evil of it,” the motto of the English Order of the Garter. Marie uses it ironically. ↩
In Italian in the original: Forse. ↩
In Italian in the original: Ohimè. ↩
In Latin in the original: Nescio. ↩