Monday, 24 April 1876

I had the whole day to recount but can remember nothing! I know only that on the Corso we encountered Antonelli two or three times, and then Maman had the carriage stopped and he ran up, beaming and cheerful. He was with friends, they had to move on, and we dismissed him after he had asked whether we would be at home this evening. We will be, alas! This evening at the Apollo, La Ristori is playing Mary Stuart and there is not a single box to be had.
Towards half past ten I began to grow anxious — and you cannot imagine what I suffered. At ten o'clock I threw myself on my knees and swore I would remain so for half an hour without moving, and that I would not rise unless he came. In my state of mind it was a torment; I prayed to God and suffered horribly, asking myself whether there was truly something more than a mere caprice in all this. I was already going mad with irritation and disappointment when I heard him enter the drawing-room; I rose, thanking God with all my soul, for He had heard me.
I had promised God I would make no scene, provided he came. He came, and I went into the drawing-room quite naturally and set about talking like everyone else.
My impatience was great; I thought the hour for retiring would never come. It came, as everything comes in this world, sooner or later.
At one o'clock Antonelli takes his leave of us all; Maman goes to her room with Dina and Walitsky; I go to mine — but come out again immediately and encounter the man in the corridor.
I have wept too much and tormented myself too much over him to be dexterous.
He has been four days in a convent, and then in the country. He is now at peace with all his family; he is going to go into society, be sensible, think of his future. Of love for me — not a word. I grew furious, and though I recognized it was clumsy I was the first to speak of it. But he affected not to understand and told me politely good night; I detained him; I no longer know what I said — I said enough, however, to make myself understood. I was truly beside myself; I closed my eyes and leaned against the wall; in the end I came to making reproaches, to saying that I had been wrong to take all this seriously, that he was merely a child and that the best he could do would be to speak no more of this love. Then he told me he could not love me because I did not love him; I had strange theories, I played, I laughed. In short, that I had enjoyed myself in Naples, that I had been a coquette as always, and that this proved well enough that I did not love him. He also told me he had seen me the other Sunday near San Giovanni e Paolo, and to prove he was telling the truth, he described everything I had done, how I was sitting. And I must say he was right.
Well, what would you have me say! I know nothing at all; I know only that his hand shrank from mine, that he was in a hurry to be gone, that I said a heap of foolish things, closing my eyes, detaining him, asking him pointless questions — and that he avoided all explanation, saying I did not love him, and if I did it was in a most extraordinary fashion with all my cross-examiner's questions; that I merely wished to hear someone say he loved me and then to laugh at it. My God, my God! I have never conducted myself so stupidly. I believe he no longer loves me — for there I was in a half-darkened corridor, surrendering my hands to him, bowing my head, very much moved — and he laughed, and said good night, and told me how sensible he was being nowadays.
I told him more or less everything I have written about this affair here; he gave me no reassurance. I went so far as to sink into a chair saying that he had made me wretched. I was not play-acting; I was telling the truth; I was thoroughly miserable — and he was not moved by it, and he did not come to comfort me, and he began saying trifling things, adding that it was not proper to stay so late. I do not know how I did not crush him!
- Do you love me? he asked at last.
- And you?
- Ah! there is your way! — one says to you: I love you, you reply: it is not true — and then, well, your manner, as you did with me. I have become sensible; I am a different man.
- So I see!
- But what would you have — when you always told me you did not love me!
- And was I to throw myself into your arms at the first word?
- Naturally!

Notes

Adelaide Ristori (1822–1906) — the most celebrated Italian tragic actress of the period.