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 handle it with any skill.
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 recognised it was clumsy I was the first to speak of it. But he affected not to understand and politely wished me good night; I held him back; 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 fell to reproaching him, 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 examining magistrate’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!
True love does not reason. Do you love me?
And if I tell you yes?
Ah! there you go again — suppositions, conditions!
Of course. Must I say to you: I love you!
And what would come of it?
Why! what always comes of it in such cases!
I cannot tell anything properly, I cannot make sense of anything, everything is muddled; we could not understand each other, and it is clear why. He does not love me, and I, madwoman that I am, am drawn to whatever flees. I do not feel humiliated — though there would be reason enough. I do not know what I ought to say and do. I see that he does not love me.
Perhaps it is wrong to read novels, for because he says nothing the way they do in novels I am all at sea and do not know what to think. No, that is not it. He wants to leave it there — that is the truth.
- Would you like me to tell you what all this means? I said to him. Well then, listen. You courted me as one courts a pretty girl, which I am, and then, seeing that it was going too far, you withdrew.
I do not know what he answered — nothing reassuring, no doubt. I cannot write anything. I feel quite strange; I no longer understand myself. I am not furious; I am very wretched, very astonished — astonished that there should be a being bold enough to receive me so coldly.
What! I was there alone with him, my arms hanging at my sides, my voice trembling, almost saying to him: I love you — and he did not take my hand, he did not lean towards me, he did not draw me to him!
At that moment I would not have resisted; I would have let myself sink onto his breast and wept — and he kept bringing the conversation back to indifferent subjects.
Walitsky annoyed me by calling me; the position was so false! I was raging, I kept holding Antonelli back, and I ended by telling him that if I had a brother here I would have that brother box his ears twice over, but that being a woman and alone I could do nothing but despise him.
- I could have loved you, but your cowardly conduct has turned that feeling into contempt!
He asked what was the matter with me tonight, to be so strange and to say so many... strange things.
Well, there it is. I will say nothing more to him. Ah! I should think not — I have humiliated myself enough.
I do not know whether I am angry or grieved, furious or wretched.
I have never yet found myself in such a situation; I am utterly dazed.
It is three o’clock but I cannot sleep; I am calm but I am cold. I know nothing and understand nothing.
Mercy, Lord — until now You have heard my prayers; do not withdraw from me, then, and in heaven’s name let me see clearly, let me know something.
Is it possible that he no longer loves me, is it possible that he deceived me, that he had nothing but frivolities in his head? And then I would have to know what I want. Seriously, I do not think I love this man. I have never seen anything like it: it is he who demands, it is he who wants, it is he who asks for a whole-hearted love. He talks as I ought to have talked; I never imagined anything like it. He does not love me, that is all.
What chaos! Dear God, let me understand something, let me no longer be in this indifferent, lukewarm uncertainty, which is a hundred times worse than tears and anger. I would like to understand so as to explain myself in this journal. He is completely changed; one would say that in twenty days he has become a man of thirty. The cause of this change is that he no longer loves me. He seemed pleased to see me in this abominable state, and he relished my bewilderment. He talks quite differently. He has become so reasonable that it is a marvel. He seems to have a Jesuit inside him.
You know, he said, I play the hypocrite now; I bow to my father, I always say yes to him, I am sensible and I think of my future.
Tomorrow perhaps I will be able to tell something, but tonight I am so dull-witted that it is idiotic!
What I do feel clearly is that I am no longer loved.
I hope to come to Nice, he said.
You never loved me, I said. What! I go away, and you do not so much as trouble to find out where I am! You know that I am in Naples, and instead of going there you go to the country!
- Listen, he said, I could not come; you understand that I could not disobey at the very moment I had just made peace; I could not choose that moment to commit fresh follies.
May I drop dead if I understand anything!
I told him enough to make a man happy; he understood nothing, he laughed! he fled.
I do not understand how I did not fly into a rage, how I am not beside myself now! I am calm, I understand nothing, I can write nothing but nonsense.
What a tiresome state!
Ah! at the Pincio we spoke to Plowden.
No, it is absurd. I am stupid, stupid and stupid!

Notes

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