Friday, 5 May 1876

The Rome races have been put off to the 11th or the 14th — there is time enough then for the telegram. I sent one this morning to the hotel proprietor for some orders in Rome, having gone out with Marie. But I was back by one o'clock and did not stir again all day, bored to misery. One may tell me that boredom is impossible when one has books and the intelligence to understand them. Agreed — but one cannot read all day; there are always two or three hours given over to the toilette and the promenade. Well! it is precisely during those two or three hours that I am most bored, knowing that going out is pointless — there is no one there.
Sometimes — often — always, I think it is better so; society would torment me. Yes, but then this city full of Niçois animals is unbearable. Galula and Saëtone, Saëtone and Galula! Ah! Good Lord!
At dinner I become quite stupefied, with no need to have drunk anything; and at seven o'clock we all walk to the Sapogenikoffs', I without a hat and wrapped in a bédouin draped like the Turk from the oriental shop.
We find them at supper with Collignon, who puts herself out enormously — cooking the peas, preparing the salad, serving the master and mistress, caressing the children, making them speak English, wiping the plates. Why must one always be disappointed in people! I, who esteemed this woman as straightforward, proud, and good — I see her servile, grovelling, and hypocritical!
Marie calls her Catherine and shouts all manner of familiarities at her, which embarrass her terribly in our presence.
I speak little; I am stupefied and sullen, and furious at having walked after dinner and filled my boots with sand — the very boots I wore at the Campidoglio ball.
On the way home we recalled Petit-Paul — his name is Paul Leroux — who came to say to me at the Apollo:
— What is the matter? Have you a hair?
— Perhaps two, I replied — in a truly bad humour as I was.
— Three, said he.
— And you have four, Dina told him.
— Ah! that, said he, laughing — you know that sounds like an impertinence!
Indeed, Paul Leroux is bald at thirty.
Then we speak of Count Gerhard, of Doenhoff who paid court to me in his fashion — a German fashion. And now that I think of it! Do you know that on the day after the first race day we were to go at two o'clock to Amalfi? Doenhoff had begged Maman for the honour of presenting us to Prince Charles, who was to be there and who had been "dazzled" by my photograph — as had the Princess, who kept it with her all day and did not return it to Doenhoff until the following morning.
And to think that it was that debauched Larderei who made me miss this presentation, by inspiring me with the idea of going to the Opera in the hope of encountering him there!
Then a few words about Plowden and Antonelli.
By the way — you know that Bruschetti has written again, this time to Maman. He spoke with her at length the evening before our departure. Ah! if I had only noted down all his advances, there would be a bagful to record — all rebuffed, scorned, and spat upon as they were.
But I detest him — I say what I say about him only out of vanity.
I have another idea.
I think Miloradovitch would suit me admirably if only he wished to have me.
Ah! scoundrel of an Antonelli!
Yet one ought not to condemn him entirely if he does not write. He is so uncertain of my changeable moods, and I have done nothing to reassure him. I have never let a single word from the heart be heard — and I was excusing myself to him at the station, saying:
— Truly, Monsieur, you speak in such an irresolute, such a wavering, such a strange manner...
— I do not wish to speak like Bruschetti, and I never speak like everyone else, he interrupted.
— That, I continued without heeding the interruption — that my words have the air of a judge's questions.
— You admit it then! he cried.
— Yes — a judge's questions beside your wavering and your ridiculous hesitations.
I was saying then... what? Ah! yes — I was saying that Pietro was excusable, being uncertain of me. And then, perhaps he dare not — I cannot understand these fears and hesitations, I who do not love.
I have read in novels that a man very much in love often seems indifferent and forgetful precisely because of that love. I should very much like to believe in novels.
I am drowsy and bored, and in that state I always wish to see Pietro and hear him speak of love. I should like to dream that he is here — to have a pretty dream. Reality is dangerous.
Nainer, the proprietor of the Hôtel de la Ville in Rome, writes that the races are fixed for the 11th and 13th of this month — in the same letter that announces the dispatch of the silver hearts.
It was agreed that Antonelli would telegraph forty-eight hours before the race day, which means his telegram should arrive next Tuesday, the 9th of May. If he loved me, he would have the idea that I have — that is, to come himself.
The garden is full of daisies and I do nothing but pluck their petals asking whether he is coming. They say: yes. But can one believe them?
I am bored, and when I am bored I become very tender.
I am bored, and Pietro's abandonment grieves me. Once again I am drowning in an ocean of uncertainty.
When, then, will this life of tedium, disappointments, envy, and griefs be over! When shall I live at last as I wish! Married to a great fortune, a great name, and a congenial man — for I am not so mercenary as you think; and besides, if I am not, it is out of self-interest. It would be dreadful to live with a man one detests, and neither riches nor position would profit me. I am not demanding — I do not ask to be in love; I am content to be able to endure the man, provided he gives me what I want.
Ah! God and the Holy Virgin, forgive and protect me.

Notes

Nom d'un cardinal! — Literally "in the name of a cardinal!"; a mild French oath, here with ironic resonance given Marie's Roman entanglement with the Antonelli family.
Bédouin — a Bedouin-style hooded cloak, a fashionable North African-inspired garment in 1870s Europe.
The Apollo Theatre in Nice.
Tu as un cheveu — lit. "you have a hair"; French idiom for having something the matter, being out of sorts.