Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Saturday, 13 May 1876

I showed my aunt the Colosseum, the surrounding ruins, and the church of San Giovanni in Laterano. Then I went to Rubini's and ordered a pair of red-and-gold shoes, because the skillful flatterer opened his eyes and mouth wide upon seeing my foot.
Few people at the Borghese; as for the Pincio, we see Plowden there, very astonished — I introduce him to my aunt, and he will come this evening. And there is Antonelli in a cab with Larderei, both in light overcoats.
Is he really thinking of introducing him? And quite seriously too, for, leaving Larderei, he comes to us, and as I was telling him it was wrong to go about with Larderei—
"I am going to bring him to you," he says.
"Very well, if you think he is respectable."
"Ah, listen — I told you first… that, well, everything I said — and you answered me: But no, I like him very much. He is charming and it does not matter."
"I said that!"
"Yes, you said that."
"Never!"
"Oh, come now."
There is no one quite like me for provoking people. I began by telling him he was behaving badly, that he had lost half his reputation, and that after three or four more outings with Larderei the other half would be gone as well; that he was making himself drunk at cabarets with the said Larderei, and that he was quite right to keep company with a man so like himself in character and conduct.
The Monk* listened and looked at me as if to ask where I was going with all this. But I continued to pile absurdity upon absurdity, so that I marvel now at where I found such a quantity of them.
Two or three times he took a few steps to go and fetch Larderei, who was quite close by; I held him back each time, as did my aunt, and I said I was dreadfully undecided — which was true.
"Listen," I say, "introduce me to my dear Larderei — only if you guarantee that he will never speak to me when there are people present."
"But how can I possibly guarantee that! I told you that Larderei does not go into society, that he has been expelled from every club…"
"You see!"
"But he is a very pleasant fellow."
"Your companion!"
While these and other debates were going on, the hero was strolling about, coming and going.
"Belmonte offered yesterday to sell me his horses."
"Horses?"
"Horses, yes, but I didn't want them."
"Why?"
"Because I have no money."
"How unfortunate!"
"Do you have a watch?"
"No," replied the Monk with a laugh, "my friends have my watches."
"Torlonia?"
"Yes."
"The one you gave him in exchange for a saddle?"
"Exactly."
"What time is it?"
"I shall look at the sun."
"No — go and look at the Pincio clock."
"It is too far to walk."
"In that case, take the carriage."
He opened the carriage door with a bow.
"Wait," I say, stopping him, "tell me first whether you are a respectable man."
"Oh! Oh!" said my aunt.
"Yes, Madame, I need to know."
"Get in, get in," she says.
And off we go to drive thirty-six circuits of the Pincio, seeing at each turn Larderei all alone in a cab in the middle of the deserted square, in a magnificent sunset.
A hundred times I make him tell the story again — how Larderei asked to be introduced, for he did ask — and when he reaches the end I say: What? or Who? So as to exasperate even myself.
[annotation]

Remember the painting — it explains many things, perhaps.
At seven we go to Spillmann's in the hope of meeting Larderei, for I am very vexed at what has happened, and Antonelli brings me roses. Potechine and Antonelli spend the evening with us — almost the entire time the conversations were divided: my aunt and Potechine, and myself with Antonelli. The result is that I did not say goodnight to my aunt when the two gentlemen left, and here I am locked away — or rather, I have locked my aunt in her room and kept the bedroom and sitting room for myself, to rage.
Scarcely alone, I sat down on the sofa and closed my eyes, asking myself what I shall write here — for I know nothing of what was said, for nothing was said, or rather too much was said. My manner, my knowledge, my dissimulation! A fig for such nonsense! I am nothing but a child, a child of six. I know nothing and I conduct myself simply, I disguise neither my feelings nor my thoughts, and I have not the strength to bear anything with dignity — for I have been crying, and even as I write I hear the sound my tears make as they fall on the paper: large tears flowing without difficulty and without grimacing on the part of my face. I lay on my back to drive them inward, but it did not work.
Instead of saying what makes me cry, I describe how I cry. And how can I say why? I understand nothing of anything — how, I was saying to myself, my head thrown back on the sofa — how, can this be so! So there was nothing, or everything that there was amounted only to a jest, an insult! And what I myself said the other evening — has he then forgotten it? Forgotten it!!! Evidently so, since he kept up an indifferent conversation interspersed with words spoken so low that I could not hear them, and in the end he repeated once again that he only loved me when near me, and that I was cold as ice, and that he would go to America, and that he hoped I [written across the page] "Oh, how tiresome I am! 1881." would not return to Rome, for when he sees me he loves me, whereas far away he forgets. I asked him very dryly not to speak of this again. Oh, I cannot write! You see yourselves what I must feel and how deeply I am insulted!
I wanted to stop writing here, for I cannot write — and yet something commands me to continue; as long as I have not told everything, something torments me. But let that something have pity on me — I am cold, I am hot, I shudder, I weep, I want to speak of my pride, of insults, of stupidities, and I stop at every word.
At first I laughed a great deal and made Potechine and my aunt laugh too with comic arguments with Antonelli; then came this kind of tête-à-tête, during which I was able to assure myself — in fact no, I assured myself of nothing, save that this man, deliberately or by chance, torments me.
Not a clear word! Always evasive phrases on indifferent subjects, glances insulting by their very ardour, attempts to press my hand, to touch my foot — as one would with any woman off the street, with some, some… I do not know who!
There it is, there it is! If I went into society like everyone else, people would have respect for me! God, God, God!
And off he goes today to dinner with friends where he tells all manner of dreadful stories, and Rome talks — gossip-Rome, I mean — and there is a stain on my wretched reputation! More than once the urge has come upon me to kill myself. What reason is there for me to remain in this world when everything flees from me and insults me?!
What course to take? To dismiss him or to have it out? But have it out about what — how — what to say when at the slightest word from me he starts speaking of my character or Torlonia's cravat!
I have never been so wretched. For before it was only imagination — as with Emile* — but here I am genuinely, truly humiliated.
In the name of heaven, re-read my last days in Rome and see what a figure Antonelli cuts now. I… I do not know what I want to do! I want to speak to him and I am afraid of committing some fresh folly, for my straightforward and candid words get no purchase on that cunning, elusive mind — impossible to fathom!
I am bursting with trying to command myself to be calm, and with a tight chest, all in tears, my head on fire, I cannot find my place in these two rooms, and I weep like a child — oh! no — like a woman whose pride has been offended!
So I am a street girl! By that reckoning, anyone has the right to come and spit in my face!
Oh, what a clever way of going about it! He comes to tell me now that I am cold as ice and that he wants to flee from me in order to forget me. What can I reply after what I said then! And is there not enough here to drive one mad with rage and shame?!!
Why is it he who torments and not I? What does it mean? What is this man thinking? Why does he come? What does he want?
I believe he asked me this evening whether I loved him. I neither heard nor understood.
After my yes and my kiss, he withdraws!
I was mistaken, and this journal cannot serve as instruction to anyone, for whatever one may say — whatever I may say — there is no other creature as weak and as easily tormented.
Look — I feel better now. Tomorrow the races; tomorrow Antonelli is invited by my aunt at noon. Tomorrow I will be with him as he is with me — if I have the strength. God will give me that strength; I shall pray for it tonight, or this morning rather, for it is nearly three o'clock.
Good — here I am calm, or rather capable of reasoning and writing. What a dreadful habit — I can no longer rid myself of it…
Antonelli has magnificent eyes.
Enough! I pick up and put down my pen a hundred times a minute — this could go on all night. Enough. Let us pray to God and sleep; I have the happiness of being able to sleep.
Antonelli dined today with Saint-Joseph, de Rosa, Baron Foglia, Torlonia and Massa. Massa is that pleasant Italian whose Hamilton eyes I admired when he used to go to Rumpelmayer's while I went there too with my Graces. He said he had seen me when I was quite small, in Nice.
The more I try, the less I understand Antonelli. He is not evasive only in love — he is evasive in everything. One never gets a plain answer out of him as one would from anyone else.
Ask him the most ordinary thing and he will not answer you, and will irritate you for nothing for a full hour.
I am truly quite mad to torment myself. Yes, in the present. But the past? Can I forget? Can I pass over it in silence, and can I force myself to find it all very natural and very well done! Besides, it is my fault. And why is it my fault, good God?
Could I have foreseen that one would be so bold and so infamous!
[Written across the page:] With one's fists?
Always study men's chins — study them deeply. Audiffret has a square chin full of malice, will and force. Antonelli has a long, rounded chin which, were he to become a priest, would turn into one of those fat, evasive, hypocritical chins one so often sees on Catholic priests.
For the past hour I have been searching for a magnificent phrase and a magnificent resolution with which to end, and I find nothing — for resolutions are foolishness and all depend on circumstances and the moment. I shall end simply by declaring myself inexperienced, weak, and very young — or else, which is very probable, very much in love. And yet — no, for so long as he was straightforward and candid, I was very happy and not in love.
I have two hands, accustomed to serving me, which have never failed me — I feel neither their necessity nor their pleasure; if one were taken from me I would understand all the service it rendered, and only then.
What if it were that?

Sunday, 14 May 1876

Yesterday, as I was lamenting having missed the chance to meet Larderei, Antonelli said to me:
"It is your fault — you let pass the moment when there was no one at the Pincio."
How can one decide to make his acquaintance after such a remark?
At noon Antonelli is with us — he looks, or seems to me, quite languid and undecided; as for myself I speak little and am very glad to go and lunch at Spillmann's. And God — what a surprise! — Larderei and Massa are lunching at a neighbouring table. Larderei is so handsome. I took nothing but a cup of broth, but I talked the whole time — both for my aunt and Antonelli and for Larderei, who watched me a great deal.
On the way we collect Potechine and drive to the plain of Torre di Quinto where the races are being held. Antonelli is opposite me — I am quite stupefied, I do not know what to do or say, and I end up allowing, in the most vulgar fashion imaginable, my foot to be pressed. That was all that was needed. But I said this to myself: whatever happens, what I am doing here is known to no one and leaves neither mark nor harm; life is so short and so rarely beautiful that one must take from it what one can. Besides, I am at this moment dazed — there is a total eclipse of mind, of intelligence, of memory, and of pride. I accuse myself of nothing once in that state, and demand nothing of myself.
It is raining. We say little, except about the weather.
The grandstands are almost empty. Princess Margherita is in hers, dressed in white — the fashion at present. Larderei's jockey falls, and Larderei himself runs to pick him up, followed by a large crowd and by Pietro*, who comes back to report the accident to us at the very moment I see Larderei leading his own jockey by the arm. That struck me as so charming that I am mad about him. He ran himself, and truly, in such a ridiculous and unbecoming jockey's costume, he is a hundred times better than when dressed.
Antonelli complained of being unwell — I offered to let him go, to drop him wherever he wished, but he stayed until the end, and came with us to the Pincio. Near the Farnesina, all Rome was gathered on foot and in carriages, for the weather had cleared and all those who had not gone to the races, fearing rain, came to watch the miserable procession returning.
My right foot was subjected to a gentle pressure the whole time, and my left rested on his right boot. Nothing was said, but from time to time the pressure grew stronger.
So that stepping out of the carriage at seven in the evening I felt cold in my feet when that support and that silent caress were gone. There was a crowd at the Corso and Bruschetti with the look of a madman trying to appear dignified and severe. I was displeased at our promenading about with Antonelli like this — people talk enough about it as it is. He was recounting all his adventures before the convent, and ended by saying that the convent had half stupefied him in seventeen days, and that had they kept him there as long again he would have stayed forever.
Torlonia has told him of his love for the Metchersky girl — from which I conclude that Antonelli has told Torlonia of his own love for me. Besides, I no longer concern myself with Torlonia. I like Larderei very much, and I am greatly irritated and humiliated by Antonelli, all the more so as I see he is far from being negligible as a position and all the rest. And besides, one must not let oneself be carried away into the clouds — an opportunity presents itself that may put an end to my torment, so I must seize it. Yes — seize it — but that is precisely what is impossible; besides, I understand nothing of it and I irritate and torment and enrage myself!
My first concern was to look at my feet — they are not like lips and they had changed colour, for they were yellow leather boots.
I am dazed and on edge — I am looking for an occasion to explode at Antonelli, to tell him everything that has been suffocating me so long, and, depending on his answer, either to drive him away or to throw myself into his arms.
The boots have kept no traces — it was only mud picked up on the thoroughly rain-soaked racecourse.
I was so tired this evening that… no, wait — let me lean back on the sofa for a moment and dream; it is with great difficulty that I force myself to write this.
Good — here I am ready. I was so tired this evening that I had not the courage to do my hair and remained in the sitting room with it all down my back.
Simonetti came at nine bringing tickets for a performance of the Roman musical society, along with the compliments of Cavaliere Rossi. I conversed and made tea as best I could until half past ten, when Antonelli arrived for the first time — and, doubtless owing to the summer season, without a dress coat.
Simonetti left soon after, and we three remained. We spoke of my journal — that is to say, of the questions I treat in it — and Antonelli asked me to read him something, I no longer remember what, about the soul or about God. I went into the hall and knelt down beside the famous white box and began to look for the passage in question while Pietro held the candle. But as I searched and kept coming upon passages of common interest, I would read them aloud laughing, and this lasted almost half an hour; for a moment I felt his breath in my hair, as I was reading with my head bent down. And far from moving away, I did not stir — nor did he.
Back in the sitting room, he began recounting all manner of anecdotes from the age of eighteen. How, as a soldier, wrapped in a great cloak, he would go off to "lord it over" a cobblers' dance hall. One evening, having singled out a pretty woman, he ordered her to dance with no one but him; the cobblers became furious and resolved to beat him and his companions the following day. The next day he did not go, and his companions on arriving were set upon with terrible blows by the charming cobblers, who at their entrance had knocked over all the lamps.
It would have been quite unsavoury had he not at the same time been visiting the daughter of Princess Bandini and others of that kind.
I should so much like to write it all down, but I could never repeat things as well as the one who was telling them about himself. Besides, Antonelli tells all his stories in the most charming manner.
At the time of the revolution of 1870, his father took the whole family off to Monaco and Nice for three months to avoid witnessing the royal outrages. It was there that young Pietro began to come into his own, and as he was shut up in a little room, he discovered one day, while amusing himself by tapping his cane against the walls, a secret door giving into the room of his mother's chambermaid. He came to an arrangement with the girl, who allowed him free passage. But his brothers, who had always been spiteful and against him, tried to make his life wretched — he escaped only by threatening to report their debts to Papa.
At first he was very clerical and attended all demonstrations with great ardour. One day the clericals announced with great pomp that a Te Deum was to be sung at the church of Saint John Lateran, and the liberals duly surrounded the church to hiss them as they came out.
They were hissing away, and as a gentleman said something offensive quite loudly, Antonelli — who was nineteen at the time — went straight up to him and struck him a great blow with his fist. A general brawl ensued, and the young cockerel was carried off to the Austrian embassy, whence he was sent home with a thousand kindnesses and attentions to the casa paterna. His father was furious, and when Pietro presented himself before the Cardinal, the Cardinal scolded him for this excess of zeal — so that the young man, furious in turn, went straight off to join his regiment, to the great scandal of everyone.
[annotation]

While writing this down I felt disgust for the young man, but I said nothing, so as not to destroy the Romance.
His father and all his father's friends wrote him letter upon letter to turn him from this false step. But he led the military life none the less — making debts and every sort of extravagance, which, recounted here, would lose both their charm and their colour.
On his return — about a year ago — he went straight to the Cardinal who received him very well; and everything, except for the debts, was beginning to go smoothly when someone pushed him into joining the Caccia-Club. That would have been nothing, and the Cardinal would have consented to overlook it, had not the newspapers — greedy for scandal at this moment above all, and eager to needle the Cardinal — seized on the fact; and from all corners of Italy newspaper articles were sent to him speaking of Count Pietro Antonelli, nephew of the Cardinal, who had joined the Caccia-Club of which Prince Humbert is honorary president.
The Vatican flew into a fury, and the brothers, Dominique and Paul, came running to frighten Pietro* and tell him the Cardinal was raging — they said so much that the young man grew frightened and dared not present himself before the terrible Antonelli who, as you see, had neither dismissed nor cursed him. Since then things have gone wrong, and Pietro himself says he has behaved very foolishly towards his uncle.
[annotation]

The man meaning nothing to me, I enjoyed writing illustrious names, remembering the Memoirs I had read.
All that remains for him to do, to be quite reformed, is this reconciliation, and he is absolutely determined upon it — only his father must come with him, and the father has not yet made up his mind: "For he thinks I did all this on a whim! He does not believe in my conversion."
His father has made a will in which Pietro's share is smaller than that of his two brothers, and it is stipulated that should the said Pietro* squander his entire inheritance, his brothers are obliged to house, feed and clothe him. There is the law of the free portion — that is to say, one half is invariably divided into equal parts, while the other, the discretionary half, may be given to whomever one wishes.
The brothers raised an uproar on learning that Louis Antonelli was going to pay Pierre's debts, and the eldest came rushing from Terracina to oppose it, or at least to obtain from Pierre a written acknowledgment that this sum would be deducted from his share later on.
So they put him in the convent, and he says himself that for the first five days he was very miserable, after which he began to inquire whether the debts had been paid, but the answer was always that one must wait a little longer. Finally one fine day the family lawyer was sent to him, but not being known at the convent he could not get in, all the more so as the porter-monk had taken him, for no apparent reason, for a Freemason.
From that time on, his confessor tormented him on the subject of Freemasonry, ordering him to confess that he was a member. The confession lasted three days; the priest wanted every detail, even the visit to the somnambule, and at this he was horrified, saying it was the Devil.
"But Father — since she knew nothing, the Devil knows nothing either!"
Although the charming penitent told me of the kindness and gentleness shown him by the monks and the Superior — thanks to whom the payment was principally effected, for he is a greatly respected old man to whom everyone kisses… the hand — whatever he may have said, it is dreadful.
Now Count Louis wants Pietro to stop attending the Club while remaining a member. Besides, he knows everything that goes on there, as does the Cardinal, who has spies there, so that the least remark of the gentlemen liberals is known at once at the Vatican.
"It is impossible," says Pietro*, "for me to go both to the Club and to the Vatican — they would take me for a spy, and… and even without meaning to, I might repeat words of my uncle's at the Club and words from the Club at my uncle's, which would cause me trouble."
I listened to all this and to many other arguments besides with a certain terror and a certain jealousy. First, this absolute dependence chills me. They would forbid him to love me and he would obey — I am certain of it now. And then all this wisdom, all these so just and far-reaching arguments, seem to me to chase love from his heart. I would rather have a wayward spirit, provided he loved me well. I listened to all of it with keen satisfaction, spoiled by fears of every kind. I do not know why it seems to me that he no longer loves me; he no longer speaks of it; besides, he has had not the slightest opportunity. We are always with my aunt. I would have been delighted with what I heard had he said at the same time: "Yes, I am like this now, and all of it is for you, and I hope you will appreciate this change and love me as I love you."
But he has had neither the occasion nor perhaps the desire to say it, and I am anxious. His family, the priests, the monks alarm me. Whatever he told me of their kindness, I am seized with astonishment and dread on hearing of these enormities and these tyrannies. Yes, they frighten me — and those two brothers too. But that is not the point; I am still free to accept or refuse — it is my pride, that sentiment of noble self-regard which every well-born soul must feel, that revolts!
I wait and torment myself! And I beseech God to deliver me from this difficulty. In three or four days I go to Nice; the idea of absence, which was indifferent before, frightens me now. And how to stay — and why stay? It is not for me to wait, to implore — fie! fie! fie!
I thank God for having loosened my pen — yesterday was torture, I could not explain myself.
Everything I have heard this evening, and all that I conclude from it, and all the things from before — they weigh heavily upon my head, and then there is also simply the regret of seeing him leave this evening; it is so long until tomorrow. So that scarcely alone, I sat down quite agitated, my heart anxious and strangely sad, my head raised and my arms hanging at my sides, and I felt a great desire to weep — from uncertainty, and perhaps… from love.
Then, resting my right elbow in my left hand and my chin in my right hand, brow furrowed and lips disdainful, I began to think about… everything — what I needed, what I had, and above all what I did not have; then I began to write, but feeling an irresistible desire to dream, to gently distract myself, I stopped for a moment, and then set to writing all of this.
While going to my dressing room I made a discovery, and I come in all haste to inform my journal of it. I discovered a kind of wooden grille barring the door to a small winding staircase. I took the candle and, pushing aside the grille, descended six steps, and found another little door which, on opening, showed me the first landing of our staircase. There is a free passage — all the more so as the little staircase is immediately behind my bedroom door, that little door concealed in the red damask hanging, poor remnant of a former grandeur. I did not know what use this passage might be to me, but I went and fetched this journal, saying to myself: now Antonelli need only ask for a secret conversation and he shall have it! But he will not ask — he has nothing to say to me, and he has been forbidden to think of me.
Never mind — in any case, I am not displeased to have discovered the means of going out onto the staircase myself, or of bringing the man into the dressing room where the little door and the winding staircase give access; for you will quite understand that I am not thinking of having him come secretly up to my rooms. Fear nothing, dear creatures who will never read me. You are afraid? So much the better — a little fear is needed to sustain the interest; but I assure you that you are wrong. The more I assure you, the more you doubt — which is exactly what I desire.
The mouth, and then the foot… I move quickly, it is true, but I go only as far as I wish to go.
It seems I am not to sleep! I open the white box again to say this: several times over the past two days Antonelli has said that next winter he will go into society. He will go into society — as a bachelor, alone. That is clear.
In that case what a villainous and abominable man! I was praying when this thought came to my mind, and I ran [sic] to tell my sole confidant of this insult to my pride and my heart.
My God, have pity on me this time! Will you leave me in this state! After having wrested a confession and a kiss from me, he makes his bow and withdraws! For God's sake it must be arranged otherwise!
Blessed Virgin Mary, Mother of Our Lord Jesus, protect me! If I do not offer you a longer prayer here it is because it is nearly four in the morning and I fear falling ill from keeping such late hours.

Notes

Torre di Quinto: a flat plain north of Rome used for horse races in the 1870s, before the Capannelle racecourse opened in 1881. ↩
Princess Margherita of Savoy (1851–1926), wife of Crown Prince Humbert; she became Queen of Italy in 1878. ↩
The capture of Rome by Italian forces on 20 September 1870 ended the Pope's temporal power. The Antonelli family, deeply bound to the Vatican, regarded this as a calamity. ↩
The Circolo della Caccia (Hunting Club), founded in Rome in 1869. Membership implied acceptance of the Italian monarchy — a serious political provocation for a nephew of Cardinal Antonelli, Secretary of State to the Pope. ↩
The Italian quota disponibile (free portion): half an estate is divided equally among heirs (quota riservata); the other half may be distributed at the testator's discretion. ↩