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 skilful 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 Larderel, both in light overcoats.
Is he really thinking of introducing him? And quite seriously too, for, leaving Larderel, he comes to us, and as I was telling him it was wrong to go about with Larderel—
“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 Larderel the other half would be gone as well; that he was getting drunk in taverns with the said Larderel, 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 Larderel, 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 Larderel — 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 Larderel 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, get into 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 Larderel 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 Larderel 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.
in the marginAnnotation de Marie
[Annotation]
Remember the painting — it explains many things, perhaps.
At seven we go to Spillmann’s in the hope of meeting Larderel, for I am very vexed at what has happened, and Antonelli brings me roses. Potechine and Antonelli spent the evening with us — almost the entire time the conversation was divided: my aunt with Potechine, Antonelli with me. 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 would 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 cannot make sense of anything. What, I kept saying to myself, my head thrown back on the sofa, what — so that is how it is! 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 he goes, as he did today, to dinners 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 wearing myself out commanding myself to be calm, and with a tight chest, all in tears, my head on fire, I cannot find a place for myself 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 quite proper! Besides, it is my fault. And why is it my fault, good God?
Could I have foreseen that anyone would be so audacious and so vile!
in the margin
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 which I am used to using and which have never failed me, so I feel neither how necessary they are nor how pleasant; if one were taken from me I would understand all the service it rendered, and only then.
What if it were that?