Sunday, 14 May 1876

Yesterday, as I was lamenting having missed the chance to meet Larderel, Antonelli said to me:
“It is your fault — you let slip 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! — Larderel and Massa are lunching at a neighbouring table. Larderel 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 Larderel, 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 I 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. Larderel’s jockey falls, and Larderel 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 Larderel 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 in ordinary clothes.
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 my feet felt cold 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 Larderel very much, and I am greatly irritated and humiliated by Antonelli, all the more so as I see he is far from contemptible — in 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, doubtless owing to the summer season, not in a tailcoat.
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 general 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 Master Pietro began to live, 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 family home. 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.
in the marginAnnotation de Marie
[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 — running up debts and committing 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.
in the marginAnnotation de Marie
[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 went back to writing all 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. Here 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 onto which the little door and the winding staircase open; 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 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. ↩
In Italian in the original: casa paterna. ↩
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. ↩