Thursday, 18 May 1876

At noon my aunt came to tell me there was an elderly gentleman at the hotel door resembling Visconti as I had described him, and since I had had him notified the previous day, she did not doubt it was he. Indeed, I had barely time to jump out of bed and dash some water on my face before Baron Visconti was announced. Within two minutes I was in the salon, introducing my aunt and recounting our meeting in Genoa and my unexpected return.
I set great store by Visconti — first because he is a remarkable personage, learned and celebrated and all-powerful in the days of the Pope; and then because he is a man of the world, of wit, and of everything.
“You know, Madame,” he said to my aunt, speaking of me, “we intend to acquire her for Rome.”
Then, to me:
“Have you seen some of your friends?”
“You know, Baron, that they are few in Rome.”
“Precisely — and that is why you ought to see them.”
“Yes, I have seen a few,” I said, and left it at that.
How can one not believe in dreams? Yesterday I dreamed that my chemise was dirty and smelled bad, and that I ran about everywhere in my chemise, quite abashed. Which signifies — not according to the dream-book, but according to my own observations — shame, insult, contempt. And you know the dream proved true. As for last night’s dream, it was merely amusing. I could not say yesterday that we — Antonelli and I — had dispatched yesterday evening, in front of everyone but reading it to no one, the following telegram:
Comte Alexandre de Larderel, Florence.
Send your photograph by the first post; it is requested by the White Lady.
Pierre Antonelli.
And I dreamed that Larderel had come himself to beg me to leave him in peace, and that his kept woman made a scene with me. Then that we were running through a garden, and that Antonelli was there.
What was it I had to say about the day before yesterday?… Ah yes — imagine, since the day before yesterday I have had a mania for priests. Two years ago it was dogs, last year plants, now it is priests. Oh! a genuine obsession. I want to be Catholic so that I may make a full and lengthy confession, to talk with a man of wit, cunning, and hypocrisy. I have long felt this need; I have doubts; I want to be consoled and reassured.
Speaking of priests! Two days ago Countess Antonelli dined at the Villa Mattei — a dinner of monsignori and priests. Among them was a monsignor who spoke of me, who knows my name, knows me by sight, and said that I was a good, devout, religious person, that I had clerical leanings, that I went to the Holy Father and often saw Visconti.
“You understand,” Antonelli said to me, “my mother was so pleased to hear that.”
“I should very much like to know which monsignor takes such an interest in me,” I said, laughing — and that was all.
For three days now I have had a new idea: that I am going to die. I cough and complain. The day before yesterday I sat in the salon — it was two o’clock, my aunt was pressing me to go to sleep, and I would not move, saying it was no use, for I was going to die.
“Besides,” I added, “it is the best thing left for me to do. I cannot go on living like this — and if you do not take me into society, in six months I shall be dead.”
“Oh!” cried my aunt. “The way you carry on, I don’t doubt it — you will die!”
“So much the better for you — fewer expenses; you won’t have to pay so much to Laferrière.”
And seized by a fit of coughing I fell back on the sofa, to my aunt’s great alarm — she left the room at a run so as to pretend she was angry.
No — listen. I am only now beginning to take stock of yesterday.
My aunt, who knows nothing and suspects nothing, speaks to me laughingly of Pietruccio*, as though he were my victim. And at every moment the scene of yesterday hurls itself into my heart, so to speak, and each time I take two minutes to pull myself together as best I can — and even so!
I should only like to know whether I let myself go so completely because I love this man, or whether every fool who speaks to me of love can obtain as much from me.
The latter is the more probable.
Am I sensible or mad, prudish or wanton, stupid or witty? I do not know myself.
I wonder whether I love this being — so deeply depraved, perverted, lost.
I contemplate — with a contemplation full of terror and astonishment — this man who believes in nothing, for whom nothing is sacred, who has no principles, good or bad; and who, with all his vices, with his mind so perverted and so twisted, is so profoundly wretched and unhappy. For he is both at once; you should have heard him speak yesterday — you would have pitied him. It is not that I was blinded — no, for I do not love him. Nor is it that he lied — again no; I sincerely believe him incapable of concealing anything. And that is his failing: there is nothing, large or small, that he does not come and tell me.
I pity him…
Oh! But yesterday! Why did he behave so badly!
I am still trembling inside, and I go mad at the mere thought of what might have happened had I not read the worst novels of Dumas.
Oh! But — oh! But — I am writing and my hands are trembling. I am wounded and so painfully surprised that I no longer understand myself.
And it was with me that someone dared such impertinence! With me — me, my little vial of concentrated pride! Me, whom Maman and my aunt consider an angel of wit and firmness and a devil of rigidity and haughtiness!
My God, if only I could weep! Is my life not a wretched one! Would it not be better to die! See what I have come to.
How I love myself! Nothing moves me to tenderness as my own misfortune does. The word is badly chosen — there is not yet any misfortune… Ah, mercy! God, grant that I forget — for I have already forgiven.
My chest is tight, my voice extinguished, my face lifeless. It is fortunate that it is my aunt here and not Collignon.
Editors’ note
[Annotation]
in the marginAnnotation de Marie
Am I not an idiot?
Collignon would see at once that something was wrong; with my aunt, I pass off my dejection as more of my usual lamentations about our life.
Ah! But! God, God, God, grant that I forget! It was filthy, it was shameful, it was disgusting! On one hand I am glad, for it gives me reason to despise the whole world.
Ah! But at every moment this dreadful memory drives itself into my heart like a point of steel. Horror! Horror! Horror!
I am going to burn the bodice of the dress.
How can one love such a creature! A man — how kind of me to call him that. Oh, just look at him — a man! No, truly — it would be degrading even to the human race, filthy as it is.
He understands nothing of what I say! One truly grows dizzy at the sight of this bottomless abyss of depravity. And he says it is perfectly fine, perfectly natural, always done — when I tell him I have never kissed anyone and that it is shameful to do so.
“In society,” he says, “it happens every day, each day with a different person.”
At such audacity and such innate impertinence one finds nothing to answer. I should gladly have shown him the door — but he would not have understood why. Like a young dog one beats and throws out for bad behaviour, who does not understand why it is being beaten, because it believes it acted naturally. He does not understand! It is against these infuriating words that I keep banging my head.
Oh! Oh! Oh! My heart is still trembling — and I cannot weep!
At three o’clock we go to the Galleria di San Luca, then to the Via di Ripetta for the exhibition of Semiradowski’s painting which I already saw once in his studio — an immense canvas representing the execution of Christians before Nero.
There we find Doria — he no longer frightens me. Then we go beyond the Porta Pia; it is very hot, the air heavy.
My aunt makes me go in and change my hat, and we go to the Corso where I buy a large black rosary for grandfather and a white one for myself; then to the Pincio — it is Thursday and consequently crowded. I looked at all these people, and at every moment my fists clenched at the memory of yesterday. I paid twenty-eight francs for these rosaries, but I do not regret it — they are very solid.
We had stopped where the band was playing and were talking with Simonetti when Antonelli, whom we had already seen on the Corso, arrived with Saint-Joseph. That agreeable young man had called at the Hôtel de la Ville on his return from Naples and we had already left. I am simple and polite with Antonelli; he seeks my eyes with persistence, but I avoid his.
“You know, we are leaving tomorrow,” I say to Antonelli, as he bows to take his leave.
“Then I shall come this evening?” he asked. I gave a slight nod while telling Saint-Joseph that I would not fail to pass on his regards and greetings to Nice.
Then it begins to rain and we go to the Corso.
“I am going to invite the Monk* to dinner,” says my aunt. “You will have the carriage stopped.”
“I shall do nothing of the sort, Madame — do it yourself.”
At that moment we were passing the Club with the Monk* standing under the portico, and I did not move. On the second pass, despite my aunt’s insistence — for she regards him as my victim — it was the same.
And on the third pass, when she wanted to call to him, he was no longer there. Fortunately.
I have bought La Traviata and I sing it constantly.
I sat down to dinner telling myself I had been dreaming. And if I had not written yesterday, I would be convinced it had all been a nightmare.
I can say nothing to my aunt, to anyone — I want no scene; besides, I could never have the audacity to confess such a shame.
He told me that next year he would enter society, beginning with a duel — or else enter a convent, and then:
“Princess Margherita is an object of adoration to me,” he said the day before yesterday.
Editors’ note
[Annotation]
in the marginAnnotation de Marie
Well, what does it all mean! Where was my dignity? Was I mad? Was I myself? This gentleman permitted himself an ignoble gesture, I perfectly understood that it was shameful and ignoble — and I spoke to him afterwards: is it possible?
Those are two things that make me jealous, very jealous. People look at the purse only when it comes to marrying, and Antonelli has more than enough to be a great success; for he is very handsome — I did not think so, but my aunt says it over and over, and so does everyone, and in the end I have come to believe it.
Surely I dreamed it? No, I did not dream it! Oh! Holy Virgin, grant that I forget.
But what am I, good Lord, that anyone should behave so towards me! I knew very well that I was a wretched outcast, but I thought that people at least regarded me as an honest girl!
Mercy, my God! What have I done to be humiliated like this! No doubt this is to teach me what humiliation really is, for I misused the word over Audiffret.
Ah! but, ah! but, ah! but! No, it is impossible — I have dreamed it, or I am mad! My God, pity, have pity on me.
Ah! I shall never forget Larderel in his light-coloured overcoat and hat, all alone in a cab in the middle of the deserted square, waiting for Antonelli.
Ah! I shall never forgive myself for having behaved so badly — but I laughed so much at the time.
I was rereading the day of the races when I remembered yesterday all over again! I should like to strangle everyone! Ah, what an outrage — ah! what a disgrace!
I am not proud but naive! With me, firmness is only insensibility. I am weak and cowardly! Mad and cruel!
I believe I am strong when everyone is weeping over a death or an illness and I remain impassive — and I am merely heartless!
All the marked passages in this book that you have read were given to Antonelli to read this evening. And so that he could not read more than I wished, I covered the writing with two blank sheets, uncovering only what was needed. The passage where I say that I have told no one, not even my aunt, because I would never have the audacity to confess such a shame — that passage I made him read twice, underlining the words: for I want no scene.
“That is why, Monsieur,” I said, “I talk to you and I laugh.”
“That is why?” he said, abashed.
“Yes. Read that again, and you will understand.”
“I understand perfectly.”
“So much the better.”
We were all sitting round the same table — my aunt, Potechine, Antonelli and I. I laughed as I gave him these passages to read, but I added in a low voice:
“You understand, I hope, Monsieur, why I am polite to you. I do not want a scandal. My aunt knows nothing, and I cannot behave otherwise. Do you understand?”
“Why, yes! I understand perfectly.”
“That is all I need.”
He was very red as he read, and very embarrassed.
“No matter!” I said. “Since I am leaving.”
“I hope at least,” he said, trying to laugh, “that you have not named me, for you speak so ill of me that if this book were ever lost…”
“Why, Monsieur, the shame would not be yours, I assure you.”
“But how can anyone write such things!”
“If I had waited three hours I would have written nothing; but I am in the habit of flinging myself on my notebook and putting all my thought into it — in this way I make exact photographs of my thoughts.”
“You are wrong to think what you think.”
“That is my affair, Monsieur, I assure you.”
I shall never be able to tell him what he read. Now I feel better; I believe he has understood. I was complaining of the heat.
“It is cooler in the other room,” he said. “Come.”
“No, I am much better here, thank you.”
Potechine left at half past twelve. After that I kept silent almost the whole time, leaving my aunt and Antonelli together to talk about Roman society.
“Now,” he said, “I have made a plan: next year I shall go into society.”
Editors’ note
[Annotation]
in the marginAnnotation de Marie
A buffoon, a drunkard, a nasty fellow.
“And you will find a sweetheart among all those ladies,” said my aunt, who has grown as familiar with him as if she had known him for years.
“One must hope so,” he said, smiling.
At two o’clock he bids us goodnight. I hold out my hand to him — a cold, limp hand — and he presses it, but I do not return the pressure.
“Good evening,” he said with a forced laugh, “keep well.”
I merely inclined my head slightly.
“Why did you punish the poor Monk so?” asked my aunt.
“Punish him how?”
“Why, you stayed in the drawing room and hardly said a word.”
“I am bored, Madame — he bores me. I have had enough of it; it has worn thin.”
“Already?”
“I want to go into society!”
“So does he.”
“Yes, he is lucky, he is — he has only to want it!”
“You will go together.”
“Ah! Aunt, it is unkind to laugh when you see how much it pains me,” I said gravely, ready to cry.
“Nobody is laughing,” my aunt replied, flustered. “I am not laughing.”
I shut myself in and went off to torment myself: now it is the thought that he does not love me!
Ah! I want to go into society — that society which will not have me! What have I done to it, good Lord! My God, take my poor soul into your mercy. I am well punished. It is not for me to judge, so I do not judge; I pray, I pray, I pray!
Then I begin walking from my room to the drawing room, from the drawing room to the anteroom, kissing the cross of my rosary, crossing myself and praying to God. I want to throw myself into devotion! It is my only refuge. It is the only refuge of unhappy souls!
No vanity, no worldly amusements, no love!
Ah! Great God! Shall I obtain anything from you by beating my breast, by praying to you, by weeping!
No — You, Holy Mary, whose name I, unworthy as I am, bear! You will help me, in the name of charity, in the name of your Son, in the name of my God!
Forgive me for praying to you in writing. But I pray better this way, and I want it known that I believe in You — I want You to know it and to take pity on me.
At home I mean to fill my room with pictures and statues of the Virgin, with crosses and rosaries. Every Sunday I shall go and talk with the Mother Superior of the convent of the Bon Pasteur. I shall go to church every day — not to the Russian church; there one goes only on Sundays, and those Russians, that society, torment me too much. I am going to become devout. For a year now, half in jest, I have been beginning to become so.
I entrust myself to God, to Jesus and to the Virgin! May they do something for me.

Notes

Villa Mattei: now the Villa Celimontana, on the Celian Hill; its gardens were a favourite resort of Roman society. ↩
Laferrière: the fashionable Paris couturier. Marie’s joke: if she dies, her aunt saves the dressmaker’s bills. ↩
Collignon: Marie’s former governess, by now a close family friend who accompanies her on travels and knows her too well to be deceived. ↩
The Accademia di San Luca, Rome’s historic academy of fine arts, with its gallery on the Via Bonella. ↩
Henryk Siemiradzki (1843–1902), Polish history painter celebrated for his large-scale Roman antiquity subjects. His Torch-Bearers of Christianity (1876) was indeed exhibited in Rome that year. ↩
The Porta Pia: the gate in Rome’s Aurelian walls beside which Italian troops broke into the city on 20 September 1870, ending the Pope’s temporal rule. ↩
Score of Verdi’s opera La Traviata (1853). ↩
In Italian in the original: Buena sera, … stia bene (so in the text; Italian Buona sera). ↩