Friday, 26 May 1876

I went out this morning and posted my letter — or rather my flower.
“Antonelli is nothing but a…” — I omit the word my aunt used; she is fond of words like that. “For,” she continued, “he is nothing but a child.”
“Oh! That is true,” said Maman; “they get everything from him. They make him fast for three days, give him not a penny, and dictate the law to him.”
Well! There is something to make me furious — unintentionally, I know.
Those words, perfectly true, make it abundantly clear to me that I have dirtied myself for nothing. For I have dirtied myself — without love and without advantage! It is vexing. No person in the world is more sensitive than I am. Since my face and my lips have been defiled I feel soiled — as though after twenty-four hours of railway travel.
Antonelli will have the right to say that I loved him and that I was very unhappy about this broken engagement. A failed engagement always leaves a stain on a young woman. Everyone will say that we loved each other but that the young man’s family would not have me — no one will say that the refusal came from me. We are neither loved enough nor great enough for that.
Besides, appearances will bear out those who say so.
It infuriates me.
What purpose was served by telling him I loved him, by acting exactly as if it were true? Without those few words of Visconti’s I should never have gone so far. Excuses!
Ah, young lady, you are very young still!
In fact, to soothe my self-esteem, I needed to hear all these offers of marriage; well, once it came to that, I told myself the same thing as with the foot. It gives pleasure and it costs nothing! I did it lightly; I was thinking of nothing serious.
Note that I said nothing definite; I let him talk and answered vaguely, but since I let him put his arm round my waist and kiss my hands, the presumptuous young man did not notice the tone and, all happy and overexcited, suspected nothing.
I knew very well that he was serious, but I did not expect — while all the time expecting it — that his family and all those people would make such a fuss; I did not expect it because I was not speaking seriously.
Besides, what is my system? To drag things out as long as possible. That is what I do, and it is very prudent. In my position one must neither refuse nor abruptly send away the people I can tolerate; one never knows what may happen, and it is good to keep something in reserve.
That is petty and base! But I am forced to it. Do you think that if I were the daughter of a great family, sure of always finding something to count on besides my face — do you think I would have stooped to such schemes? You know very well I would not.
For after all I have nothing but my skin. Do you think the men who seek me out do so from pride or from interest? No, surely not. All those we know, we know only thanks to me — thanks to my face. Do you think people seek out our house for the honour of it, because it is the fashion? No, they seek it out because I please; that is clear, and there is nothing to boast of in it.
It is flattering for the woman; one might be proud to triumph over circumstances, in this way at least — to be someone by oneself.
So it does flatter me, but on the other hand there is so much bitterness that it evens out.
All these men I know, who come almost every evening and stand by the carriage on the Pincio, do not do so out of duty, as one is sometimes obliged to do towards people in society. They do it because I attract them; they know me not as they know other women whom they meet in society and with whom they are in perpetual contact, but because they noticed me, because they wished and sought to know me.
Antonelli has done me harm; poor Plowden has withdrawn — the unfortunate man is always being dislodged by someone.
It was wrong to deceive Antonelli, for I was deceiving him. Yes and no, it depends: if he is rich, I was sincere; if he is poor, I lied. Deplorable ideas, but necessary ones.
The portrait of Collignon is coming along; she has sat four times, six or seven hours in all perhaps. It is my only occupation here, along with books. I have not been out once since I arrived here, except this morning, and then only a hundred and fifty paces from the house, to the nearest letter box.
Speaking of the letter, he will receive it tomorrow or the day after, Sunday. On Tuesday I am to receive one from him, if nothing has changed. There is something that justifies me. How can I give my heart to one who does not give me his! How can one commit oneself seriously to a man one cannot be sure of! A man for whom three days are enough to forget and to change! Who is master neither of his actions nor even of his thoughts! To love him seriously and then howl with love and humiliation, to be ridiculous like those old maids who are forever weeping over some fiancé or other! That would truly be unworthy of me, of any young and beautiful woman.
Why did I think that this time it would be otherwise than when I went away the first time? Then he neither wrote nor thought of me. I came back, he offered me the grossest insult in the world, which I forgave. And it is after that that I acquired such great confidence? It is strange, it is absurd!
If I understand all this so well, why do I do foolish things? Always for the same reasons. First because it gives pleasure, and then to drag things out.
I wonder how it happened that I was not angrier than that. It deserves some thought. If I had been truly furious, no interest and no scheme in the world could have forced me to smile and forgive. I believe it is simply from weakness, from lack of self-assurance, from fear of losing an admirer.
I am not satisfied with this love. He says he loves me, and he does without me, and he does not even grow sad when I am not there, and he does not despair when… Ah! That I do not know; I have never refused him and sent him away.
Why should he despair when he has everything he desires.
I meant to make an experiment, but I did not have the time. In three days one can do nothing, especially when one is afraid of taking risks. I am one of those people who would rather remain in doubt than learn something that would pain them.
So I would rather keep Antonelli — anyhow, or even only in appearance — than do something that would force him to declare himself and show me an ugly truth. It is true that this might make me very happy, supposing he withstood the test and gave proof of everything tender, constant and obstinate in the way of feeling; but it might also show him to me as indifferent and weak. I am weak myself sometimes; the proof is what I have just said. To a sad truth I prefer a tolerable doubt.
It is wrong, and I firmly promise myself to act otherwise at the first opportunity. And what if, instead of insisting, of despairing, he withdraws quite calmly, whether from indifference or from pride?! I must tell you that man is a sack stuffed full of self-love and covered over with vanity.
One thing consoles me a little: before the great explanation, he often told me that he was suffering greatly, that I made him very unhappy with my coquetries and my heart of ice. That consoles me, but it is not enough; to soften all my complaints here, I should like to set down his complaints, and his torments, which seem to me very slight because it was not I who felt them.
People claim that the fair-haired woman is the poetic woman. And I say that the fair-haired woman is the material woman par excellence. Look at that golden hair, those blood-red lips, those dark grey eyes, that rosy body which Titian paints so well, and tell me what thoughts come into your mind. Besides, we have Venus among the pagans and the Magdalen among the Christians, both of them fair.
Whereas the dark woman — who is in fact an anomaly, like a fair man — the dark woman, I say, with her velvet eyes and ivory cheeks, can remain pure, divine.
In the Palazzo Borghese in Rome there is a beautiful painting by Titian called “Pure Love and Impure Love.”
Pure Love is a beautiful woman with rosy cheeks and black hair, gazing with infinite tenderness at her child, whom she is bathing in a basin.
Impure Love is a fair woman, red-haired perhaps, leaning against I no longer remember what, with her arms crossed above her head.
Besides, the normal woman is fair, just as the normal man is dark. The contrary varieties and phenomena are sometimes admirable, but they are anomalies. Perhaps it is even for that reason that there are often some who surpass natural women and men.
As for me, I find a strange and unsettling charm in a red-haired man. A red-haired man always looks fierce or cruel. A red-haired man must have a high colour, and above all his lashes and brows must be dark. Moreover, and before everything, he must be handsome — that is the main thing.
Never shall I see anything like the Duke of Hamilton. He is tall and strong; he has hair of a pleasingly golden red, a moustache to match, small piercing grey eyes, a lip copied from that of the Apollo Belvedere, a full, fine, disdainful lip. A truly aquiline nose, for it is slightly curved like an eagle’s beak while keeping a graceful, classical shape. And in his whole person he has an air so grand, majestic, haughty, even insolent, heedless of everyone else as of so many dogs, superb to the point of divinity, and at the same time light and so imbued with a wholly natural and charming simplicity, that one is left dazed before so much insolent beauty and haughty impertinence.
Perhaps I see him with the eyes of a woman in love — bah! I do not think so; why then would I have fallen in love with him if he had not had all the airs I have tried to describe? It is not love that makes him seem so to me; it is precisely because he is so that love exists.
How can one love a dark, thin, very young man with fine eyes, a still timid bearing and no style at all, after having seen a man like the Duke, even at a distance of three years — and consider that three years, from fourteen to seventeen, are three centuries.
So I love no one but the Duke. He will not be proud of it, seeing that he knows nothing about it and that it matters little to him. I often make up stories for myself to fall asleep, and I picture myself in… amorous relations with every man, known and unknown; well, to none of them, not even to an emperor, do I say “I love you” with conviction, and there are some to whom I cannot say it at all. Well! Stop there. I have said it in reality. Good Lord, yes, but I meant it so little that it is not worth speaking of.
To resume, then: I cannot say it to any of them, except Hamilton.
Before him I prostrate myself; besides, as I have said, I find a singular grandeur in this voluntary humility.
In short, to explain and finish everything in a word: it is he alone whom I love. With the others it is only boredom, idleness or the hope of marrying to advantage.
And so, strange to say, I feel guilty and utterly ashamed before this phantom for having sullied my lips, for having allowed my waist to be touched.
I love him, I love him, I love him as only I know how to love. Do not laugh! You cannot judge. If ever my dream comes true, you will ask the Duke of Hamilton and he will tell you.
I love him so much that this supernatural, senseless love is stifling me, and if Antonelli comes, it will necessarily spill over onto him.
Happy Antonelli!
The thing is, you see, that the red-haired variety belongs neither to the fair category nor to the dark one. It is a variety apart, like red foliage, black roses, pink diamonds. The fair woman is, to my mind, like the red-haired one, so long as she is not of that light, pale-ashen, insipid blond.
Editors’ note
[annotation]
in the marginAnnotation de Marie
As I wrote I worked myself up with my own phrases and ended by believing that it is true.
As for fair women and fair men such as I have just described — pale, insipid, dirty-looking — they are disgusting, in the feminine as in the masculine.
But above all do not confuse red-gold with red. There is nothing more disgusting than carroty people: they are coarse, stupid, sly, cheating and ugly. Whereas red-gold means a million charms, of which chestnut, and blond like mine, and even a little lighter, are subdivisions. But it is well understood that golden reddish-blond is the most beautiful colour. My hair has blond and gold in it but rather little red, and so it would be perfect.

Notes

Sensitive: Marie uses the English-influenced Gallicism sensitive (meaning impressionable, susceptible to sensation); kept as “sensitive” in English since it is her own word. ↩
Mariage manqué: a failed or broken engagement — a serious social stigma for a young woman in 19th-century France, as it implied she had been “tried and found wanting” by a family. ↩
Titian’s Sacred and Profane Love (c. 1514). In 1876 the Borghese pictures still hung in the family’s palace in the Campo Marzio; they moved to the Villa Borghese, today’s Galleria Borghese, in 1891. Marie is writing from memory. In the painting two fair-haired women, one richly dressed and one nude, sit at either end of a carved stone fountain while a small winged boy reaches into its water; there is no mother bathing her child. ↩