Saturday, 17 June 1876

Oh — all these books are absurd. I have had enough: novels, philosophy, history — enough, enough!
This morning I had my first lesson with Cresci. Always the same thing — that enormous voice which I lose ten times a year and always recover more beautiful, thanks be to God.
But I have never been as bored as I am now. Indeed — has anyone ever seen me never going out, spending most of my time reading or dreaming, no longer dressing, contenting myself with a wide white gown and my own hair rolled about my head?
Audiffret is in Nice — I do not even go out into the street; I barely glance at the lit windows of the castle as I pass through the corridor. In a word, I care nothing whatsoever about him. I have been alone at home since nine o’clock this evening; it is one o’clock, I am not asleep, and I am not sleepy.
Editors’ note
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Throughout the whole time these lamentations lasted, I found Antonelli incomplete.
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I never loved him — I loved someone invisible who had loved me.
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I beg you, in the name of all the vexation I feel at having lowered myself so greatly through these complaints, to believe what I say.
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Besides, you have seen for yourself that I only wrote that absurd “I love him” in the evening, under the weight of the memory of his love and thinking of our wretched situation. I was writing it on 15 June, etc... whereas, having returned from Rome in May, I had denied everything. Whatever I say, this adventure must and will be the most abominable thing in the world to me. If I had known this Antonelli in 1877 instead of 1876, I would have accorded him the same importance as Zunica, Porcinari, etc. — perhaps more, because of the papacy. The fact is I took him for someone fully formed, and he was nothing but a child who behaved badly instead of being a mad and fickle lord.
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That is to say, I am furious at having tormented myself over this affair, at having pushed myself forward so much — one ought to have let the man take the initiative. Fortunately what one will read further on will efface this abomination.
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Oh! What a horror this man is — and how I detest him for what he made me say! If at least I had loved him! But to soil oneself for nothing — fie! Fie!
Dina found a newspaper from 1871 — an Italian paper in which they are still all puffed up with pride at having entered Rome. A dialogue in verse between the Pope and Antonelli — it is truly a very pretty satire. It made me feel entirely... rejuvenated — during dinner.
As soon as I was in my room I went to my photograph drawer — the Cardinalino’s pictures are the first in it, so I have only to open the drawer to look.
Truly it is tiresome. I had enough of my sad preoccupations — I had no need of all these absurd thoughts, all these unhealthy dreams! Every time I have believed I loved, I loved and kept myself quiet. Now I am not quiet. I am not even numb. I spend whole hours imagining that here he is — yes, that there he is, arriving, running towards me all happy, all dark — and that I, saying nothing, rush to meet him and swoon on his breast. I would do it just as I describe it.
Oh — how wrong of him — but after all, why? He has kissed many women before me; I was one more; after me there will be others still. Besides, for that one does not even need to be a Don Juan — one can have as many as one wishes for one’s lire. And I!... Well, with me it was more agreeable — a young lady of noble birth, sixteen, pretty. Why, it is all a charming and fragrant intrigue. That is all. And well, since I am not a man, I did not act as men do — and besides, for a woman it is entirely different; for a young girl, I mean; and therefore, I say, I am more affected, I think about it, I remember — and I am perhaps foolish enough to love. Foolishness arising from that nervous irritability into which I have fallen, which itself arises from all my accumulated long-standing sufferings.
Editors’ note
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Is it possible to class oneself with women like that!!
And — God forgive me — I have bad thoughts: thoughts I have never felt; I have had them because one always knows enough, but I have never felt them before.
I believe I am like those fierce animals who, having scented blood, become more ferocious still.
Is there not enough here for a whole novel? A young woman abandoned, reproaches, suffering, family scenes full of majesty... Truly — yet I do none of this.
Besides, my dear family knows nothing. Audiffret spat on me after appearing to court me; Antonelli was in love... but one passes over the dénouement in silence. There would be cause for concern, however. The scandal with Mme de Camprien... besides, one knows what my family is like: so long as one says nothing to them, so long as they are left to vegetate in comfort. Oh — if it were a question of a cook or a tree to be felled or transplanted, it would be different.
I was about to be indignant... to what end?
Oh — look: no matter how I adopt my mocking and tranquil air, no matter how I think: it is not worth the trouble, affect a lofty disdain, say that I am still so young — no matter how I contain myself, I am horribly indignant, and this offence is very much alive, very wounding, very sad.
When I loved the Duke — a man of horses, wine, and eccentricities, an Englishman — I was English; I occupied myself with horses, races, and stables.
Audiffret made me sing the execrable Niçois songs. Antonelli makes me speak and think in Italian, sing opera airs, dream by moonlight, recite verses... Italian ones; makes me imagine balconies and columns everywhere, broad-brimmed hats pulled over the eyes and wall-coloured cloaks. I have become entirely poetic, just as I was once entirely material, coarse, and mocking. I love flowers, romances, verses. I admire Italian wit. This language intoxicates me.
Editors’ note
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I still admire all that — but I do not love Antonelli any the more for it.
It is two o’clock; I cannot settle anywhere... come, since I say everything, do not be indignant. For a moment I thought that... well, I stop myself. You understand all the same. So I believed it — but for only a moment — for... for it is not a... Antonelli I desire, but Antonelli himself.
Why this misfortune too! Why was it never like this before? Can this by chance be what is called love?
I have believed myself in love — but I could do without the one I thought I loved; I missed him a little, was bored a little. That is all. Let us always except the Duke, who by his rank and his fortune is nearly the equal of a king — let us except him. He is above all this.
I think, and I do not know how to write what I think.
No — listen: could this be true love? It would be very ill-placed, then. One does not place it where one wishes.
Look — I am not mistress of myself; I am no longer thinking, I...
It was never like this before! I think of him, I want to see him... I am no longer living. Oh! It is very strange — very strange.
My God, bring light to my mind.
Oh! What a pity — I think that... that I love him. No, no, no! Ah — wait, for it is a serious thing to say... And why have I said it so often without caring as much as I do tonight?... Because tonight it is something else... Ten times I tell myself I am dreaming, and ten times this unknown power invades me and I am forced to admit that it is not as before — that it is strange.
At this very moment I cry no — and in a moment I shall cry yes.
For three days now I have been seeing, as if in my mirror, all the circumstances of our acquaintance with this young man.
I... I know only that it is entirely new. And so I do not wish to declare such a thing point-blank. I say nothing as yet, but... it is very extraordinary.
Editors’ note
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Hardly have I written this than I am ready to cry out that it is not true!
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All these things I found strange seemed so only because it was the first or second time. Now I am accustomed to this nonsense.
I cannot explain this state — they say that when one begins to truly love, it is like this... One feels entirely new... Ah! I take three-quarters of an hour to write a single page.
Oh! It is truly...... bizarre.

Notes

A reference to the Italian army’s entry into Rome in September 1870, completing the Risorgimento. Italian newspapers in 1871 were still celebrating the event. The satire concerns the Pope and his powerful Secretary of State, Cardinal Giacomo Antonelli (Pietro’s uncle). ↩
Lires: lire, the Italian currency. ↩
In Italian in the original: peccato — “What a pity!” or “What a shame!” Marie code-switches into Italian, which she associates with Pietro and Rome. ↩