Saturday, 24 June 1876

I was waiting to be called for luncheon when Walitsky arrived quite breathless to tell me he had received a letter from Antonelli. I blushed deeply and without raising my eyes from the book I was reading: — Very well, very well, I said — and what does he write to you? — They aren’t giving him money; besides, I don’t know — you’ll see, come.
I was careful not to rush downstairs — I was ashamed to show so much interest, and even had I wished to hurry I could not, so moved and trembling was I. So my prayers yesterday were not in vain — but I kept myself as far as possible in a state of neutral feeling, so as not to be too grieved or too disappointed. Against habit I was the first to table, eating... my impatience, but saying nothing.
— Is it true what Walitsky told me? I finally asked. — Yes, my aunt replied, Antonelli has written to him. — Walitsky, where is the letter? — In my room. — Give it to me. But instead of giving it he began making a mystery of it and teasing me — so that, to give them a little fright, I was obliged to throw a glass and my silverware on the floor.
My aunt shrieked and I said one must not exasperate me; at that moment Maman arrived and took my side — which might seem bizarre, were it not that she knows this ferocious family habit of teasing people to the point of fury. When Collignon, Papa, and Walitsky had left the dining room, I asked again for the letter, and as I was told it was in Walitsky’s room I rose to go and search through it; at which point Maman went to fetch it — it was in her room.
The letter is dated the 10th of June — but as Antonelli wrote simply “Nizza,” it made the journey to Nizza in Italy before arriving here. He apologises for answering the doctor’s kind telegram so late — but, he says, he has spent all this time asking his parents to allow him to come. All his efforts have been in vain to obtain this permission; they absolutely will not hear of it, so that it is utterly impossible for him to come; nothing remains to him but the hope of the future “which is always uncertain.”
The letter is in Italian; they were expecting a translation — but I did not say a word, and gathering up my train with affected slowness, so that no one should think I was fleeing, choking, I left the room and crossed the garden: composure on my face, hell in my heart.
O Bihovetz! Must one then believe the cards! I walked slowly but my mind ran, whirled — thoughts came crowding one upon another, fighting each other, driving me mad.
He seems to be replying to a plea! He seems to be saying that everything is over and that he accepts it so! This is not a reply to a friend’s telegram from Monaco, as a joke — it is a reply to me; it is a notification... And it is to me, to me — who, mounted on an imaginary height, was asking myself, with a disdainful pout, what I was going to “do with this boy” — it is to me he says this! It is I who am rejected! I, who wished to be the one who rejected!!
Hope in the future, my plans — all of it extended only to a first attempt; I have attempted, and it is proven to me that there is nothing! Respectable people judge me unworthy — I must therefore become a woman of ill repute! Die? God does not will it. Become a singer? I have neither sufficient health nor sufficient patience. Then what — what?
I threw myself into an armchair and, eyes stupidly fixed on nothing, tried to make sense of the letter, to think of something. — Do you want to come to the somnambule! Maman called to me from the garden. Thirty metres of velvet had been stolen from her and, to find out who the thief was, Collignon had suggested consulting a clairvoyant. — Yes, I replied, rising rigidly to my feet. — When? — This very instant. Anything, anything, anything — so long as I do not have to stay alone driving myself mad; so long as I can flee from myself.
The somnambule turns out to have left; we are given the address of another — she has left too. This errand in the heat did me neither good nor harm. I took a handful of cigarettes and my diary with the intention of poisoning my lungs while writing incendiary pages — but all will seemed to have left me; I walked straight and slow, as if in a dream, towards my bed and lay down all in one piece, drawing the lace curtains.
It is impossible to describe my pain — besides, there comes a moment when one no longer knows how to complain. Crushed as I am, what would you have me complain of? I wished for one thing only: that when someone entered my room they would find me dead or dying. For what would kill me would not be a heartache — which one is always ashamed to admit — but the humiliation. I wished to avenge myself for the tortures my mothers inflict on me without meaning to; I wished to die to punish them for giving me such a life!
Collignon, coming in, was not too surprised, for it happens that I have been promising for some days to take to my bed so that they will remove me from Nice. — What is the matter? my aunt asked, entering after. — Nothing. — Are you ill? — Yes, I am ill. She felt my forehead. — But you have no fever. — Do me the grace of leaving me in peace. She went out for fear of irritating me.
I lay for some time longer — crushed, numb, cold — and then suddenly burst into sobs without shedding a single tear. And now I write and I sing while Audiffret listens from his window.
So the wounding letter that Bihovetz foretold has arrived. — It will give you a Schreck, as they say in German — it will wound you; but at the same time it is from this very letter that all the good I see here seems likely to come to you: great happiness, and later very, very much money.
I cannot see at all how this letter can be the cause of the good that is to come to me. That is to come! Oh — I do not expect it; I have too often waited for good fortune, and it has seemed to be approaching but has never arrived.
— “All the bitternesses will speak together,” I said in Rome, speaking of this man — I was far from expecting bitterness such as this. At most I feared a bitterness like the one with Audiffret... And Audiffret! Do you remember what little Jeanne told us — what Marie Audiffret said: “I shall tell Émile not to go to those people any more, for they are people without fortune (which is not true) and without reputation.”
Oh! So it is true — I really am...! It would be better to be a prostitute, for at least one is what one is — whereas I! What am I to do with my virtue? It gives me neither happiness nor fortune! Oh, this position! But what have I done, good God — what have I done?
At dinner I found Maman in tears, and I felt a kind of satisfaction; then when she and my aunt were seated by the gate I went to join them. I am not sure quite how it began, but Maman said: — I hope you will soon be married and all this will be over. — Can I marry? I exclaimed with a contemptuous smile. — What ideas — because of one Antonelli... — Yes, precisely. — Pah! Antonelli — a third son, a persecuted child, who like Paul used to run away from home and run up debts to go to the theatre! Paul too put on airs and paid court... A child, a nobody. — Precisely — it is a lesson for the future. Since I have been found unsuitable for a nobody, how much more.... — What ideas, what nonsense! Over a child. — Yes, but this child has caused a pretty scandal. — What scandal? — Oh! If you speak like that!
— But you did not give him your word?
— N... no.. but I did not refuse him either; in short, I know what I am saying. It is because of you — it is those inquiries, those horrors that were written from here, and all of it falls on me, on me alone, whereas I am the only one here whom it ought not to concern!
I let fly, furious, telling them everything I have said here, adding that I could not bear it any longer, that they must go to Russia, that it mattered little to me how the case was judged, that once in prison one has no need of money, whereas I, certainly, would not stay with them and had nothing to fear, for my life could not be worse than it is now; that I wanted to sell the villa and never come back to Nice. That I had nothing but shame and scandal, that even Antonelli...
— Oh! If it were at least a great prince — but a wretch whom I kept on for my amusement, and it is by this wretch that I am held up to scorn! — I cried, and went on in a tone of deep conviction: Besides, can you believe that I care anything for the man? It is the fact, it is the act, it is the filthiness of the insult!
— What insult?
— The one everyone is talking about in Rome and in Nice, because the Camprien woman, who knows the beginning, knows the end as well.
— The Camprien woman knows what I answered her: Thank the Countess Antonelli for the honour she does me, and say that I have nothing against the young man, but that I am not even thinking of marrying my daughter for another year. Besides, since they are making inquiries, that ought to suit them, for I am giving them a whole year. And in a year we shall see.
— All the same, all the same: it is a disgrace, a scandal.
— What scandal?
— The kind there is when a man wishes to marry a woman and then withdraws.
— Oh! As for that — the truth, the real cause of all this, is that this wretch, this coward, this vile and base creature never... loved you! He was flattered to be well received by the prettiest girl of the season, whom everyone had noticed and everyone was talking about, although she did not go into society. And that is all. Is that love? Nothing but a whim.
— He said so himself, my aunt interrupted.
— Can anything stop a man, Maman went on, when he loves!
— If he could leave for his regiment, he could just as well come here, Dina put in.
— Yes, I said then, but if they disinherited him, what would he live on with me? That is no trifle. You do not know what the ways of Rome are.
— Let us grant all that, said Maman: that they are ferocious, inflexible — very well; that he does not come — that is understandable, he is too prudent to defy them openly in that way; but that he should not write a single word!
— Ah! Now that is incomprehensible! My daughter, my daughter, that is not how one behaves when one has serious intentions!
— Then why would he have spoken of it to his parents? I asked, shaken.
— Why, to improve his position as a beaten dog — so that, on account of this marriage plan, they would look on him a little more favourably; to raise himself up a little.
Oh! It is true, it is true, I thought.
— He never loved, Maman went on; when one loves one acts differently; when one loves one.... one takes steps!
— But you see what steps are good for, I said more feebly..
— I do not see why we should torment ourselves. Nadine tells me he told her at the station that he would come if his father gave him money; he told me the same thing.
They know nothing, after all; what they do not know is my own fault, and I complain of no one when it is a matter of my own fault.
Then the discussions began all over again — about our life, about the Tutcheffs, for it is they who are the cause of everything. I shouted that I wanted to die, that if there were twenty of me, I would want all twenty to die one after another so as “to make you drop dead of grief!”
Maman wept and offered me everything she possessed, keeping back five hundred francs a year to live on somewhere in Switzerland.
— I would become a servant, a chambermaid, anything in the world, she said, her hands clasped and all in tears, so long as you live where you wish, so long as I do not hear such language.
— Such language! I cried. When I do not speak it, I think it; when I do not think it, I dream it! I suffer as much alone as in your company, but when I am far from you, you are at peace — and so I want to persecute you, to torment you!.. It is not a question of talking about the upbringing you ought to have given me; I do not need you to cite examples; I am the mistress here, I give the orders, and I will be obeyed! That is how it is!
No one thought of rebelling, but I was beside myself. They proposed that I should live with my father, taking three-quarters of my aunt’s fortune. I answered that I would live with the devil himself, so long as I could live like all respectable people.
— What am I? Nothing!
Gioia is a prostitute, Amélie is a chambermaid, Ricci is a shopkeeper — and I, I! This position is intolerable; I tell you I cannot bear it any longer, I cannot bear it any longer! I have had enough of all these disgraces! Of all these people who spit in my face! Antonelli is only a sample, a warning not to go any further!
In a word, I said everything today — everything I have written before and now, and everything I think about this affair. I spoke like a madwoman, using the harshest words, but perhaps I have an excuse. They told me once again that I was blasée because I had had everything I desired, and that I do not know what I want.
You will agree that is going too far.
Night had fallen, and I hid my face in my arms, resting them on the dressed-stone base of the gate.
— It is Marie who is crying now, said Maman.
— Yes, said my aunt, who understands me better or pities me more.
I was not crying, but those words made me cry.
Then they spoke of Antonelli again and, without raising my head, I answered them.
— You are wrong, Maman was saying, to blame your unfortunate family for everything.
— I know what I am saying; fine things have been written from here.
— We can find out within a week what was written.
— And how?
— By asking.
— Whom?
— Antonelli.
— I shall write to him.
— You are mad, ladies!
— I shall go to Rome, said Maman.
I made no reply; I would already be in Rome myself, were it not that this would give the Antonellis too much importance and show an exaggerated desire to marry Pierre.
— I shall write to him, Maman kept repeating.
— He will answer that he does not know what you are talking about.
Walitsky, back from Monaco, was having supper when we came into the dining room. The talk turned to Russians, and I expressed my disgust for these dear compatriots of ours.
Let me not forget to say that Nina has written a good, long letter, a letter from the bottom of her heart.
— So if Miloradovitch asks for your hand, you will refuse? asked Maman, forgetting for a moment the conversation of a little while before.
— He will not ask, I replied; does anyone ask for a girl like me!
And I had the ferocious joy of seeing them put on their dismayed look again.
If I do not kill myself now, it is solely so as not to give that glory to Pierre Antonelli at the very moment when he is about to enter society and such an adventure would set him off admirably — for he would not fail to attribute it to my love for him.
Otherwise I would have killed myself. No one can conceive of the profound disgust and discouragement I feel. Love! O word unknown to me! Have I any room for love!
So here is the truth: it is that.. this man never loved me; he looked on marriage as a means of freeing himself (just as I did), of establishing himself.
As for his protestations, I say nothing of them; I never mentioned them aloud; I did not put enough faith in them to speak of them seriously. Besides, those protestations served him to win my good graces — that is something already.
I do not say he always lied; one almost always means what one says at the moment one says it, but afterwards... So there it is. I have been deceived, and... and in spite of all reasoning, in spite of the Gospel, I burn to avenge myself! I shall take my time, rest assured, and I shall have my revenge... unless, by the time I am able to take it, the desire has passed.
Rest assured, the desire will not pass. I wished to be revenged on Audiffret, I wish it still, and I shall be revenged when the occasion comes.
“He who waits long enough Sees his vengeance at last.”
I went back to my room at eleven, wrote a few lines, and then all at once, losing courage, I began to cry. Oh! After all, I am only a child! All these troubles are too heavy for me alone! And I wanted to go and wake my aunt.
But she would think I was weeping over my love... and I could not bear that. To say that love has no place here would only be just. [Two lines crossed out] I am ashamed of it now. A little boy, a whipping boy, lined with a scapegrace and faced with a Jesuit — a child, a Paul! And I loved that! Bah! Why not? A man may well love a cocotte, a grisette, some low creature or other, a peasant girl; great men and great kings have done so and are not dishonoured for it. I have said before that I was like a man: I had whims. I was in love with Antonelli; there is no need to put into it a sentimentality that does not exist. It was not to be taken tragically. Were it not for this damned position of a young girl, I would not even trouble myself about it. A man may do anything, according to the absurd laws of society, but a woman must be careful of herself. Only it is devilishly vexing to have been deceived.
I was going mad with rage and helplessness — helplessness, because there is no way of changing my position; I was on the point of raving, my nerves were so overwrought, and I began to sing; that calms one.
Quanti ce n’è che s’entendomi cantare, Diran : Viva colei che a il cor contento. S’io canto, canto per non dir del male ! Faccio per revelar quel c’ho qui dentro, Faccio per revelar un’afflitta doglia, Sebbene io canto, di piangere ho voglia, Faccio per revelar l’afflitta pena, Sebbene io canto, di dolor son piena.
How many there are who, hearing me sing, Will say: Long live she whose heart is content! If I sing, I sing so as not to speak ill, I do it to reveal what I hold shut in my heart. I do it to reveal a grief that afflicts me. Whatever I sing, I long to weep; I do it to reveal a pain that torments me... Whatever I sing, I am overwhelmed with grief!
Were I to stay here all night I would not say all I want to say, and if I managed to say it, I would say nothing new, nothing I have not said already.
Ah! My God, I feel very guilty for having been so violent this evening, and I hardly dare pray to you to be good to me.
To get me out of this! Thunder and... Oh! oh!
So it is not an invention, then, this absolute tyranny of Roman parents. It is spoken of in this book, which is a study of Roman manners. This book so resembles my own story, on so many points, that I devour it instead of reading it. That nephew of the monsignor who turns liberal to be his uncle’s spy — Pietro is no spy.. and yet who knows? Then all those family arrangements, the incredible domination of fathers and husbands. The severity towards the children, the daughters kept as in the East, “Besides,” says the book, “the father had a power, an absolute power over his son; without his good pleasure, Luigi did not possess a penny in the world.”
Then there is Rome — Rome so given to gossip, where people busy themselves with the smallest things, the smallest private affairs, which make up the occupations and feed the conversation of the drawing rooms.
Then that devotion which is seen only in Rome, which I thought an invention, an impossibility. Those men who say the rosary every day with their families, those countesses who kiss the hands of their brothers-in-law, bishops or cardinals, on whom their fortune and position depend, who are looked upon as gods and who command the whole family.
Truly, truly, all the things I saw and heard in Rome come back to my mind, and I open my eyes wide as I contemplate this bizarre mixture of devotion, libertinism, religion, knavery, submission, depravity and prudery, haughty pride and cowardly baseness. Truly Rome is a unique city, bizarre, savage and refined.
Everything there is different from anywhere else. One seems to have landed on some planet other than the earth.
And truly Rome, which had a fabulous beginning, a fabulous prosperity, a fabulous decadence, must be something striking and apart, morally and physically. The city of God — the city of priests, I mean.
Since the King has been there, everything is changing — and even then only among the Liberals; the Blacks are still the same. That is why I understood nothing of what Antonelli told me and regarded all his affairs as fables or as things quite out of the ordinary, whereas they were only what is usual everywhere in Rome.
That I should have fallen upon this inhabitant of the moon — of the old moon, of old Rome, that is to say a cardinal’s nephew, and Cardinal Antonelli’s at that!
Bah! It is curious for me, who love the extraordinary. It is original. No, all the same it is.... strange, Rome and the Romans.
And then the countess-mother in the novel is copied from Camilla Folchi, Countess Antonelli — a slave to her husband, protecting her sons, who dare to look on her as their mother while they look on their father as an all-powerful and terrible master.
One ought to have read this book before going to Rome.
I thought Antonelli was inventing everything he told me, and that fear of the Father — I took it for an invention meant to deceive me. I understood nothing of all that; I barely understand it now, and I am astonished.
Yes, things are quite otherwise there than among other men.
When I tell you that ça étonne — it astonishes: there we are! That dreadful pun again.
Instead of being astonished, I would do better to relate what I know of Rome and the Romans; that would astonish far more than my astonishments and my exclamations.
You know, when Antonelli was dying, six years ago, his mother made him eat strips of paper on which one word was repeated endlessly: Maria, Maria, etc. etc. It was so that the Virgin would cure him. Perhaps that is why he fell in love with a Marie... a very earthly one, as it happens. Besides that, they made him drink holy water instead of medicine. But that is nothing yet. Little by little I shall remember everything; besides, if one remembers everything, one will find a good many curious things in it.
The cardinal, for one, is not mad, and when he was told that his nephew was mending his ways in a convent, he laughed and said it was folly, that a man of twenty-three does not become wise after a week in the cloister, and that if he seems converted it is because he needs money.
How can anyone suppose that I love Pietro? Can one love where one does not respect? I am in love with a nice boy who is in love with me and... the cardinal’s nephew. That is all.

Notes

Nizza is Italian for Nice, but without the full address the letter was first delivered to Nizza Monferrato, a town in Piedmont. ↩
Somnambule: a trance medium or clairvoyant (literally “sleepwalker”), popular in 19th-century France for divination and finding lost objects. ↩
Schreck: German for “fright” or “shock.” ↩
In Italian in the original: “Chi lungo a tempo aspetta / Vede alfin la sua vendetta.” ↩
In Italian in the original; Marie’s own French translation of the song follows in the next paragraph, given here in English. ↩
The “Blacks” (Noirs) were the papal aristocracy that stayed loyal to the Pope after Rome was taken by the Kingdom of Italy in 1870, as opposed to the “Whites” who frequented the royal court. ↩
Ça étonne (“that astonishes”) sounds like Saëtone, the name of Audiffret’s companion (see 062.0367): the “dreadful pun” Marie apologises for. ↩