Monday, 26 June 1876

After each singing lesson I feel better. But two years! Two years of a calm life pass like two days — but two years of a life like mine!

Cresci brought me the compliments of “Monsieur Émile.” The other day Galula, having met Maman, told her that they all knew what a voice I had and on which day I took my first lesson, etc. etc.

Yes — if my voice follows its natural course... look, there are days when it seems to me I can never say enough good of it, while there are others when it seems I have said nothing at all.

What rain! One might think oneself in October. It thunders and the sky is full of lightning — and I, idle creature that I am, admire myself in the mirror as I write. There is nothing like a Beatrice-style dress,¹ with the throat free, no ornaments, the nape of the neck bare. The slightest movements of the neck are so graceful; one is an entirely different person from what one is in those gowns with their ruffles and trimmings. Botkin slyly remarked on my neck to me — and it is true, for a painter those pale, soft tones are a rare find.

My mothers bring me the score of Ruy Blas² that I have been asking for since yesterday, and while I sight-read the great aria of the second act, they ask my permission to go to Monaco. It is priceless. I make discontented faces, but Maman obtains this permission by pleading the imminent departure of my aunt with me: “It will be the last time.”

I sang some time longer alone, then with Collignon who accompanied me, then I read — then I no longer knew what to do; and when the rain stopped and the sun appeared, I threw open all the windows, and the women of the rue de France came out of their windows and their shops smiling at me and showing me all their babies, making them blow kisses in my direction. Touching popularity!

The bell at the garden gate rang: the postman, another acquaintance of five years’ standing. — There is a letter for you, Mademoiselle — from Rome. — Oh! Really! — Madame... your mother met me and told me to give it to you. — Give it here, give it here — ring at the house door, again, harder, ring!

I leapt to the staircase to meet the man, who handed me with a smile the letter and Le Figaro. — Dina! Mademoiselle Collignon! A letter! I cried, quite delighted — that wretched General, what a prophet he is! — Rome, from Rome! Dina was calling — let’s see! — Oh no — wait first until I have read it; the General predicted something disagreeable for me.

— And I’ll follow you! Dina cried, pursuing me to my dressing room (which is a true boudoir), where I sat down at the table that serves me as a desk for the time being — breathless, hands trembling, cheeks flushed. I was afraid of some new horror, and the General’s prediction was still quite fresh. — Come on, read it, read it, Dina was saying, all animated and curious. — I shall not read it with you there! I cried — to give myself courage.

But as she stayed, I read it in her presence in an undertone. I had feared it might be some insult — I could not imagine what kind, but I dreaded everything as I tore the envelope. A small-format sheet increased my anxiety; I do not know why, but I was only reassured after reading. This letter is duly fastened to one of the pages of today’s diary with a thin pin, as are all other letters of interest.

I was so pleased and so angry and so moved that I leapt toward Dina’s room, crying: — Mademoiselle Collignon! Mademoiselle Collignon! Come — I shall revenge myself on this scoundrel by showing his letter to everyone! Ha! He thinks I am making a mystery of it! I would, if it were anyone else — but I do not care about this one! Here — look, read — I don’t care! — Marie, Marie, that is not right, said Collignon. — And how!³

— But what does he say? Dina was asking. But at the moment of reading aloud I found I was too moved, trembling too much. — Nothing, I said. — Oh! But you scream and then you say: nothing! — Was it necessary to write a letter to tell me this? I said as if to myself — truly, I have always thought this boy a little mad; he is, quite genuinely. — Read it, Marie. — Come now, Marie, do read.

And I read what follows — only, to write it here, I translate, since the original is pinned in:⁴

At least the letter is in good taste and bears no resemblance to Bruschetti’s sugary flattery. — Poor boy! Collignon exclaimed. — O Pietro, said Dina. — O scoundrel!⁵ I cried, enchanted, ravished, intoxicated.

— But, I continued, if he thinks I am going to write to him! Oh yes, indeed — to give evidence against myself to those accursed priests! Those scoundrels! — Marie, you are not behaving rightly; you have no doubt encouraged this poor man — it is wrong; one must not play games with true affection; it is so rare, so precious — and besides, it is dangerous; you can make people excessively unhappy while laughing at them! — Mademoiselle Collignon, if I followed your advice regarding my admirers I should have to either remain always alone and bored, or love everyone.

Besides, I am enchanted by this letter — come, you shall accompany me. Ruy Blas is Antonelli’s opera; let us sing it while I am in love with him, for tomorrow perhaps I shall love Audiffret and shall want to sing Mignon. Since yesterday I have had a strange fancy for Audiffret. — What a madwoman! Collignon and Dina cried.

I sang — then went back to my room, and something indescribable occurred within me: each word of that letter was like a sharp and delicious blow striking me in the heart and making every fibre of my being resound with delight.

What to reply to him? He loves me — he is unhappy! But first, let us fulfil the promise to the General and send him a note in these terms: “General! The sensational letter has arrived. The shock⁶ has been duly delivered. Long live the sorcerer! Thank you.”

I shall reply to Antonelli with these simple words: You are a wretch! No. I thought about it until dinner.

— I have found the reply, I said. — To what? Grandfather asked. — To Antonelli’s letter. — He writes to you? — Yes. — Ah! Ha! He writes to you himself.

— Yes, and I have found the reply: Nihil.⁷ (I believe the word is spelt nighil.) Nothing at all.

— Yes, he said, one must reply with nothing; you must not write. Besides, it will only add to your value as a person — one loves best what is inaccessible, believe me.

— Grandfather! Grandfather! I cried, opening wide eyes — I thought you were foolish and now I discover that you have wit! Why, you have a great deal of wit, Grandfather! The poor old man grumbled for form’s sake but was visibly gratified by the rough flattery.

That’s it — I shall not reply. It is not that I fear compromising myself; there is always a way of writing... even in block capitals — but I shall not write to him because he has tormented me quite enough for me to torment him a little. After all, it may be a trap — a wager with Torlonia: he will have bet on receiving a letter from me. Fie!

I do not understand this man. I gave him permission to write to me — I urged him to; it was agreed he would write to me every day, a sort of journal of his life; it was further agreed that, whatever happened, I would not write him a single word. And now he asks whether I shall forgive him the boldness he has taken in writing to me, and begs me to write to him!

Trap or truth, I shall not reply. I have every right to be wounded — besides, I may already have departed. This will be a down payment on the sum of torments I owe him. Very well! Here is my good genius reproaching me for this spite. But is it even spite? Does he truly love me — does he truly care for me? No matter — let us be silent.

— If he truly loves you, Grandfather said, if he is truly in earnest, he will not be rebuffed by this small harshness — it will only make him love you more; he will know well enough how to find you. Have no fear — trust to my experience. Difficulties excite. Severity — inaccessibility — inspire respect, love, and desire.

— Grandfather, you speak like an angel — I am entirely of your opinion; I could not have put it better myself. All the same, I need to write down Grandfather’s words, to re-read them and recall them at every moment; and also to remember what I myself said on this subject in Rome (on arrival), so as to keep myself in these good dispositions — for I waver, I feel pity, I feel myself becoming indulgent. He is unhappy. Wretched heart — wretched weakness!

Hearing my family return, I went to share their supper in the pavilion and to show them the letter. Walitsky laughed and clapped his hands like a child. My aunt repressed her smiles behind a haughty air; Maman smiled openly. We laughed, everyone was pleased, plans were made. Walitsky wanted to reply tomorrow to Saturday’s letter. I forbade him. — And why? I repeated Papa’s words.

— That is nonsense, they told me — for Walitsky has the right to write to whoever he pleases. — But, my aunt interrupted, you say that vile things have been written about us — how is it then that none were told to Löbecke, whose aunt spent the winter in Nice and frequented all that world? — It is simply, said Walitsky, returning to Pietro — it is simply that his parents give him no money; he cannot therefore come to Nice on a hundred francs.

— No — listen: I do not understand this creature. I give him permission to write to me; he makes no use of it, and now he apologises for the boldness of it! — But, Walitsky said, since he was intending to come himself — he writes as much to me — poor fellow! He wanted to come; it is not his fault if he cannot! — Poor Pietro! — Poor Antonelli! — Go on, go on — pity him! You are all in love with him. — Certainly — I love him, said Walitsky.

Finally everyone joked in every possible way on the same theme — but I told them that I wished to marry in order to have racehorses, jewels, palaces — to make a tremendous fuss — and not to spin out a perfect romance with any creature whatsoever. — Know, I said at last, that love is to be had for nothing — one is even sometimes paid for it — whereas... Besides, I continued, I shall not marry since I wish to become a singer. And now they are all alarmed by this new idea.

— Walitsky, my friend, do not write to the puppy⁸ in Rome. — I shall write to tell him I leave in a week — he will understand; I am giving him a week then. — Oh! I cried — if only he could arrive when I am no longer here! — That is just your character: always pranks.

— Madame, hear what Publius Syrus said in Antiquity:⁹ “A lover is like a torch — the more you shake it, the more it burns.” And La Rochefoucauld in modern times:¹⁰ “Absence diminishes mediocre passions and increases great ones, as the wind extinguishes candles and fans a fire.” Now, I refuse to admit that anyone could have a mediocre passion for me; as for great ones, I refer you to the two sages I have just cited. Besides, I am always glad to torment someone.