Yesterday at two o'clock I left Nice, with my aunt and Amalia. Chocolat, having hurt his foot, will not be sent to us for another two days.

Yesterday at two o'clock I left Nice, with my aunt and Amalia. Chocolat, having hurt his foot, will not be sent to us for another two days.
One must be driven to extremes, as I am, to undertake such a journey — into a country almost foreign to me, distant, and... almost repellent. I am patriot enough not to let anyone slander my country in my presence, but to go there, to live there... Ah!... Yet I congratulate myself on my courage.
Maman has been weeping for three days over my coming absence, and so I am gentle and tender with her. The love of sweethearts, husbands, friends, children — it comes and goes, for all of these can exist twice over, but there is only one mother, and a mother is the sole creature on whom one may rely entirely, whose love is selfless, devoted, and eternal. I felt all this for perhaps the first time as I bade her farewell — and how I laughed at my passions for Torlonia, Larderei, Antonelli! How trifling they seemed — nothing at all. Grand-papa was moved to tears; indeed there is always something solemn in the farewells of an old man. He blessed me and gave me a picture of the Virgin. Maman, Dina, and Walitsky accompanied us to the station.
As always I wore my most cheerful expression to depart, though I was deeply grieved — for Maman was not weeping, yet I felt her so unhappy that a flood of regret washed over me for leaving, and for having often been harsh with her. But, I thought, watching her through the window of our carriage, I was not harsh from cruelty — I was harsh from pain, from despair; and now I am going away in order to change our life, so that I may henceforth surround my mother with nothing but care and consideration.
When the train began to move I felt my eyes fill with tears, and I involuntarily compared this departure with my last departure from Rome. Was it that my feeling was weaker now, or that I did not sense, left behind me, an immense grief such as a mother's?
I immediately set about reading Corinne. This exquisite description of Italy holds a quite particular charm for me.
And with what joy I saw through that reading — Rome, my beautiful Rome, with all its treasures of contemplation for those who can rise above those who, like the ferocious American tourists, see nothing but stones more or less artistically cut, and numbered canvases one is obliged to see because everyone sees them, and obliged to find beautiful because it has long been agreed upon and written in the guidebooks. How fortunate is the one who understands all these beauties of memory, of history, of illustrious men! I will simply confess that I did not comprehend Rome at first. My strongest impression was the Colosseum, and if I could write as I think, I would have set down a host of fine thoughts that came to me when I stood silent in the box of the Vestals, facing that of the Caesar. But it is a subject much worn by fine thoughts.
It is above all the description of the convents that interested me, for in every convent I saw Antonelli — and what joy when I read: San Giovanni e Paolo. I woke my aunt to read it to her.
On this subject, I must tell you that before leaving I went to bid farewell to the Mother Superior of the Bon Pasteur. Dina was with me. I confess I went there with the worst intentions imaginable. Having listened for half an hour to the pious and banal discourse of the old nun, I told her that for three nights I had been tormented by a frightening symbolic dream.
Whereupon I invented a vision involving thirteen red demons who were saying Mass dressed in cassocks worn inside out, and the tallest of these demons, seizing the sacred vessel, drew from it a bleeding heart and tore it into four pieces, crying: this is the heart of the nuns of the Bon Pasteur!
I fully expected this to terrify the entire convent. The Mother Superior then told me that certain dreams came from heaven, and that the one which had decided her, forty years ago, to take the veil was among them. She had seen an archangel and the Last Judgement and a good deal besides.
"Ah!" she said, "the good Lord is all Goodness, all Love — He dwells among us, the good Lord, our Lord Jesus."
I rose at these words and bade her farewell; she blessed me and wished me every good thing — without believing a word of it, no doubt. In the vestibule I met Sister Thérèse; with her, no ceremony — I took a blue woollen cord, such as the nuns wear, gave her five francs, and told her to show me the prettiest nun. They brought me Sister Céleste, who is the niece of a Monsignor from Rome. I chatted as though at home, sang hymns in Latin, reported that Émile was going to found a convent at La Tour. These holy women know him well, and all the extravagances of Père Léon too.
Sister Céleste would be pretty but for the excess of plumpness lent her by her thirty-three years, eleven of which have been spent in the house of the Lord. I assured her she must miss society; she laughed and seemed quite enlivened by my varied and original conversation. I stayed nearly an hour with her, departing only for fear of missing the train.
I read a volume of five hundred pages during the journey from Nice to Paris. I admired the observations, so just, while finding fault a little with the overly romantic tinge that characterises the work — yet that very fault is one of its charms, and I could not conceal from myself that my eagerness to read of Rome and Italy sprang from a particular interest. I read the book and, between the printed lines, dreamed of a novel of my own — reading and imagination proceeding together without disturbing each other. I cast myself as Corinne and sought in Oswald excuses for Pietro. Meanwhile we pressed onward, and glancing at the countryside I could not help sighing with regret that it was not the Roman Campagna. These cultivated fields, these neat little French cottages, seemed to me devoid of all charm — full of moral aridity and banality.
And with every moment I was moving farther and farther from myself — from Rome.
[annotation]
If I were to recount all my reveries of this kind, you would see that Cassagnac, Torlonia, Doria, Don Carlos, the Emperor of Russia, the Imperial Prince Napoleon, Louis XIV, and many others have been successively adored. But this Antonelli, on account of all you know, permits me to write that which has this effect... that I love him.
Does he even know that I have left?
All those failures of attentiveness that wounded me so deeply have faded from my memory, and were it not for the impression of Corinne's immense love, I would remember only the love he claimed to feel for me. But the absence! Oh! — then I feel a great anxiety. I would be at peace if he were alone as I am, but he is in the midst of his own people, his society, charming women — surrounded by people hostile to me as much for being a foreigner as for my religion. A heretic!
How can the memory of me contend against all these efforts to detach him from me?
So long as he saw me, my face, my wit, my conversation held him under the spell of that love — but I am far away, he does not see me, he does not hear me! Whatever impression one leaves, it fades with time; seeing much of society, my memory returns to him now and then — but what is a memory to a man like him! Then the same desire that seized me in Nice returns with yet greater force: to write to him! And what can my letters do? Give him weapons against me, gratify his pride, without preventing him in the least from turning his attention to someone else?
Must I think of a frivolous man, a child incapable of any deep feeling, any resolute action!
But I am alone, but I am bored — what do you expect me to think of in such a state?
Whereas he — he lives the life of everyone else; he has his friends, his Cercle, his family — yes, above all his family. It is only natural that it should be I who still remember when he has long since forgotten. There remains only the chance of our meeting again; seeing me again, he will love me again... See how I have reduced my expectations — I make do with an idea I would once have rejected as beneath me.
To consent to being forgotten! To count on presence to rekindle that small feeling which could not withstand three or four months of separation!
That is what I would once have found humiliating! Well — you see, I resign myself... I make concessions... I know perfectly well it is useless — the more one makes, the less they avail. Consider: Louis XVI made concessions, [two lines cancelled] — and consider those proud, unyielding kings who never condescended from their divinity!
Oh! My letters would serve no purpose, no doubt. They would not preserve his love; they would be received with joy as long as it lasted, with indifference when time had weakened and erased it.
Besides, I do not believe in his love — it existed only as long as I was there to sustain it. Is that the natural law of things, or did he simply never truly love me?
My pride rebels and makes me say that I occupy myself with him only until some new idea comes along; that I occupy myself with him only out of pride, out of vanity. That is true, quite true — but I occupy myself with him none the less; I am tormented none the less. More so, even!
Corinne and Oswald first see each other at the Capitol, during the crowning of Corinne.
Antonelli and I also spoke for the first time at the Capitol — only it was at a masked ball.
No — I am simply excited by a romantic novel, that is all. It seems to me that I love... but no — I shall only love truly and completely, and my hero cannot be Antonelli.
Besides, I implore God on both knees to spare me a tyrant — for all men are fickle and ungrateful when one loves them. They know how to be steadfast and romantic only when one deceives them, despises them, kicks them aside.
I do not love, yet I feel deep in my heart something like regrets, anxieties.
Why am I not anxious about Plowden, about Bruschetti?
The thought that he forgets me when I think only of him wounds me... deeply.
Besides, I feel no more anxiety at losing Pietro's love during my absence than I have felt several times before — now over the purchase of a horse, now on the morning of an exceptional performance at the theatre, having neglected to reserve a box in advance.
Only that anxiety could last no more than a few hours, whereas this one must necessarily last three months. Within an hour Chocolat would bring me back either the box ticket or the reply that everything was taken; a little vexation followed, and that was that — for the next day one could begin again. But here — who will bring me back the answer? And this will go on for three months, four perhaps. The anxiety is of the same kind, the same intensity — but it will repeat itself ninety days over... and one cannot begin again the next day...
Why not?... with another? Oh! no — it is dreadful to always be abandoned, always forced to seek out another in order to obtain always... or rather, never to obtain anything at all.
At half past five we entered Paris. And one must admit it: Paris is, if not the most beautiful, at least the most elegant, the most graceful, the most spirituelle — if one may so express it — of cities.
Does Paris not also have its history of greatness, decadence, revolutions, glories, and terrors? Oh yes — but all pales beside Rome, for it is from Rome that all other powers were born; it is from her ruins, her remains, that the kingdoms and empires were formed which have become greatnesses in their own right — and which forget what they are, and despise the one who brought them into the world.
Rome swallowed Greece, the cradle of civilisation, of arts, of heroes, of poets. Everything that has been built, sculpted, thought, done since — what is it but imitation of the Ancients, their literature, their arts, their conquests, their deeds?
O pitiful decadence, O arrogant impotence!
What is all this that the modern age so exalts?
Successful imitations — that is all. [three lines crossed out] And how paltry they are when one considers that they had for their model, their inspiration, Antiquity — which itself created everything from nothing, drawing inspiration solely from Nature, since God was not yet known to men; and which by itself arrived at results equally brilliant, and proportionally a hundred times more brilliant. Among us, only the Middle Ages produced anything original. Oh why, why has everything fallen so low?
Is the world worn out? Has the human mind already given all it was capable of giving?
Look at what remains of the Ancients, and ask yourself what will remain of us after the same span of centuries.

Notes

Corinne, ou l'Italie (1807) by Germaine de Staël — the romantic novel of an improviser-poetess in Rome. Marie strongly identifies with the heroine.
Santi Giovanni e Paolo — a basilica in Rome built over the homes of the martyred brothers; associated with the Passionist order. Marie sees a connection to the Antonelli family milieu.
Bon Pasteur (Good Shepherd) — a religious order dedicated to the rehabilitation of "fallen women," with a convent near Nice.
Monsignor — Italian honorary title for Catholic prelates, used in French without translation.
Lord Nelvil (Oswald) is the English protagonist of Corinne — a romantic but ultimately disappointing hero, whom Marie identifies with Pietro.
Cercle — exclusive gentlemen's social club (e.g., the Caccia-Club in Rome).
In the novel, Corinne is crowned as Italy's greatest poet at the Capitol — an image evoking Roman triumph that Marie invests with personal meaning.
Spirituelle — witty, intellectually lively; the French word carries a quality of vivacious intelligence that "witty" alone does not fully capture.