Wednesday, 11 October 1876 (29 September)

These three days can be summed up in one word: suffering, suffering and suffering!
As if the money troubles, the tenant farmers, Alexandre, all those thousand heartbreaking vexations were not enough for me!
I need another madness. Rome! Rome, whose every street, every house, every rosary shop, every ruin, every church I adore!
It is a fever, a delirium, and I shall say only a few words about it, and those words, few as they are, are enough to throw me into one of those states of exasperation and despair that no one in the world can imagine.
All these nights I have slept in my father’s room, and we sat up very late, taken up with tragicomic discussions. My father had barely begun a conjugal complaint before I would cry out that I had not married him off, that I was not his mother-in-law and that I knew nothing about it.
“I came after you; you found each other by yourselves; love each other or devour each other, it is all the same to me!”
But I always ended up discussing the journey. My father is in favour of Paris, and so am I, but last night I had a sort of fit of Roman madness. Not content, as on the previous nights, with playing the violin, I seized the Japanese gong. I paced up and down the room and, half in despair, half laughing, I cried that I wanted to go to Rome, and that if my father did not take me there, into society, this winter, I would poison myself, writing in my journal and everywhere else that it was he who had killed me!
“I promised that to Mamma and to my aunt, and now I promise it to you, so beware! I am weary, weary, weary!”
And I flung the gong on the floor, which made a frightful crash and reverberation.
For a moment I stopped, but only to write the two letters that follow. The first is being sent by telegraph to Nice, from where my aunt will send it on to Le Figaro. But first you must know that the little song all Paris is mad about is L’amant d’Amanda, in one of the latest numbers of Le Figaro.
Albert Millaud is publishing “The Story of Little Gambetta,” shown in twenty-four scenes; the last scene shows Gambetta at the pinnacle of honours, marrying Princess Amanda, daughter of the Grand Duke of Gerolstein... But here is my letter:
Copied letterLettre de Marie à un rédacteur de journal, signée « Amanda » (copie), 11 octobre 1876
Sir, I earnestly beg you to print the following letter, which is necessary to put an end to a scandalous rumour. I have read in your gracious newspaper the story of little Gambetta, and I protest against the last sold. Never shall I consent to become the wife of a man whose soul, mortgaged to Satan, was seized for want of payment and sold at public auction, at the stroke of midnight, at the horse and dog market. Amanda.
The first goes to my aunt by telegraph, the second by post.
Copied letterLettre de Marie à un rédacteur de journal, pour « le citoyen L. G. » (copie), 11 octobre 1876
Sir, not having the advantage of knowing Citizen L. G. personally, I beg you to convey to him, through your honoured newspaper, the following letter, which is of the highest importance. “I have just returned from a very long and very instructive journey through China and Japan. I had the advantage of having a most distinguished mandarin for my cicerone. But nothing in those marvellous countries struck me so much as the sublime custom of the great knife. Among other curiosities I brought back several of these knives, and I hold one at your service whenever you might care to accept it, with the traditional words and in their authentic sense: Stick that in your belly!”
It is the start of a correspondence; I have already gathered a collection of memoirs on China and Japan.
Thanks to Gambetta I shall know those marvellous countries marvellously well.
That done, I resumed my frantic pacing.
“I want to go to Rome, I want to go to Rome, or else I want to die!”
I threw myself on my sofa, and we talked about my grief. My father loves me; he is too clever to be fooled on that score; I speak to him frankly, or rather it is he who speaks to me.
I accuse the Tutcheff woman, and I dissolve into tears; I would like to dissolve altogether, to evaporate, to perish!
written across the page
Now that is fine!
He will come wherever I like.
But where shall I go?! To Rome; I must wipe out the shameful impression there.
But Paris, but Cassagnac and the conspiracies. Once Cassagnac is a minister he will be hard to reach; I must make a friend of him while he is still a nobody. If the Empire returns, so much the better; if not, we shall do without it, and life in Paris will console me.
But Rome!
For after all, surely I have the right, once in my life, to have human feelings! Surely I have the right to love something, if I forbid myself to love someone?
My fingers were icy as I paced the room, and I laughed out loud while pursuing my thoughts silently.
Why look for reasons, why always calculate! And at that moment I was not calculating; for the first time in my life I forgot everything, remembering only Rome, loving only Rome and having only one thought: to live in Rome!
To go to Rome or die; it is better to die than to live a life of sorrows and vexations!
My father took me in his arms and all but forced me to lie down on my chaise longue. I soon fell asleep, enraged, mad, in love.
This morning the weather was as fine as in Italy. I went out onto the front steps, but a ray of sunshine forced me back inside at once. A ray of sunshine like those in Rome; it seemed to light up the Piazza del Popolo, the Obelisk and the terraces of the Pincio... tears were choking me, and I hurled the horrible gong on the floor. The hunchback gave a cry and fled to her room.
At that moment the man I sent to Alexandre comes back bringing me nothing but a plan of my lands — and a plan made in 1770! A hundred and six years ago!
Overwrought, humiliated, in a prostration bordering on madness, I sat down by a table and burst into tears!
But I had to compose myself, for Vinogradoff, one of the most important tenant farmers, was due to call.
Until dinner it was nothing but discussions of prices, terms of payment, etc., etc.
I have no experience, granted, but the man must have seen that I am tenacious.
My aunts, on the pretext of going for a drive, went to pay a call on my father’s mistress.
“Your sisters are going to see your women!” I said to him yesterday.
“There are no women!” he exclaimed, much embarrassed.
“And you dare,” I went on, “you dare reproach my family with anything!!”
The Tutcheff woman is calling him to Nice, and I swore to him that if he went to Nice I would hire men to slap him in public, him and his sister.
“Because if you went to live in Nice when we are no longer there, you would ruin me with scandal!”
“Well then, I would hire men to pay you back in kind.”
“That would be ridiculous, my dear. By having you slapped I take my revenge, and so it is over; whereas if you returned it, you would not be returning anything, you would be giving, which would be unjust and stupid.”
And we said even finer things to each other than these, laughing.
But all that matters little to me... no, it does, rather.
The mere name of Rome sets me aflame, and the slightest description, the slightest memory have such an effect on me that I cannot bear its violence; I swoon, and I drive my thoughts to the ends of the earth; these dreadful, voluptuously poignant memories drive me wild! So much, so much... so much that I have not the strength, literally not the strength, to think of it.
My father and I had it out about Miloradovitch and a letter Mamma wrote me on the subject. It took a long time, and my father proved his affection for me. Mamma claims he deliberately sent Gritz away, and that is not true (and who knows?).
“At least,” he said, “no one will say we wanted to catch him; but she, instead of advising me... she would have done better not to do all that she did... then they would not be sending him back to Vienna!”
True, ugly but true. She did not do it, but appearances accuse her, and it comes to the same thing.
I say nothing of the... of the city, because I want to be able to eat; I have eaten almost nothing since yesterday. And I have been shaking with fever... I love Rome; Antonelli is a different matter.
If... no. Ah! My God, be good to me.

Notes

L’amant d’Amanda (“Amanda’s Lover”): the café-concert song whose refrain Marie quotes in the entry of 14 September. ↩