My father has at least paid a call on Baron Visconti and shown himself with us at the skating rink. Paolo Antonelli is the finest skater there — all smiles over the thirty thousand francs a year left him by the Cardinal. This rather pretty and very refined miniature of a man flutters about with the Somaglia and the other Roman princesses who were there. Since these ladies skated quite badly, I ventured out and did not look too ungainly.

My father has at least paid a call on Baron Visconti and shown himself with us at the skating rink. Paolo Antonelli is the finest skater there — all smiles over the thirty thousand francs a year left him by the Cardinal. This rather pretty and very refined miniature of a man flutters about with the Somaglia and the other Roman princesses who were there. Since these ladies skated quite badly, I ventured out and did not look too ungainly.
The stiff and stupid Paparigopoulos made my father's acquaintance, as did Plowden. We met Plowden in the street and he blushed so violently and for so long that it gave me a kind of pleasure.
We go to see Verdi's Aïda at the Apollo. Yesterday would have been better... but never mind...
Maman in black velvet and diamonds, I in my dress — the one that was described in Nice — nothing in my hair, and my father in evening coat with his decoration in his buttonhole — we made a very agreeable box.
But the barcaccia is occupied only by Count Oscar Angelini — a nephew of Emperor Wilhelm on the wrong side of the blanket, stout and bearded — and by the Marchese Tiberini. The royal boxes are some consolation.
Maman was speaking of Rossi's death when that agreeable man entered, prancing in backwards.
— Well, he said after the first pleasantries, poor Antonelli who has lost his uncle?
— Yes, poor thing — he got nothing from it.
— Oh, he got the table silver!
There was general merriment, after which with a very convenient frankness I asked Rossi what people were saying, confiding in him about Mme de Camprien and the rest. We were speaking Italian.
— You understand, I said, they do not know us, and one might very well have taken me for one of those foreign women who come to Rome to find a husband. We talked about it for quite some time, at the end of which I believe I was convinced that the public attached no importance to the matter.
— No one thought of him for you, said Rossi — he is a poor young man with neither fortune nor position, who runs with a set of young men who lead him astray, into... well, that life of... of suppers with the... danseuses... At first people thought..., in any case you gave him a jolt, and perhaps now he will mend his ways — that is, form himself. He would need either a journey or five or six months of ordered life in society. That would give him some standing.
— But he is a ruined young man.
— Oh no, poor boy — better to sow one's wild oats at twenty than at thirty. Youth must run its course; he will make a fine match.
A stab.
I believe I conducted myself appropriately with that lobster Rossi. My father was seething at understanding nothing, and we kept speaking that divine language — I, as much to know as to hear myself speak.
I am seized with great pity for this poor disinherited young man, retired to the country and shooting from morning to night with his wretched gun.
One should not have taken him seriously — he has ruined all other men for me; I look at no one.
Someone, please.
O Rome!
My father has the most abominable character in the world. And I need him!
To see Antonelli again!! What for? He is nothing... And what if... Rossi was deliberately lowering him in my eyes...

Thursday, 28 December 1876

My father leaves this morning — I make no complaint; it was agreed in advance that if the fancy took me to stay more than two days I should remain with Maman.
I see him off to the station, the pedant!
We go out to the promenade in search of Antonelli — in vain.
Then to the rink, then the Pincio, then Simonetti.
I am sad and dressed in brown.
[Crossed out: at dinner we — it came about that]
Some English ladies whom I used to see often with Frederic are dining at the same table as us — we fall into conversation; it is a Lady Cartier with two very faded daughters. They tell me that I interested everyone last winter, that Frederic (Mr Oliver) called me la dame blanche. That this same Frederic came from Vienna to Rome on horseback — he is quite an original. That the Duchess Laute spoke of me a great deal to them, on the strength of Clemente Torlonia's favourable reports. Clemente speaking well of someone? I should be mightily flattered if I believed it.
That wretched rogue has shaved his beard, and when he bowed this morning I could scarcely recognize him. Scoundrel, wretch!
I feel genuine joy at the thought that people love me and speak well of me in public.
Katorbinsky tells me that all summer long he saw Pietro at the Teatro Corca — a wretched music-hall set up in the Mausoleum of Augustus!! He saw him there with a brunette and a blonde, one on each arm, drinking birra. Ugh! I am gathering information for the Carnival.
Voi a gnor? Vergogna e pietà di voi.
Nevertheless I am calmer, for I am more reassured about the city's gossip.
Simonetti and Plowden have been and gone.
Someone, please. Someone, if you please, for... soffro di veder vi avilito ma non n'amo più
My debased plaything!

Friday, 29 December 1876

Visconti. Painting.
I was ravishing at the rink and skated best of all.

Notes

barcaccia — the boat-shaped box at the front of the theatre; the most prestigious seating area.
danseuses — ballet dancers; in 1870s society a well-known euphemism for kept women or courtesans.
birra — Italian: beer; in the original.
Italian: "You now? Shame and pity on you."
Italian: "I suffer to see you debased but I love you no more."