Wednesday, 27 December 1876

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 club box 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 civilities, and poor Antonelli, who has lost his uncle?
— Yes, poor thing — he got nothing from it.
— Oh yes he did — 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 am, I believe, 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... dancers... At first people thought..., in any case you gave him a jolt, and perhaps now he will mend his ways — that is, grow up. 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 knife-thrust.
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 a nobody... And what if... Rossi was deliberately lowering him in my eyes...

Notes

In Italian in the original: barcaccia — the large box beside the stage held by the young men’s club; the most conspicuous seats in the house. ↩
In French in the original: danseuses — ballet dancers; in 1870s society a well-known euphemism for kept women or courtesans. ↩