Thursday, 8 February 1877

I left more cheerfully than I could have expected.
The general and Meyssner came to the station with sweets and flowers; Rangoni came with nothing, but with plenty of pretty speeches. Princess Souvoroff, who was going to Monaco, said she had come to see us off, and got into the same carriage as ourselves and Pelikan.
So as far as Monte Carlo we were all together, that is to say Maman, myself, Dina, Pelikan, my aunt, Walitsky and Princess Souvoroff. The princess went so far as to offer me the second Prince Tchwertinsky in marriage, and she never stopped dwelling on all the advantages of such a match. The prince is soon to arrive.
I fell asleep at Ventimiglia and did not wake until Rome, [words crossed out], morally and physically.
Against my will I had to stay until the evening, for the train for Naples does not leave until ten o’clock.
A whole day in Rome! At Spillmann’s we learn that there is a grand masked ball at the Apollo tonight. I whisper to Pelikan that Maman must rest tonight, and we stay.
I take Dina; we hood ourselves all in black and, taking a landau, drive up and down the Corso in the Carnival. Our gloom is a great success, and as we do not move, stiff and black, people shout: Death!
I was looking for familiar faces when, to my surprise, whom should I see but Oscar. I bawled heaven knows what at him, and farther on at Plowden and Zucchini. We return to the hotel in day dresses, having made the change under cover of the closed landau and the dusk.
No sooner is Pelikan in bed than I am seized with a terrible headache, so I go to bed with cold compresses and sleep until half past eleven.
Dina’s hood is nowhere to be found; I pray heaven to grant me patience; it is midnight, and we are at the Hôtel Bristol, which is a good way off. When everyone is ready, and the two black dominos and the pink domino are on the stairs, Rosalie discovers that the great door is locked and the whole hotel is asleep!
It is enough to make one tear one’s hair. Fortunately a gentleman coming home rings, the door is opened for him, and we go out. Then something else: no carriage! Rosalie looks and finds one; before we are through the door of the theatre, three mishaps occur: now the tickets forgotten, now fits of fright that send me off to quite the other side from the entrance.
At last we go in, and so shabbily disguised that no one could suspect us, especially as nobody knows we are in Rome.
On the stairs I see a fair-haired man of great beauty; I go closer... it is! Then Finding myself in distress, I take the first comer, and therefore this man.
— Bruschetti, I said, touching his shoulder.
He finds our box for us, and as I mystify him, he proposes a turn round the house. I accept. He is a sturdy escort. He is so good and so simple that he does not know the language of the ball. He confesses to me that he only arrived this morning.
Then, among other things, I announce to him the death of the Russian girl who was always in white. He gives an exclamation, but, recovering himself at once, tells me that it is all the same to him.
I left him convinced that he is still in love. Alas...
Merjeewsky, sitting beneath a column, is waiting for “a lady from Spa”. I wrote to him this evening.
After a couple of words he recognises me; I own up and make the young man my protector, using him now as a rampart, now as something to keep my countenance.
I sweep like a hurricane past Angelini, Belmonte, Muliterno, Braschi, Bruschi, Paparigopoulos, Guiccioli, Tiberini, Ingami, Boutenieff, Patechino, Fosti the singer, Clemente Torlonia, Rossi and Gianotti, tossing each of them a phrase, a word that mystifies them more or less. I knew Antonelli would not be there, except masked, but I so longed to see him that I hoped for it. At least I wanted news of him.
What, I said, bending down to Ingami, who was sitting, here, when your dear friend is in fine disgrace!
He would not let me go until he had wrung Antonelli’s name out of me.
Rossi knows nothing about it; I made up a story for him which served no purpose; he told me nothing, except that I was one of Pietro’s lovesick girls.
— It is you I love, I told him in Italian, moving away to take Angelini, to whom I had been promising a turn round the house for nearly an hour. He is very funny close to; he looks like a swollen crayfish, but he is not ugly. I try to preach morals to him and tell him things about Nice.
I take the earth you have trodden, I carry it to my heart and then to my head... — I said to him as I came up to him. An Arab phrase that suits him, since he is forever travelling in all sorts of outlandish countries.
— It is true, he said, I am alone, always alone. — And off the two of you go.
How useful it is to see men a little from close to. It costs one no more than a squeeze of the hand or the arm, and even then it is a glove, a domino that they touch, but one learns so much about these gentlemen.
I mystified the Baron de San Giuseppe, in other words Saint Joseph, quite admirably. He followed me, he implored me; I fled like an arrow up to the third tier of boxes and there, changing dominos with Maman, I come down again in pink calico; Angelini takes me for the chaperone of the black dominos and goes off to pay court to Maman and talk to her about our earlier conversation, taking her for me.
In heart and mind I was looking for Antonelli, but I was looking for Pizzardi. It is now or never to make sure whether he really is the handsomest man in Rome. I call Ingami and send him to look for Pizzardi in the midst of the most motley and brilliant crowd, to the strains of an orchestra of sixty musicians, by the light of thousands of candles.
— But where will you be? asks good Ingami, really anxious to bring me Pizzardi.
— There... I said, planting myself in the middle of the house and entrenching myself behind Merjeewsky.
— What, he said to me, you are serious!
— Of course.
— And you say so?
— I say so, and more. I say that there are at this moment in Nice two individuals who have turned my head terribly.
— Oh! That is too much!
— To a friend? I said, calmly and simply.
— Really, you have either too high or too low an opinion of me! he exclaims.
— Do leave me alone and do your duty.
Nobody recognised me, oh! nobody, but I am still so foolish that if anyone looks at me at all seriously I think I have been found out.
— Here he is, Ingami says at last, bringing someone to me.
Oh, good heavens! I said to myself. So that is Pizzardi! No, I did not believe it for a moment; Ingami was making fun of me.
The so-called Pizzardi asked me something, I no longer know what: who I was, I think.
— Tell me first who you are, I answered him.
— What! he said, you tell me.
— Ah no, where would the interest be if I told you?
— Well, tell me something else.
— I... don’t know.
— Eh!
He looked at me as if to say: Oh! you bore me, you, I am not here to listen to such nonsense; and he leaves me standing there.
This finale gives me some respect for the ugly fellow, and I go here and there about the house, pointing out the man and asking: who is that? They all answer: Pizzardi.
So I stop beside Bruschi and Angelini and some others, who are not sorry about it, for they are always after me, and I tell them that Pizzardi is the ugliest, the stupidest, the coarsest of men. They open their eyes wide and answer that the personage I honour in this way is the handsomest gentleman in Rome.
What is to be done? One must yield to good reasons.
I soften, and begin to follow the man and circle round him, dragging Merjeewsky on my arm, so as to look at this creature a little coolly. Let us begin [words crossed out] this painful examination. He is tall. Good. But stooping! Pointed, patent-leather feet, yes, but legs that are not on good terms with each other. Alas.
The face... Ah! spare me, Lord! Black hair, no doubt, on top of which sits a silly little hat. Drunken eyes... a black moustache and... Oh là là. A chin and the lower cheeks all covered in scars, traces... of illnesses, cuts... of... Oh, how ugly it is!
All the while I was discovering these charms one by one, I kept walking round and round this curiosity.
What, I said to myself, am I going to leave it at that? No.
I was still in black; I changed into pink and returned to the attack, but trembling. Sometimes I have these inexplicable terrors, as with Doria last year.
— Frenchman, I said timidly, Frenchman.
— What? he said, turning round.
— My French friend, I went on in my natural voice and in the tone one uses to humour madmen, do not be fierce.
— How do you mean? he asked, paying some attention to my pink calico get-up.
— Why yes, you look so terrible that I am all atremble; truly, you frighten me.
And as I expressed my terror, I shed it little by little.
— No, seriously?
— Very seriously.
— You think so? But come, a friendlier face, I beg you; you freeze me.
— You interest me.
— If that is true, more kindness.
— Well, really! Well, really, anyone would think I was a tiger!
— A lion and a leopard all in one.
— Where did you get all these animals from?
— From the expression on your face.
— Come now.
— Look me in the face. Good, only I seem to have known you with bigger eyes.
— I make them smaller at will.
— So as to see less. Look again, and smile.
— There, he said, smiling so foolishly in his effort to look kind that I began to laugh.
— Now, he went on, are you reassured? Am I still fierce? Look, I look like an idiot.
— No, no. I was still examining him. Dry skin, red cheekbones, red eyes, a long pointed nose.
— Show me your hands, I said despondently.
— A hunter’s hands, he said, showing them to me.
Fine hands with well-kept nails.
— Good heavens, no, a hunter in Italy.
— Of tigers, hyenas, jackals?
— Ha! ha! ha! No, a hunter of domestic game.
— Come along, my carnivore...
— You are African, I can see it.
— Perhaps.
— Let us go to Africa this instant!
— This instant, as far as the end of the room; you are too frightening.
— Really, I do not know how to behave. Take my arm; I am not so very terrible.
I took his arm, and Merjeewsky followed close behind us, ready, like Mephistopheles, to step into Faust’s fight with Valentin. Soon I saw nothing more; Pizzardi, the famous Pizzardi, was beginning to be very witty. No Italian accent.
— I do not know you, he said; who are you, then?
— A jealous Spanish woman! Oh! no faces, they say you are a coxcomb You know, I know someone who looks like you.
— Physically?
— Why, yes.
— That is not surprising; I look like everybody.
— Coxcomb.
— Oh! no.
— Besides, I have been told so.
He thought my hand small.
Whereupon I told him several things I had from Antonelli.
— So you are a member of the Club!
— One has friends.
As, while saying politely not saying anything really smutty, he kept coming back from time to time to the cause of human existence, though in a thoroughly veiled way, I reproached him with being a brute. And then he expounded a whole theory to me... and that is all I shall say!
— Good Lord, he said at last, it is the aim and the root of everything, and everyone is like that; only some people have the courage to admit it and others have not. I admit it!
— Ah! my friend, now that is sincerity indeed! Shake on it!
And we shook hands, laughing.
Do not form an idea of our conversation from these wretched scraps.
Several of these gentlemen kept calling to their Girofla, saying to him: how can you stay with the same one all the time? It is such a bore; come and have supper.
— You have a very marked Russian accent, he said to me.
— One puts on whatever accent one likes.
— How so?
— Stupid.
Then I assure him very seriously that I came to Rome only for him, etc., etc.
The animal was beginning to feel flattered.
— Here is a fellow countryman, he said, bringing me up to the secretary of our embassy.
— What, I cried, in English!
— Oh! please, do not play the African.
— Tiger.
— Show your face.
He was holding the lace fringe of my mask.
— Oh! I am not afraid of you; Pizzardi knows how to behave anywhere, I told him.
— You are right... and he took his hand away.
— Admit that you are Russian.
— What does it matter to you! Superior women have no nationality, women of wit, pretty and elegant.
— That is true.
— Men too; you, for instance, you are not too Italian, no, not too.
— Hm... I am not too, no.
I give him a black glove, the left-hand one (as at the Campidoglio, but the other was white), promising to claim it back in a year, because in a year... heaps of things!
— In a year, he said, why? Really, you are very extraordinary.
— Farewell!
I left him so as not to be left. It was three o’clock; I went back to the box, where Maman was going into raptures over Bruschetti’s good looks in front of several gentlemen who were leaning on the box and joking about the chaperone, while I laughed at Bruschetti.
He had the misfortune to be taken against. These wretched young men were looking for masks to go and drink champagne with. Of course we made our escape, and I sent Merjeewsky back to the ball, in a domino, to answer that the domino in question (myself) was Princess Mechtchersky. That was very wicked. In Rome they do not know how to mystify; the gentlemen are bored! I saw it plainly, since I interested them, I who know nothing about it. I went to bed at four, scribbling praises of Pizzardi and laments over him.
written across the page
They go about the room like starving dogs.
I was woken at seven. At twenty past nine I leave Rome. I fall asleep and find myself in Naples. Yet I did not sleep so soundly as not to hear a grumpy gentleman complaining to the guard about Prater’s presence. And the gallant guard took our dog’s side.
But... no, I did not sleep at all; I do not know how to explain what was the matter with me, only that I suffered horribly, from some unknown, inexplicable ache.
Antonelli was before my eyes, his voice filled my ears, and at that moment, it seems to me, I would have given up the whole world to stay with him and love him with all my soul, even unto death...
I closed my eyes and pictured the death of Pietro, my husband, my mute despair at the sight of that corpse lying in its bed. I burned all his furniture and his clothes and shut the ashes up in a silver urn; I had his body burned and its ashes gathered into a golden urn; I made a chapel in my house, where I spent days and nights prostrate before his portrait and his remains. I adored him, I was annihilated by grief without shedding a tear... Listen... I do not know, but I found in these gloomy imaginings unknown, intoxicating delights.
But here is Naples. Are you like me? As I approach a great and beautiful city I am seized with palpitations, with restlessness; I should like to take the city for myself.
It takes us more than an hour to reach the Hôtel du Louvre. A prodigious crush of traffic, and above all prodigious shouting and disorder.
The women here have extravagant heads. They look like the women shown in menageries along with the snakes and the tigers... Ah! Pizzardi, and the mermaids or “astonishing living fishes”, etc., etc.
In Rome I love only what is old. In Naples nothing is pretty but what is new.
It is a furnace.
I lament that I cannot adore Pizzardi... but listen: Larderel is in the hotel. I asked Rosalie whether the gentleman had his hussy with him.
— No, Mademoiselle, he has not got his hussy with him. He is all alone.
It was Rosalie herself who informed me of this charming... let us call it a pun; it appears that Larderel has his that Larderel’s coachman is charming.
I adore Larderel and Pizzardi with my lips only, wearing myself out in extravagances, but in reality... no, not any more; three hours ago, yes, but now it is over, never to return.
Well! and I was about to forget that we met Altamura and that he came to see us; the good fellow nearly went out of his mind... he writhed, he bowed, he laughed, he was happy.
While dining I got up from the table three times and wrote at one stroke what you are about to read:
Handsome hunter of love!
I know you are not constant But remember a heart Whose lover you always were At the San Carlo masked ball Hiding myself from everyone I wait, all wrapped in a cloak Of these green fruits, I.
When you gave me your arm O saddest, wretched one My heart was burning Like the lava of Vesuvius.
After so many joys I say farewell Vexations threaten me My love After these vexations And cruel farewell I hope for new joys My dear love.
And then... you will see tomorrow.

Notes

In Italian in the original: Veglione — a Carnival masked ball held in a theatre. The Teatro Apollo was Rome’s principal opera house; it was demolished in 1888-89 when the Tiber embankments were built. ↩
In Italian in the original: Morte ! ↩
In Italian in the original: Come … qui quando il tuo caro amico è in una bella disgrazia ! ↩
In faulty Italian in the original: Prendo la terra che tu hai calpodato, la porto al more e poi alla testa per rescar mi la manimante. The end (per rescar mi la manimante) is unclear. Marie is imitating the Arab salute, hand to heart and forehead. ↩
In Italian in the original: son solo, sempre solo. ↩
In Italian in the original: Ma dove sarai ? ↩
In Italian in the original: Eccolo ↩
In Italian in the original: Dimmi, prima chi sei tu ↩
In Italian in the original: Come ! … tu dimmulo. ↩
In Italian in the original: A no, dove sorebbe l’interesse s’io ti diessi. ↩
In Italian in the original: Ben, dimni qualche cosa d’altro. ↩
In Italian in the original: Io... non so. ↩
In Gounod’s Faust, Mephistopheles guides Faust’s sword in the duel in which Valentin, Marguerite’s brother, is killed. ↩
In Italian in the original: “sorprendenti pesci viventi” — the cry of a fairground showman. ↩
In Italian in the original (this note covers the verses of the next four paragraphs, 068.1137–1140), as printed, slips included: Bello cacciator d’amore ! / So che non sei costante / Ma rammentati d’un core / Dé chi sempre fosti amante / A San caclval veglione / Celandomi a tutti / Aspetto tutto un farajolane / Di codesti verdi io frutti. / Quando tu mi desti O’ braccio / O tristissimo tristaccio / Il mio cuore bruciava / Come di Vesuvio la lava. / Dopo tante gioje / Dico addio / Mi minaccian noje / Amor mio / Dopo queste noje / E crudel addio / Spero nuove gioje / Caro amor mio. Several lines are garbled in print (caclval, farajolane, verdi io frutti), so the English gives the probable sense; farajolane is apparently ferraiolone, a great cloak. ↩