Wednesday, 8 August 1877

[Marie noted Wed.8 and Thursday 8, but corrected it afterwards]
Since my air baths I no longer eat — an effect completely opposite to the usual one. While one is shut inside the chamber it is impossible to read nonsense; I divide my time between a physiology and a history of fifth-century Rome. It lasts two hours. My aunt and Hall were reading novels while I was put inside. Oh! yes, I am in it...
There is nothing surprising in Gaston’s wife speaking French like a Frenchwoman — her mother is French (a Fitz-James) and her father is the Duc Salviati, second son of Prince Borghese and Princess Borghese née de la Rochefoucauld. The eldest son is the current Prince Borghese (father of the famous Don Giovanni of Naples), and the third son bears the title of Prince of Allobrandini.
How do I know this? From the Journal d’un diplomate by Monsieur d’Ideville. This, and a great many other things, which put me in such a state that I could dash my skull against the first milestone I came to!! And I am nothing!!! Oh, envy — oh, rage!!!
If I still had my voice! One could... a great talent opens every door.
And to think that the visit to the embassy is what ruined everything!!
I was a child — I thought things were the same everywhere as in Nice...
Almost all the Roman aristocrats have married foreigners — not only La Rochefoucaulds and Branickis, but also Americans, sometimes for their money, but sometimes also for their beauty.
The arts! But for the arts one must go to Italy! Call it useless as some people claim, say one can do without — very well. But why do all the artists from every corner of the world go there? Call it absurd if you like — but it is so universally accepted that it would become obligatory even if there were no other reason for it than that of Panurge’s sheep.
And if one looks closely, everything or almost everything in this world is an effect of imagination.
And that horizon over the countryside and the Villa Borghese in the foreground — can one ever forget it? And the clusters of umbrella pines scattered here and there, the old walls of Honorius, the gigantic aqueducts!! That admirable landscape framed in the dark blue sky one sees only in Rome; the tepid, slightly enervating atmosphere; the sharp perfume of the evergreen trees — all of it, down to the muffled rumbling of the carriages on the Pincio, down to that silence full of gaiety and poetry, penetrates the soul and engraves itself as an ineffaceable memory... the artists who have had the good fortune of a long sojourn in that blessed corner have experienced those sensations of well-being, of inward calm and of peace!
For some days I have been getting used to the idea of having a letter for Florence — and now I believe I shall not have it. Miss Smith is going to travel this winter; my American learned this from that person’s sister.
It was like a blow, and I had to go and get some air on the balcony. So I shall have sat through Hall’s suppers for nothing! Idiocy! If I could meet Julie this summer, it would perhaps be a hundred times better...
Oh! look, I hate myself, I hate myself, I hate myself!
This book that speaks of Italy — I cannot read it, because the whole time it gives me hot and cold flushes, shivers, tears; it is surprising and stupid like Emile.
I have become suspicious and superstitious to the point of madness. I think that Miss Smith’s sister will have seen me here and will have advised Hall against giving me the letter. And then... I met her on a Friday, and Paul de Cassagnac on a Monday.
I have at last seen the celebrated Worth himself. While we were talking about a gown, all the employees — men and women — gathered around us and listened with reverential rapture.
Rémy called on us; if everyone talked as he does, perhaps I would revive.
I live now only to come and record my detestable impressions here twenty times a day.
I have become a slave to the least things; I impose conditions, absurd necessities on myself: do this and such a thing will happen — or else: if the person who opens the door is a woman, such a thing will not happen — etc. etc. etc.!
And I believe in these stupidities! I believe them in spite of myself!!
I tell myself it is senseless — and I truly believe it!
It is like the way I have been telling myself for two months now: stop keeping your journal and your luck will turn! If I were to write no more... I should take notes in secret from myself.
Ah! I am worn out, lost, finished, annihilated!
crossed out[A few words crossed out]

Notes

Short for Journal d’un diplomate en Italie (“A Diplomat’s Journal in Italy”) by Henry d’Ideville. ↩
Panurge’s sheep (moutons de Panurge): in Rabelais’s Quart Livre (1552), Panurge throws one sheep overboard and the rest of the flock jump after it; a proverbial expression for herd mentality. ↩
The Aurelian Walls (murailles d’Honorius): ancient defensive walls of Rome, originally built by Emperor Aurelian (270–275 AD) and reinforced under Honorius in the early 5th century; still largely intact, a defining feature of the Roman landscape. ↩
Surprenant: a play on «le Surprenant», Marie’s nickname for Émile d’Audiffret (see 28 May 1876, 061). ↩
Charles Frederick Worth (1825–1895): English-born Paris couturier, founder of haute couture; his house at 7 rue de la Paix dressed the Empress Eugénie and all fashionable Europe. ↩