Oh, calm yourself, for Heaven's sake. It hasn't anything to do with
M. A----, but simply that I am going. The uncertainty, the
vagueness, leaving the known for the unknown.
Sunday, January 2nd, 1876.
"I shall go Sunday at three o'clock," I said or rather shrieked, and
Sunday at one o'clock everything was topsy-turvy. The trunks were
still empty, and the floor was covered with gowns and finery. For
my part, I put on a grey dress and waited quietly. C---- and Dina
worked, and so well that everything was ready for the hour of
departure.
At half past two, C---- and I got into a little cab and went to hear
the band, and I listened once more to the municipal music of Nice.
"Come," I said to Collignon, "if this piece is gay, our journey
will be, too. I am superstitious." And the piece was very lively. So
much the better!
I saw G----, who bid me good-bye once more. I haven't seen the
Marvel, but that doesn't matter.
We got into the landau again, and went to the station. Our friends
came there, one after another. I skipped about, I laughed, I
chattered like a bird. How kind they are, and how hard it is to
leave them.
"You feign this gaiety," said B----to me, "but in your heart you are
weeping, I am sure of it."
"Ah! you think so? No!
"When to Nice you bid good-bye,
Unfeigned joy is in your eye.
Easy 'tis from Nice to part,
For she never wins your heart."
"Bravo! Bravo!"
The quatrain was made one evening when we were capping verses with
G----.
"Give me some cigarettes," I said softly to my aunt.
"Very well, later."
I thought she had forgotten, but at Monaco she wrapped a number in
paper and gave them to me. She, who cries out when I ask her for
them at home. At Monaco we parted, and those horrid cigarettes made
me cry. I was sorry for the poor old grandfather, my aunt,
everybody. I am vexed to have to go with Mamma. I was with her at
Spa and, besides, I am used to my aunt.
Oh! torture! Imagine the tediousness of a journey in Italy. Mamma
and Dina do not know Italian. I refused to use my tongue; I can
scarcely use my limbs. By dint of complaining because I was not with
my aunt, and saying: "Who asked you to come with us? I ought to go
with my aunt. Why do you come with me?" I obtained a passive
obedience and an alacrity impossible to imagine.
Night found us in a car. I complained, wept softly, and said the
most provoking things to my mother, like the brute I am.
At last, toward three o'clock, Monday, January 3d, ruins, columns,
aqueducts began to appear on the dreary plain called the Roman
Campagna, and we entered the station of Rome. I saw nothing, I heard
nothing. I was utterly limp after these twenty-four hours without
sleep.
We were taken to the Hôtel de Londres, Piazza di Spagna, and we
occupied an apartment on the ground floor, with a yellow
drawing-room that was very fresh and neat, I was tired and
depressed, in the condition in which I needed some one to sustain
me. And Mamma was crying. Oh, dear!
We must set to work very, very quickly to look about us. There is
nothing I hate like changing.
New streets, strange faces, and no Mediterranean. Only the miserable
Tiber. I am utterly wretched when I am in a new city. I shut myself
up in my room to collect my scattered wits a little.
Tuesday, January 4th, 1876.
Yesterday Mamma wrote to B----, the brother of the empress's
physician, and to-day he came to our house. He devotes himself to
painting. After this visit, we went out. Oh! the ugly city, the
impure air! What a deplorable mixture of ancient magnificence and
modern filth!
We went through the Corso, the Via Gregoriana, the Forum of Hadrian,
the Forum of Rome, we saw the gates of Septimus Severus, and
Constantine, the Via Pia, the Coliseum, but everything is still
vague, I don't recognise myself. The drive on the Pincio is
charming, the band was playing, but there were not many people when
we were there. Statues, statues everywhere. What would Rome be
without statues? From the summit of the Pincio we looked at the dome
of St. Peter and also the whole city. I am glad to find it is not
over large, it will be easier to know.
On the drive we were amused to meet the S----'s, A----, and P---- of
Rome. The sun did not appear, and the weather was dull and dreary.
On arriving in Rome, I had no artistic feeling. It is Rome that
opened my mind, so I have worshipped her since. I don't want to
visit anything before we are settled. The evening was spent in
consulting the cards and in writing letters.
This stay in Rome seems an exile and it is with unequalled joy that
I think of returning to Nice. The cards predict much good, but can
the cards be believed?
Ah! if I could marry some prince! Then I would return to Nice and
make a triumphal entry. But no, it is indicated that nothing will
succeed for me; so I shall make no more plans or, if I do, it will
be with the sorrowful conviction of their uselessness. Each time I
have been disappointed.
Wednesday, January 5th, 1876.
This is what I wrote to the General:
"I am in Rome, and it is very wonderful (ah! it is very wonderful,
very marvellous). It is cold as Russia, the water freezes in the
fountains, but the cold would be nothing if it was _only_ the cold.
Since morning we have been in search of an apartment, and we have
seen only one. I did not have courage to go up when they pointed out
a black, yawning hole, dirty and frightful. I have looked in vain
for a house with any resemblance to the French houses. I find only
ruins or cracked columns. No doubt it is very beautiful, but agree
with me that a good, comfortable apartment is infinitely more
pleasant, though less artistic.
"I believe we shall end by lodging in the baths of Caracalla or in
the Coliseum. The foreigners will take me for the ghost of a
Christian martyr, devoured by some fierce tiger in the presence of
some carnivorous emperor. As to the furniture, we will be content
with fragments of statues or a few bones, the sublime remains of a
henceforth impossible past. After my installation in the Coliseum,
or in the Forum, I will give you the most minute details concerning
the Eternal City. Meanwhile, I shall expect a letter from you, my
dear General, which will be, I know, kind and charming. Now good-bye
until we meet again.