The Diary of an Ennuyée

In Short

Presented as a "Diary of a Blue Devil," this book is a travelogue written by a woman suffering from a mysterious, enervating illness. As she moves from Paris through Switzerland to Italy, she seeks to distract herself from her own emotional and physical distress. More than a record of sightseeing, the text acts as a repository for her interior life, blending descriptions of Italian masterpieces with reflections on mortality, class, and the nature of grief. It remains a classic of travel literature for its candid, melancholy voice and keen observations.

The Story

The narrator begins her journey in France, feeling the weight of a "blue devil"—a Victorian euphemism for a deep, lingering depression or malaise. Carrying a morocco-bound diary, she reluctantly records her movements, initially mocking the predictable enthusiasm of her fellow travelers. Her journey is defined by a sense of displacement; she is "ill during the last few days" of her stay in Geneva, and she travels not for the sheer joy of discovery, but in the desperate hope that a change of scenery might offer her a reprieve from her constant pain.

As she traverses the Alps and descends into the Italian peninsula, the narrative shifts from self-deprecating humor to a more earnest, contemplative tone. She encounters the sublime beauty of the lakes and the tragic history of the cities. In Verona, she witnesses a funeral—the splendor of the ritual followed by the jarring, unceremonious disposal of the corpse—which triggers a meditation on the loneliness of the stranger in a foreign land. Her health continues to fluctuate, and she is often forced to rest in Bolognese or Roman hotels while her companions continue their sight-seeing.

The heart of the journey is Rome and Naples, where the narrator engages deeply with art and history. She visits the Barberini Palace and finds a reflection of her own internal fragility in the portrait of Beatrice Cenci. Her interactions with the locals and her observations of the impoverished peasantry in the countryside reveal a complex, often conflicted capacity for empathy. She notes the "brutified" condition of factory workers with ache, yet she remains acutely sensitive to the aesthetic perfection of the world around her.

By the time she reaches Naples, the landscape—with its orange groves and moonlit bays—offers a temporary respite from her "habitual melancholy." She participates in the social life of her party, though she often feels like an outsider, masking her exhaustion behind a performance of cheerfulness. She visits Vesuvius, where the bravado of the guides amuses her, and immerses herself in the Roman antiquities at the museum. The diary concludes with her return toward the north, feeling the encroachment of her illness once more. The final entries carry a sense of resignation, as she realizes that the "gleam" of Italy—the poetic, artistic, and classical ideal—is a consolation that can exist alongside, but never fully erase, the "dull night of sorrow" that she carries within her.

How It Unfolds

The departure. Seeking to escape a private heartbreak, the narrator begins a journey to Italy, framing her diary as a skeptical response to the typical, romanticized travel logs of her peers.

The descent into Italy. As she crosses the Alps and moves through the fertile plains, she experiences physical suffering that colors her perceptions of the landscape and the local people.

Reflections on mortality. In cities like Verona and Florence, she encounters the stark realities of life and death, finding that her own sense of alienation allows her to observe human suffering with profound clarity.

The Roman experience. She spends significant time in Rome, where the juxtaposition of sacred art, ancient ruins, and the irreverent behavior of English tourists provides a rich, often frustrating context for her introspection.

The climax of sensation. Reaching Naples, she is overwhelmed by the sensory intensity of the Carnival and the natural power of Vesuvius, which forces a confrontation between her internal pain and the vibrancy of the external world.

The return. As the journey wanes, she acknowledges the persistence of her sorrow, finding that while the beauty of the world has not cured her, it has provided a necessary framework for understanding her own experience.

The People

The narrator is the central figure, a woman whose name is never fully disclosed, characterized by her self-awareness, her aesthetic sensitivity, and her "habitual melancholy." She is a reluctant traveler, burdened by a secret grief that makes her both an outsider to the merry parties she joins and a deeply empathetic observer of the world.

She is accompanied by a group of companions, most notably a figure referred to as "R----," who often serves as a foil to her sensitivity. When the narrator pities the impoverished peasants working in the silk mills, R---- dismisses her empathy, arguing that the workers are too degraded to feel their own misery. This exchange underscores the distance between the narrator’s internal, emotional truth and the more detached, intellectualized views of her peers.

There are also various peripheral figures, such as "Salvador," the guide at Vesuvius, whose naive self-importance provides a moment of genuine human interest, and the "little daughter of the Princess Barberini," whose resemblance to the tragic portrait of Beatrice Cenci highlights the narrator's obsession with the intersection of beauty and suffering. Throughout the book, the narrator remains isolated; even when surrounded by others, she is ultimately alone with her thoughts, her memories, and the "devoted heart" she guards in secret.

In Its Own Voice

"What inconsistent beings are we!--How strange that in such a moment as this, I can jest in mockery of myself! but I will write on."

The narrator reflects on the irony of keeping a diary when she is desperate to forget the circumstances that drove her to travel.

"I saw in a huge horizontal wheel, about a dozen of these poor creatures labouring so hard, that my very heart ached to see them."

The narrator observes the harsh reality of Italian labor, which starkly contrasts with the romanticized image of the country.

"The effect was surprisingly beautiful; for while the two extremities of the lake were discoloured and enveloped in gloom, that part opposite to us was as blue and transparent as heaven itself."

The narrator describes the lake during a rainstorm, using the external landscape to mirror her own internal state of fragmented joy and sorrow.

What It's Really About

The book is a profound meditation on the limits of escapism. It asks whether one can truly outrun personal grief by engaging with the aesthetic and historical wonders of the world. The narrator grapples with the tension between the "poet’s dream"—the idealized, classical vision of Italy found in art and literature—and the reality of human suffering, both her own and that of the impoverished people she encounters. Ultimately, the work explores how beauty serves as a temporary, imperfect salve for the soul. It suggests that while the world may be "richly embroidered" with light and color, it cannot provide a final cure for the "dull night of sorrow" that remains an inseparable part of the human condition.

Why Read It Today

Modern readers who appreciate the genre of the literary travelogue will find much to admire in this work. It captures the specific, heightened sensibility of a 19th-century traveler who is as much a connoisseur of art as she is a victim of her own temperament. Readers who enjoy the prose of writers who are unafraid to expose their own vulnerabilities—and their moments of pettiness or frustration—will feel a strong connection to this voice.

The book is not a fast-paced narrative; it is a slow, rhythmic meditation that demands a patient reader. Its period attitudes toward class and social standing are evident, reflecting the perspective of a privileged traveler in a foreign land. However, these biases are often mitigated by the narrator’s genuine, if sometimes naive, attempts to bridge the gap between her reality and that of the people she observes. The prose is elegant and precise, carrying a warmth that transcends its era. You will likely walk away from this book with a lingering sense of the narrator’s quiet dignity and the realization that the search for beauty, even in the midst of profound sadness, is a defining human endeavor.