Monday, 22 June 1874

This will be a little difficult: since Monday the 22nd I have written nothing, and many things have happened -- the most important being that we are no longer in Paris. Today, Wednesday the 24th of June, we are in Spa, at the Hotel de l’Europe. But before we get to where we are, there are several things to tell.
in the margin
Notlimah Woydac Cadyow.
Monday the 22nd, we went into town as we do every day; I remember only the visit to Caroline’s -- that is, Laferrière’s -- and then that Rodionoff dined with us, that Dusautoy had come and neither remade nor mended my riding habit (besides, it would have been a miracle -- he had been paid two weeks ago). Then that we went to the Champs-Elysées in the evening. The next day, the day of departure, we went to English Hats; I bought a jockey cap in black velvet, then went for a fitting at Caroline’s. She was very amiable, admitted that she loved gambling passionately, and that yesterday she became a grandmother for the second time.
At last I have my pink dress, which is really very pretty. We -- or rather I -- leave several orders in Paris, for want of money and time, but I gave notice that I should write as soon as I arrived saying where to send them. This is what I shall do.
Bagatelle is a true ratter -- claws like a cat and teeth like needles.
Maman is very overwrought; she sobbed, not knowing where we would go. When they proposed Vichy she responded with a furious refusal, and now that we are in Spa -- and even some time before arriving -- she wept, laughed, saying that Spa was a hole, that there is no one, that it is at the end of the world. An opinion I share entirely up to now. In truth, until now I have seen no one, only a few gentlemen; it is true that it was raining, and since this morning the weather has changed four times; at this moment there is a fifth change to rain. And -- I have not the time to write it before the sun appears and no more rain.
I left Paris with keen regret; I love Paris for itself. Passing through the Place de l’Opera I saw the rooftops and the upper-storey windowpanes gilded by the rays of the setting sun; it was so beautiful, with all those people swarming about, that I began to sing to suppress my emotion -- the noise of the omnibus was deafening, I could have shouted. It is a pity one must leave what one loves; one lives but once and life is so short. As we went along I remembered all these people I know and do not know; well, it is perhaps stupid, but it was as if I were leaving friends. Lambertye, Rothschild, Wittgenstein, Chimay, Tichkevitch, and even fat Fritz Meyer -- those are my friends. Yet two of them are very shy, and I cannot call them so. I miss Paris (I look at myself in the mirror while writing; I did not sleep half an hour last night and I am singularly beautified). I went out with Paul, bought Prater a collar, and went to various shops before leaving. I could never bid this sublime city farewell enough. And what am I here -- nothing; whom do I see -- no one. And yet I love Paris. I shall try to live there one day, if God will be pleased to permit it. What shall I say of it then?
That little scoundrel Berthe lied or invented that the Duke of Hamilton would come. Henceforth I shall say Hamilton reversed, which makes Notlimah -- it has the look of the name of an Indian deity. I travel in my New Scotland dress and the little black hat. I wear everything so well that it was pretty.
Editors’ note
[From here on, and until the penultimate page of the Notebook, the Journal is written on paper with the monogram M]
In the waiting room, a gentleman entered and Maman said on seeing him: There is a gentleman. I had noticed him already in the main hall because he is enormously like Notlimah -- very well dressed and with good manners; in short, he resembled him, greatly. But such faces are cruel and I fear such an expression of physiognomy. This disdainful and mocking air, this quivering lip -- as Dumas would say -- these grey eyes and these lively, light, and imposing manners all at once: it all intimidates me and frightens me.
Editors’ note
[Marie tore off and removed the bottom of the page, then continued her diary on the reverse]
The Duke of Hamilton comes back to my memory in his smallest details. When he enters a place, he lights it up; he does not walk but seems to fly -- to fly in a manner so calm, so noble, and so imposing all at once. His slightly inclined nose and his mouth give him a disdainful and stiff proud air, mingled with pride and malice, even cruelty. These are Small grey eyes add to all this a mocking expression.
“There is in his gait something of the light majesty of a god.” In short, his whole person, so noble, his manner so grand and so conceited and good-natured at the same time, his noble bearing which even when he whistles never leaves him -- all this makes this man the most detestable, the most repulsive, and the most adorable and attractive I have in the world. Repulsive is the word, for seeing him up close at the pigeon shoot, I saw at that very instant all those airs and all those mannerisms of which I have tried to give an idea. My first impression was that he had a cruel face, and I was afraid. But I find him nonetheless beautiful as a demigod. Apollo seen full face has something of him. All who wish to tell the truth will say I speak truly, save for a few expressions I have perhaps exaggerated.
It was raining; we -- I, Dina, and Paul -- went to visit the town (waterproof and hood). Those who saw us looked at us.
Maman is ill; she suffers greatly.
Another of those nervous attacks; I shuddered at each of her groans louder than the last. Thanks to God and to Walitsky the crisis passed, and she got off with having to keep to bed. I did not close my eyes all night -- or rather, I slept half an hour; I have therefore gained a day in my life; that night was a day for me. We dined at half past four, and toward five o’clock, while reading on a chaise longue, I fell asleep like a baby. I woke an hour and a half later believing it was the next day, and found myself standing in the middle of the room uttering incoherent words, asking whether it was day already -- I was still dreaming.
It seems to me that two days have passed, for after this nap I was hungry.
Maman is against Spa; what shall we do? Let us first reconnoitre the place, get our bearings, and then we shall see.

Notes

In English in the original: the name of the shop. ↩
In English in the original: New Scotland, a shop in Nice selling fabrics and making costumes, where Marie often ordered her clothes. ↩
Written in Russian in the manuscript; French translation by the editor. ↩
In English in the original. ↩