Monday, 10 August 1874

Ostende, Thursday 13 August 1874
Since Monday I have written nothing, but I believe I remember everything.
Monday the 10th -- spent packing; at half past six I take the carriage with bells and as always two horses, and go despite the rain to bid farewell to my beloved Spa. I am alone with Dina, both of us in our conspiratorial overcoats, which I am delighted to possess for today's weather. If one wished to tell this badly, one could indeed: Two young girls go to a stable, take a two-horse carriage with bells, and drive off without coachman or servant; stop beside a confectionery, one of them gets out, takes a slice of bread; then they go to Baas's for bread and cheese and set off into the countryside in heavy rain. The horses run, the bells on the cobblestones make a tremendous noise.
And yet there is nothing wrong in it.
We go to the Avenue du Morteau, then to the four fountains; instead of going straight I take every lane I come across, through meadows, woods, fields; I say that if Maman or Walitsky had been with us they would have died screaming and howling, seeing how I turned, what paths I took.
They were fine horses; I made them climb the steepest hills at a full trot. The rain did not last the whole time, and we return around nine o'clock. I am satisfied: I went everywhere one could go and even where one could not; I looked at and [Crossed out: done] said farewell to every tree, every lane, every hill. I love this Spa so, this ugly little hole.
Come, let us think of it no more!
I eat as best I can at Baas's, which is my London House here, and go with Maman to the casino; in the dressing room I do my hair, and without entering the ballroom where they are dancing furiously we go to the theatre, in our travelling dresses. I in the New Scotland dress, black hat. Marguerite, the pretty princess, is at the theatre, and Doria too -- but he is in the stalls, quite near our box, which is next to the stalls entrance. Coming in, he almost touched us, so much did he stir the air with his gigantic person. I blushed. I meant to say on Saturday that at the ball that evening I did not recognize him, so much has he improved at Spa. He arrived with sunken eyes, a yellow complexion, and now I see him at the ball, white and plump compared with what he was.
We arrive late and see only L'Homme n'est pas parfait; to my great astonishment they reduce the price by a franc because there is only one play -- quite strange, and Weinberg could not tell his Jewish anecdote.
In the corridor on the way out, Doria passes us; he is so tall that I come up to his elbow -- it is humiliating. He is a column, not a man.
We change lodgings for the fourth time; tonight we move to the Hotel de l'Europe.