Tuesday, 18 August 1874

I rise earlier and feel well. I rage and am miserable. One would think everyone has conspired to tell me I am pale. I weep with rage thinking of it!!!!!!!
I lunch with Maman at the Kursaal: grey dress, yellow boots. The yellow ones are the Hamiltons, the black the Blackprinces.
I dreamed of Marguerite: she was so haughty and so unfriendly that I was frightened, seeing her on the pier where we went with the Tamancheffs to watch the Dover boat arrive. Dreams are often liars; two days before leaving Spa I dreamed that I smeared Doria's face with soap foam, that he grew angry, and then I began pulling a sort of long, coarse blue sleeves that hung in front of him, despite his stern air and his promises to tell everyone I am ill-bred and to complain to Gambart. There is a piece of nonsense that cannot happen, yet I dream it.
She -- Marguerite -- was accompanied by the Villancaria family and the two Doenhoffs. The one we know came to greet us, then went and remained the whole time beside the princess.
He rejoins us afterwards on the seawall; they stare at my boots and my person as at a white wolf. On the seawall I am with Maman, Doenhoff and Prince Nazaroff -- a prince who travels with the Tamancheffs, who are very kind but whom I am glad to have shaken off for the moment.
All at once my aunt and Dina arrive with triumphant airs for which I could strangle them. She tells us she has just met Mme Voyeikoff and her children. In a few moments she indeed arrives; Doenhoff pulled a face and fled at the sight of her.
Julie is the very image of Beast.
Mme Voyeikoff's first words were:
"How pale you are."
My God, am I already so very pale! And then Maman, who tells everyone her worries and says I am pale and says I grow angry when people tell me so! It is enough to die of rage!
#### ! ! !
I have a habit, on arriving in a new town, of choosing a Plobster; here I chose the one from the first day without knowing who he is. On the pier there were many, and he was strolling on a yacht.
We are tolerably well off in Ostende.
I come home at five and write until half past six, leaving the others to dine with the Tamancheffs.
Basilewsky is a man of about forty, the [Crossed out: model] type of a black-robed priest.
They drag me to the Casino; I stay only until ten. Doenhoff laughed with us at the fine dancers. A little girl of three or four beside us turns to her mother:
"Maman, not one nice escort!" It is the pure truth.
They exasperate me with this count! I detest him, and these last days he has been unbearable to me, and Walitsky does nothing but talk of him. These barbarians make me weep! Walitsky has invented a method to make me laugh. Every time I flee or pull a face at the Pole's name, he says:
"Doria Paamphilii." I laugh, because it is silly.
"Ah! I know -- I shall tell you: Doria, how he pleases me. Indeed, it is funny; Newfoundlands always please me in this way."
I laugh and content myself with knowing it is not true. They asked me how Doria can be a Plobster, being neither stout nor red and being an Italian. I said he is a Plobster because he is extremely noble and rich, and also because he has a good position and a distinguished name. As for his face, it does not please me. He has a kind, sympathetic, noble face -- but so far I have not found it to my taste.
How stupid they are: they tease me about Doria, who does not please me, and they have paid no attention to de Biesme, whom I noticed, and of whom I have often spoken to them -- said enough, too much. It is precisely for this reason they do not believe me. Yet Maman admits he is handsome; he truly is.