Wednesday, 2 September 1874

I am homesick; I want to return to Nice. I am weary of this existence. I am so well in Nice (I did not say "we"). I want to see the Promenade again, my dear Promenade, our villa, the October rains, the Place Massena, the quays, the public garden, the London House -- and everything. I feel extreme pleasure in picturing myself there.

I hope I shall see those dear, longed-for places again. Now I go to London so as not to melt away in Nice.

Although it is fine there. But it is still too hot.

The count comes and goes. I go with my aunt to the pier. I am very bored in Ostende.

At the Kursaal we stay until dinner with Basilevitch, Merjeewsky and the long nose.

This evening a concert (white Worth dress, my hairstyle -- good). The look of the hall is desolate; we take the front row of the reserved seats. The society here is really too badly chosen. We are the only elegant ones.

The three ugly Polonaises, Viviani, Merjeewsky and yet another Vineyteka give me withering looks. I laugh. The concert is magnificent but there is no one.

There was the very pale Englishman with, I suppose, the sister and the niece of the great Doria.

We return escorted by the little young man. I send him to fetch me cherry cakes; because of this he has the happiness of staying half an hour at our rooms. I treat him very badly, but I am sure of him. I chatter before him as if no one were there. He is of no consequence.

Walitsky has become completely a poet; apart from the charming verses he sends to Makaroff, driving him mad with letters from Agareff, he has composed this -- which proves how much and in what fashion we concern ourselves with Doria at home:

I tell you the tale Of Doria Pamphilii: He is a wicked leech, A slayer of feminine souls. He is immense, Tall, of fine build; His penetrating gaze Engenders quarrels among women. Here is the rest: The charming personage -- The foolish Tcherniakovskaya, Mouchka Bashkirtseff, Douchka Merjeevsky -- Having seen Doria, Provokes hysteria in the house, Calls everyone an imbecile, Screams, kicks and fights, And there is no salvation Save when they are led to the of the sea And seated with Doria and Body On a bench at the pier. Here is the rest.

[The remainder of the poem, twelve lines in Russian, is practically illegible.]

Notes

In English in the original.