Saturday, 5 September 1874

We do not leave, as I rather expected. I rise comparatively early and am fresh. At one I lunch at the Kursaal with my aunt and see Doria and his brother. His brother has a remarkable complexion, which I almost envy. Since the morning I am gay and lively. The Fosters and Merjeewsky come. I take Florence and we go to the pier. Ah! I must not forget more verses by Walitsky about the pier and Doria. Walitsky amuses us greatly with these verses and his nonsense about Doria. To be sung to the tune of "Oh, she would have gone," on the music of [illegible]: Oh, I shall go to the pier, I shall sit behind Doria. Refrain, etc. If Doria begins to laugh, Joy will enter my heart. Refrain. If Doria is bored, Something will stir in my heart. Refrain. [The rest of the song is practically impossible to decipher.] I go [sic] the park To see Mr Clark The friend gentleman Of my dearest man His look and fashion Are like Italian nation Every day he is walking And never smoking.¹ One must be indulgent with the English; he wanted to astonish, and also produced this in German: Durch die grossen Alleen von Spa Kann ich Doria sehen da ... Er ist ein geliebter Mann Wenn ich konnte und kann. I shall collect all his productions one day. What is amusing is that Doria is in everything the hero. At the pier we arrived a minute after the boat came in. The sea is very rough and the wind too. But Doria is there; I did not see him until we sat down, and then my aunt pointed him out. She too is inspired, and this morning at the Kursaal said this: I am at Ostende, I see no one, Only a redhead, And I detest him. "Dust" is Moelenar, otherwise called the tailless dog, or again something else... but this I shall neither say nor write. Walitsky will say it. We at once showed and described Doria to Florence, who is very kind. Doria himself was posing -- or so it seemed to us. Florence said he has a melancholy air, that he gazes at the sea leaning against the railing as if he were seasick, and called him the dark, handsome brooder. I do not know how this dear Doria has acquired such celebrity among us. Never have I admired him, never have I blushed for him, never have I spoken of him. And suddenly Doria becomes famous and fashionable. The first time I saw him was at Spa: I went out alone to buy fruit to the right of the Pouhon, and I see in the middle of the square a sort of obelisk -- it was Doria. He looked at me as everyone looks at me. Several times Doria seems to leave, comes back, leans forward, smiles and strolls. We had barely risen to go when all of ours arrive, and Merjeewsky; we come back again. Doria poses, or seems to pose, still. Merjeewsky speaks of him; the little one is very jealous, I suppose. I tell everyone and everywhere (laughing, no doubt) that I admire Doria. He is now called Airod -- Doria reversed. I have also reversed my name, and it is very pretty reversed: Airam. Air and ode; air and soul. We stay until five on the pier. I want to say a proper farewell to Ostende; I miss Ostende enormously. The crowd has much diminished. There are Plobsters of adorable perfection. If I were what I am not, I should stay; I should form a little circle with the Dorias and those with them and I should be very happy. But alas! We leave; I mourn Ostende as I mourned Spa, but everything passes. At five, at the Kursaal, I take a lemonade, and from five to six I stay at home with my aunt. With her we form a household apart. Another dinner at the Plage; the old starer is alone there. He waited for us to come out, followed us, and at the concert stands very close. Walitsky was at dinner and returns with us. We are at the concert with the Fosters, the three dogs -- Bagatelle and Airod, a tiny dog, so tiny one can barely see it, and the Fosters' big dog Glen -- and Merjeewsky. I tease him and laugh at him, invite him to come to London, saying the marquise will not allow it, that she will take him far away to distract him, that she is his governess, that she holds him in her clutches, that she will not let him go. Basilewsky comes, but he is busy talking with Paul. "Let us go to the Cercle des Bains," I say, rising, and we go. I was walking arm in arm with Florence, Merjeewsky at my side. The wind nearly carried us away; I arrive out of breath and dishevelled. Basilewsky is with us; because of this, Basilevitch is furious -- he had refused to walk her home. My aunt, Florence and I seat ourselves on the right of the front row, not far from the orchestra. Maman and the rest seat themselves on the left, where the Tamancheffs used to sit. In a minute Merjeewsky announces that Airod is here. Indeed, soon I see him -- he, his brother, a blond Italian marquis, and two more Plobsters -- seating themselves to the left of the orchestra on the same level as us. They were our vis-a-vis despite the distance. For escorts I have Foster, Chtcherbinine and Merjeewsky; at the last ball but one I had: Foster, Merjeewsky, Barkowsky, Chtcherbinine, the Portuguese minister and de Leiser. I am gay today, and because of this Merjeewsky is not maltreated. At the end I even take a single turn of waltz with him, and that in order to pass before Airod. We stay until the end. I took the dog Airod on my left hand and the leash of Bagatelle in my right, but on leaving I found myself in the midst of all these gentlemen and involuntarily squeezed the paw of the ratlike creature called Airod; it let out a cry, and the blond marquis too: "Povera bestia!" Then I quicken my step and am received with laughter and cries by our little circle. These gentlemen pass us as on the other day. Despite this I amuse myself; I laugh and weep at going away. Cat nature, go! The Fosters go home; we enter our confectionery where we laugh and talk of Doria. He lodges opposite, and Dina went to see his lighted window. Merjeewsky is very happy that I take an interest in him. We see Basilevitch returning; we call her, she comes. She has some rather comical quarrels with Paul; someone proposes going to Neppency's, and the proposal is accepted. I walk with Merjeewsky and tell him that my aunt, Dina and I invite him to come to London, and that he has the audacity not to come. "But a single word would have sufficed." "Well, there it is: I tell you, come." "Now how shall I do it -- my trunk, and I must warn my mother -- in the middle of the night..." "Oh! I know very well you will never do anything out of the ordinary," I say, smiling. He was already wavering; one should have seized the moment, but I am lazy. In the confectionery we go no further than the first room. While Basilevitch and Paul amused us, while the count was silent and swallowed ices, while Maman, my aunt and Dina laughed, while I laughed, thought and observed, the door of the next room opens and Doria appears, followed by the others. I was alerted by a desperate gesture from my aunt. I blushed deeply; Merjeewsky looks at me, but I do not hide. Seeing these fine Plobsters, true Plobsters, pass and turn near the exit, my heart tightened at the thought that I am leaving. I could even weep. Am I mad enough? I miss Plobsters I do not know -- and nothing but them, as if they were something. But in fact Plobsters are everything to me. I shall remember my walk to and from the Cercle des Bains, when in the darkness I saw the four cigars of the Plobsters gleaming like fireflies as they receded. I terribly want the count to come. It would be charming! I imagine the consternation of the old biddies, of the Viviani woman! And then it would be pretty to carry him off, to have the beginnings of a courtship. But what annoys me is that he is alone; I should like at least two. There is no one in this Ostende. The scoundrel Plobsters do not get themselves introduced. Paul overheard yesterday and today two conversations. Yesterday a young man was saying to a lady: "She is pretty." "No, she has a cachet -- what they call..." "No, she is truly pretty." "But why do you concern yourself with her?" "One must, since everyone does." "Did you see her at the ball in pink, with pink stockings? Then she was pretty." I know my feet created a sensation here. And each day I am assured of it, seeing all eyes fixed on my feet. Today: One of the very blond ones asked Doria who is this young girl with the remarkable feet. [In the margin: (or something of that sort).] And he replied that he did not know. I have bad luck. With my adoration for Plobsters, I have none. Merjeewsky amounts to little, especially in an overcoat with a scarf round his neck. I am furious at leaving and abandoning these men here. It seems to me that all the Plobsters should be mine. [In the margin: One must not think I do not say what I think, and everything, everything, everything -- except about the Duke.] Merjeewsky told me at the Cercle that he will not come to London because he will see me there and that, in short... Then I tell him it is the marquise's scheme, that she wants to take him far from Nice. The poor thing is so much in love. He is afraid -- fool! -- who would deprive himself of the happiness of seeing what he loves and being near what he loves! Since he will have nothing, let him profit by the chance of seeing. What use is depriving oneself of something agreeable! If I loved, I would act differently and never flee what I love for stupid reasons. One forgets when one forgets; by not seeing, one rarely cures oneself. But the marquise wants to take him to the Indies. Oh! How I should like to carry him off to London. His mother alone stops me, but bah! It is wrong what I say; I pray God to forgive me. I am so mad. This good and charitable marquise Wants to lead the count as she please; Seeing him very much in love, She'd distract him and does what she's thinking of, But alas! The count does not heed her, that lass. To the Indies she wants to take him away And have him plant coffee all day. They say this vegetable -- From the heart removes the bitterness, that's medical. The count is still very young, His mother and the old one have among Themselves agreed to take him away at once And change his climate, these stunts Hoping that this stratagem Will shorten his love for them. This system is a folly -- Its efficacy I deny wholly. When one loves, one loves everywhere: At Ostende as in Peru over there. To the marquise I give this advice: Cease these old-woman farces, think twice! For as long as I shall wish to, The little one I shall hold on to.