Sunday, 6 September 1874

I went to bed at three; at eight they are already tormenting me. I rise at half past nine, and while I dress they tell me -- according to the charming custom of the house -- that I am late, that the boat is about to leave, etc. I put on the brown Worth dress, the hat I bought in Brussels -- I have worn no other since -- my bracelets, matching gloves, closed boots. A few minutes before departure the little count arrives -- miserable creature, marine shell. In great haste we get into the carriage, and here we are at the boat. I am gay from sadness, and rouse myself as much as I can. For I always await the worst thing with impatience, and I hate and love the waiting. I feel some regret in saying farewell to Maman, and say to Paul, kissing him: "Do not get up to any mischief and conduct yourself with decency." Maman was straining to hear what I said. But he is a lost boy; I pity him greatly and sometimes wish to be mistaken. The boat departs, and little by little the faces of Maman, Paul, Walitsky and the little count fade -- they never stop looking. Poor soul! For farewell I simply said au revoir to him and held out my hand. We passed the pier, and in vain I tried to make out Doria Pamphilii there -- that Ostend hero who, without knowing it, entertained us so much. Then come the Kursaal, the hotels, the Plage, the Baths; then sand; then I grew bored and went below to find a book, but the moment I was in the cabin I felt ill and was obliged to lie down and not rise again until Dover. My aunt is furious -- I do not know about what. I think I did not mention that Dina comes with us. I should have preferred her not to come; I like travelling in a pair. Dover seems very beautiful to me, from the little I see of it. We wait rather long at customs, even longer for our luggage to be inspected, and then my aunt becomes enraged. We had planned to go to Canterbury first, but my aunt, exasperated by I know not what, begins saying we should not go, that the Howards do not want us, that they practically mistreated us last winter in Nice, and all manner of similar things that discourage me and make me ask myself: "Why are all my pleasures, all my journeys, poisoned?" They do what I want, they go where I want, they give me what I wish -- but first they poison it and render it bitter and sad. So that I almost never enjoy anything. They shove us into a carriage with two sorts of Negroes and a cad. During this journey I represent immobility, patience and composure. [Crossed out: At last I begin] Since I have been in England I feel different. Generally, when travelling, I never look out the window; here, on the contrary, I do nothing else. I admire these well-tended lands, these fine trees -- for everything seems beautiful to me here. And above all, what is strange is that it seems to me I am coming home, not going to a foreign country for the first time. At last I perceive a great number of little houses all alike, and in the distance an immense city. It is London. The fulfilment of all my travel desires! I am perfectly happy arriving at Charing Cross. As we drive to the Alexandra Hotel I look right and left with a growing satisfaction, and with that feeling one has on seeing again what is one's own, what one knows and what one loves. I guessed [Crossed out: the names] the places without asking anyone, and I enter the hotel at last as if entering my own house. Everything delights me -- the service and the food above all! For I do not know how long -- no, I am wrong -- never have I been so well served; I had only imagined it. I find everything excellent, according to my taste, and am astonished to find the very things I regretted not having invented. But I am still tired from the boat and go to bed.