Sunday 5 September 1875

We were at church, and there, to our extreme surprise, we met Pâris.
Kechko was there. The girl is beautiful, no doubt, but her coming marriage to Prince Milan of Serbia has given her the airs of a stage queen. It is all very magnificent, but real queens and princesses carry themselves more simply and more nobly.
Editors’ note
[Two lines crossed out]
The eternal story: we have no money.
Yourkoff, on whom my aunt was counting, cannot lend anything at the moment. Ah, a fine fix we are in, I can tell you!
It goes without saying that my aunt and I are waiting for Girofla — let us be clear, we are waiting for him in our minds, each in secret from the other. He does not come; without the least affectation I send for our victoria and we go to the Bois (dark costume, not bad).
It is Sunday and there is such a crowd that it is frightening. We enter the Bois at half past five, and little by little the rabble drifts away until only carriages with liveried servants are left — which does not mean good society, mind you; I know what I mean.
After two turns we sink back into our torpor, for the one who at present wakes our senses — like those men with rods on Gulliver’s floating island — that one, I say, is absent. But to make up for it we have the whole Spanish swarm, the Gonzaleses, the Durands, and so on.
For a moment I felt I was in Nice.
After dinner I do not undress, but only take off my bodice, so as to look undressed and unconcerned and at the same time be ready in an instant, should the illustrious cad deign to come.
All this is nonsense. I am sad; it is September, and Nice is so lovely in September. I remember last year, my morning walks with my dogs on the Promenade des Anglais. That sky so pure, that sea so calm and so silvery.
It is not two months, and yet it seems a year since I last saw Nice.
Here there is neither morning nor evening: in the morning they sweep, in the evening these countless street lamps get on my nerves. I lose myself here; I cannot tell east from west.
Whereas there one is so comfortable; one is as if in a nest, surrounded by those mountains, neither too high nor too barren, sheltered on three sides as though by a graceful, comfortable cloak from Laferrière, and before one lies an immense window, an infinite horizon, always the same and always new.
Oh, I love Nice — is there anywhere but Nice? Nice is my homeland; Nice made me grow up, Nice gave me health and a fresh complexion.
It is so beautiful! One rises with the day and sees the sun appear over there on the left, behind the mountains that stand out sharply against the silvery-blue sky, so hazy and soft that one could choke with joy. Towards twelve [o’clock] it is straight in front of me; it is hot, yet the air is not hot — there is that incomparable breeze that always cools; everything seems asleep, there is not a soul on the Promenade except two or three old Niçois dozing on benches. Then I go out, alone; then I breathe, I admire, I gasp.
The afternoon is sad if I have not some Girofla or other.
In the evening, again the sky, the sea, the mountains. But in the evening it is all black on deep blue, and when the moon lights up the immense silver path on the sea, which looks like a fish with diamond scales, and I am at my window with a mirror before me and two candles, calm, alone, I ask for nothing, I am happy and I bow down before God!
Oh no, no one will understand what I mean; they will not understand because they have not felt it — no, that is not it: the thing is that I despair every time I try to make anyone understand what I feel! It is like a nightmare, when one has not the strength to scream!
Besides, no writing will ever give the slightest idea of real life. How can one convey that freshness, that fragrance of memories? One can invent, one can create, but one cannot copy. However much one feels while writing, nothing comes of it but common words: woods, mountains, sky, moon. Everyone says the same thing. And besides, why all this? What does it matter to others? The others will never understand, since it is not they but I — I alone understand, I remember. And then people are not worth the trouble it would take to make them understand all that. Each one feels, as I do, for himself. I should like to get to the point of seeing others feel for me as I do. It is impossible; they would have to be me.
My girl, my girl, leave all that alone. You are losing yourself in subtleties; you will go mad if you worry at it the way you once worried at getting to the bottom of things. There are so many clever people. Well, no! I meant to say it was for them to untangle it — well, no! They know how to create, but untangle — no, no, a hundred thousand times no.
What is clear in all this is that I am homesick — for Nice.
If by chance anyone read this diary, would they laugh at it? No doubt they would. And yet they would be wrong: if there are absurdities or follies in it, it is because I have used no disguise of thought, I have in no way shaped what I meant to say. I have said things as I thought them. And if others did as I do, there might perhaps be more to hiss at in them than in me.