Saturday, 15 April 1876

A dreadful, indescribable, incomprehensible nightmare woke me at six o'clock.
It was quite light, but I was in a fantastic state of fear — I could not get back to sleep. It was terrifying.
There is nothing one can eat in this dreadful country.
Tired but pretty, I went out for a walk. Besides, we are staying on the Chiaia — the Promenade des Anglais of Naples.
There are magnificent horses here — the kind one scarcely sees at all in Rome — and here one sees them in abundance. The carriages are less fine.
I was bored — I am always bored when some Antonelli or other is not giving me a fever.
The Russian vice-consul, Monsieur Nasimoff, having been notified yesterday of our arrival, called on us. Maman had known him in Paris through the deacon.
One sees no one but Altamura. I distrust him — as I do all Neapolitans for that matter — it seems to me they wear no underclothes beneath their well-cut trousers and that they are all in debt, rogues, outright swindlers. Surely it is only a fancy.
I have nothing to say if I do not speak of Pietro, and it seems to me that would be to humiliate myself after his strange behaviour.
Shall I go on making suppositions — shall I write down all the excuses my imagination contrives, and above all my pride?
Leaving Altamura with my family, I withdraw and spend the evening reading a novel as fantastic as it is tedious, as sentimental as it is irritating.
After two hours of reading I stretched, then went and threw myself... onto a sofa — this time it was not onto the floor — I closed my eyes, I opened my arms, which closed again on emptiness... How I longed for him to be there!
It is the effect of the heat, the novel, the sea breeze, the boredom.
Enough! Why repeat the same thing? Why be astonished and grieve? Is it not written somewhere that everything must be wanting in my life?
At last! — there is the word with which all my reflections end. An at last and a sigh. At last!
I hear Maman recounting the childish exploits of Paul when he was not yet ten; Dina telling goodness knows what; Walitsky making rather flat jokes; and Altamura laughing uproariously.
I go to bed, I walk about, I sigh, I am indignant, I take shelter under the wing of my pride — but nothing comes of it: I am bored just the same.
How long must one stay in Naples? He will not come to seek me here. Well then — if he does not come to seek me here, I need concern myself with him no further.

Notes

The Chiaia — the elegant seafront promenade of Naples, running along the waterfront. Marie's comparison to Nice's Promenade des Anglais was a natural one for a traveller familiar with the Riviera.