Tuesday, 13 August 1878

For two days I have been singing “l’oiseau s’envole,” for even the dishwashers have taken to singing. They say someone is getting married.
Dourassoff is an idiot — he tells me bit by bit what passes between him and the princes, to whom I now systematically turn my back and who parade before me as I once paraded before them. I make a show of avoiding them if they get in my way; at table I have already become quite proper, and I gently mocked the people who come to Soden putting on airs and who disapprove of people walking about there hatless and committing follies... where else would one commit them?
I had firmly promised myself to play the comedy that the little aunt played with Multedo. The princes were an excellent opportunity... I did not think of it — a pity! I avoid them now, but it is a little late.
They have drawn a caricature of me with the old prince and little Nick and some hens.
Thilenius asks me for news of Gans and assures me that I may well receive a bouquet of black roses surrounded by goose feathers.
I frankly have no wish to leave... This afternoon I was almost angry with myself... I was missing Soden... too much, and I would have liked to swallow the winter whole so as to come back next summer to my Soden. With all this joking I fear some stupid idea may get into my head... and besides, I absolutely must be calmer... I behave like a madwoman; not everyone takes it in good part, and then I feel bitter remorse when I hear people say something about me.
Do you know that today, at about three in the afternoon, for more than twenty minutes I preferred Schwarz to Cassagnac... didn’t I tell you that my brain is damaged and my intelligence has a most stubborn catarrh?
Do you know why I am staying?! Because I do not want Abaza to have Dourassoff introduce the Gans to her; we shall leave on the same day as that charming, so very witty man. That detestable woman has him under her slipper and will end by marrying him to her daughter as soon as the girl turns sixteen — that is all the same to me, but I do not want Dourassoff to introduce my darling Gans to her.
Here, I believe, is a reply to my caricature sent by post; and yet I do not think it is Schwarz’s style. It looks to me as if it came from a woman, and an Englishwoman at that. Perhaps it is the Englishwoman who walks with the Gans and who appeared in the caricature... a cocotte, I believe. But how would she know what I sing? I have examined the handwriting in the Kur-list and I see nothing resembling it... If it is Schwarz, the only thing that surprises me is how slow he has been to write me nonsense... though no — my caricature gave the signal.
The evening passes like every other: seated round a table on the terrace, we say mad things to one another.
The brewer, the madman, the journalist, the colonel’s wife and the baron have left. There are only passing travellers whom one hardly sees, and us. Us and the Coubes and Dourassoff. Mme Abaza and the prince, but those two do not lodge at the Kurhaus. The prince dines there, though... he alights on the terrace at about one and flies off at about three, to return in the evening.
I am a dove! Doves never have anything to do with geese.
I sing “l’oiseau s’envole” and they profane that heavenly music with a joke... very well; I know no song about geese, but this evening, when the Gans passed in front of us, I began humming this distinguished air:
When the ducks all go in a flock, It’s ‘cause they like it, it’s none of your business! They don’t care about our company. So let’s leave them their liberty...
Rosalie came again to tell me mad things... I will believe nothing, though I would very much like to.
Schwarz has blue eyes, and they seemed less beautiful to me this evening...
The Englishwoman saw that I was taking her portrait on the balcony... she walked about in vain this evening... my Gans left her alone and walked by themselves. I saw them at the Post Office; they never go there... it is Schwarz who wrote the letter...
I tell you, these last few days we have been amusing ourselves madly, and it is exceedingly piquant not to be acquainted...
Yes, but...
They have drawn another caricature of me. They are taking the bait... at last, thank God — just think, for four weeks, no, three weeks, we have been mocking them full steam ahead.
They speak to Dourassoff about me... who is an idiot — as for them, they are permitted to hesitate, although... Well!

Notes

L’oiseau s’envole (“The bird flies away”): a popular sentimental song; Marie gives its title in French. ↩
In French in the original: comme il faut. ↩