Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Monday, 18 August 1873

At five in the morning I was woken! It is Paris! I dress quickly, but there are still fifty minutes; I had time to wake up completely. [Crossed out: and to look about.] But here is the station; the train stops; we get out. It is cool, cold. We take a carriage — the coachmen in Paris are atrocious. My aunt gives the orders and we go to the Hotel de Hongrie et d'Espagne. There is not a room. Then, to my great satisfaction, we go to the Grand Hotel and there we stay. Paris in the morning is droll — one sees nothing but butchers, pastry-cooks, bootmakers, haberdashers, restaurant-keepers, opening and cleaning their shops and cafes. Maids with a hurried air, running with eyes downcast. They look as if they see nothing but the tips of their feet, and yet they pass with such dexterity that it is astonishing. Two years ago, in October, at the same hour, we were entering Paris. Towards noon I was not only settled but ready to go out (green dress, good). In Paris I am at home; I live, I breathe; everything interests me. Far from being lazy, I am on the contrary too eager. I should like not merely to walk but to fly. It is only now that I appreciate Paris, after a German city. I wanted to make myself believe there are people of quality in Vienna, but it is impossible. The whole hotel is full of very fine Englishmen — these are not wretches like those who come to Nice, but gentlemen. At least one sees men, and that is no small thing. The women too are fine.
We went out. The streets are lively, charming — I adore Paris. We go to Ferry's, rue Scribe no. 11; I took the address at the Exposition. I bought two pairs of boots, one black, the other in grey chamois leather, with steel heels and fastened at the side by buckles of the same metal. The second pair of boots of this kind to appear — one at the Exposition, the other on me. From there to the deacon's; Dina and I waited in the carriage. I was growing impatient and wanted to get out when my aunt and the deacon appeared. He is no doubt astonished at how we have grown. He tells us that Mme Voyeikoff is in Paris.
We go to her house (he is invited to luncheon). We find her in the drawing room; the children have not grown; Julie is the same plain creature. Madame has put on weight, she has become ugly and affected to an impossible degree. She is completely changed — she is no longer the amiable Mme Voyeikoff but an affected, ugly, stupid woman without manners.
She has put her daughters in a boarding school. Serves them right — they are horrid children. They told me I have become pretty (I think so too, compared with what I was) and tall. With Julie I began a dialogue about studying. She says to me:
"What nonsense, what nonsense, to study so much — especially Latin and Greek!"
"Not at all nonsense — a woman must study as much as a man. Perhaps in your opinion, for a woman it suffices to know how to chatter in French and then about fashion. Is that not so?"
I stung her! But later I was speaking of laces at the Exposition, and then she says:
"I don't know anything about that at all; I shall have time when I am grown up. And at present, since I don't bother with outfits!"
"You are quite right," I said, "one always has time to learn about frippery — it is the last thing. And besides, it comes quite naturally."
She was not expecting that; she wanted to return the barb, and I beat her to it.
We lunch at Mme Voyeikoff's. But I am on pins and needles; my aunt spoke of Princess Souvoroff, of her whole entourage, and I was afraid (stupid of me) that by chance she might name the Duke of Hamilton — since he had left when the Princess was in Nice.
In about half an hour we left. I am truly glad of it. Moreover, as we parted, we kissed the children. From there, home. The deacon and my aunt and Dina spent the whole afternoon talking about the Tolstoy affair and its miseries. I am bored stiff being nailed to the hotel listening to what I know by heart. Then, to please the deacon, to Vefour for dinner. I dined badly, and besides it is not very proper, it seems to me. We stay a long time; people smoke, people chat. It rains nearly all day, which consoles me for having wasted it. We return, and the deacon goes by train — he is going to see a sick person at Aix. I am glad he is leaving. He is neither a man nor a priest — a bore. He is unceremonious as a holy father, and simple.
In the courtyard there are many people, especially today — it is raining. I go to bed at ten. While the deacon was with us, we heard something arrive in the courtyard with so many bells that we ran to the window to see what it was. It was an omnibus. Then Dina:
"I am glad Marie was mistaken."
How stupid she is! How could I believe he would promenade in Paris as in Nice? I took a newspaper and read the races at Dieppe. I see "Fantome, Duke of Hamilton." Astrolabe is there; I said it aloud. I had to say that Hamilton is there too — the newspaper might fall into my aunt's hands. I summon my courage; I begin again from the middle; at last I arrive at it. Fantome, Duke of Hamilton. I read these words with an air of surprise and turn to my aunt:
"Just imagine — the Duke of Hamilton?" I say to her.
I did the same thing with Baron Finot. But with her it is useless, for — woe is me — I believe she has read my journal! I keep the newspaper; it is dated 17 August. Oh, if he would come to Paris! To see him, merely! The deacon claims that Gioia (I like that name enormously) received nothing from Simonoff. That she was waiting, that she had ordered furniture, and that she got nothing. It doesn't matter — my lord the Duke of Hamilton will pay those expenses. They say he has left her, but I do not believe it. Would she let him go? After losing Simonoff, losing the Duke would be too painful.