Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Sunday, 24 August 1873

They woke me early — first the trunk, then Laferriere.
The dress is rather ugly, and above all the bodice is ten centimetres too narrow in the bust. I send it back; I should like not to take it. I dress, but it is very hot. I am in despair — I have nothing to wear! Bikowsky comes and we lunch (green dress, neither good nor bad); it is very hot, extremely hot.
This Bikowsky is the same — small, rather agreeable. At last we arrive; there are only a few carriages at the beginning, but later more arrive — though one cannot say there were many.
Not a single fashionable outfit, but it is natural — these are simple races; they are not the May or October races at Longchamp. In the spring I shall go to England; I shall try to be in Paris for the races. We have a place right up against the rail; we are in the front row facing the grandstand. It is very hot! I hasten to look at the programme and find at the end: Sir David, Duke of Hamilton. He has only a single horse! [Crossed out: Perhaps he is economizing — very wise; better to pay off his debts and save a little.]
At the first race, I see a red and grey horse arrive; I thought it was Hamilton's, but no. Truly the races are the most amusing thing in the world! After the ones in Vienna I was cooled off, but in France — what a difference! There, not a cry, not an exclamation, not a gesture; the ladies below, surrounded by gentlemen, talk loudly about everything except the races. And on every face one reads the enthusiasm, the excitement [sic], the life! Beside us there was an English coachman, and as the horses passed very close, he cried Go on, Jennings, go on! Even the coachmen — all of them, all of them take part. They made remarks and took as much interest in the winner as the finest English gentleman. It is charming to see everyone caught up in it! The horses pass so close that ours take fright. It is the first time I have seen them run from so near. They are all young except two — all between two and five years old. The third race, run by two-year-old fillies. But they are strong and beautiful for such young horses. Every time they start and pass before us, I am in the air — I do not feel that
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my feet touch the carriage. I see nothing around me except the horses; if someone were murdered in the carriage, I should not notice. I should like not to be in a landau but in the midst of the crowd, to be able to scream with all the force of my lungs. When I see the horses approaching the finish and they are running nearly equal, I go mad, and it takes strength of character not to cry out. I would have roared so loud as to frighten the whole population. Besides — no, they are all crying so loud! What thrills me most is that everyone is ablaze like me: all running, all shouting, all gesticulating. On the balcony of the small middle grandstand, in front of the weighing-in area, stood these gentlemen. There were a few Englishmen.
The Menelaus der gute — "laus der gute!" — laus der gute man von Victoria, man von Victoria, man von Victoria — was there, opera glasses over his shoulder, all red in the face. I rather like him; he is the second agreeable red-haired man. He is not stout enough, not enough... In short, he pleases me, but quite differently. I am very pleased and thankful not to blush at his name.
I see a gentleman pass by in light clothing and a grey hat, and somewhat Hamilton-like.
"There is Hamilton," says my aunt.
"No, he does not look like him," I said.
And — marvel! — I did not change colour. Several times they spoke of him; even little Bikowsky dared to speak of his stoutness. And this from him — a small, small, small, thin, dark fellow. I too spoke of the Duke of Hamilton (I prefer to say Duke of Hamilton rather than simply Hamilton. This journal — woe is me — might fall into someone's hands, and if one saw that name used so familiarly, it would truly not be proper.) — as I would of anyone. I am happy to be able to speak of him simply.
For four months already I have imagined that everyone knows everything, and especially for the past month I have been utterly wretched — I am simply afraid to speak or to hear anyone speak of my lord. (I always use proper titles.) Today, on the contrary, it is so simple that I am astonished at my own stupidity. I read his name several times, his horse. Even when in the last race his Sir David appeared, I said here is the horse of such-and-such, that the poor Duke is reduced to a single horse instead of five; I named his horses from Nice, and said that for three years he has been declining in the races, arriving only third. Then my aunt, who likes to speak when she
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knows or not, said that while Napoleon was alive, the Duke of Hamilton was winning because the horses belonged to Napoleon. (She confused him with the Count de Lagrange.) I denied it; she insists; I persist. Then she even says the Duke of Hamilton is related to Napoleon. I said, as is in fact the truth, that he is related rather to Wilhelm. His mother being the sister of the Grand Duke of Baden, who is married to the daughter of Wilhelm, he is therefore the nephew of the King of Prussia, not of Napoleon. But my aunt likes to maintain what she says, and even while letting it show that I am right, she persists, but more faintly — to let the matter drop. She said, as proof of the kinship, that when the old Duke of Hamilton died at the Maison Doree, Napoleon forbade the newspapers from speaking of it, so as not to grieve the Duchess and to have time to prepare her. She told this story of the Maison Doree in detail. I have heard it only from my aunt, and consequently... not to insult her or to doubt her, but I am not very sure. She (not meaning to lie) sometimes says things she does not know, and all distorted — merely to sustain the conversation. In short, today they spoke of him as they did a year ago. They spoke of him as of everyone, and I am very glad. It is so agreeable to speak of those one loves!
Little Bikowsky knows many people from Nice — Casa Play, for example. He met the Countess de Galve at a tea and described her so well, in character and speech, that I believe him. He is a little liar sometimes.
Among these gentlemen (I call them so — the men on the balcony; I can find no other name) I thought I saw the Duke of Hamilton. My aunt even said that "Hamilton" is there. But he is not there, for when we walked in front of the grandstand, I saw the man I was taking for Hamilton.
Looking from the carriage, I wanted to believe it was him, but the back is quite different, and the profile; the resemblance from afar lies in the grey suit, grey hat, and ruddy complexion. For a moment I thought his back had changed, but I felt no joy
Later, however, from the carriage, when at the first bell the balcony filled up, I thought I saw him — but from so far I could not make out the faces. Besides, they all re-
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semble one another.
I say this because he was not there. Certainly, if he were there, I would see him; I would recognize him at a league's distance, and besides, my heart would tell me.
The heart is a piece of flesh which communicates by a little string with the brain, which in its turn receives the news from the eyes or the ears; and all of this makes it the heart that speaks to you. Because the little string stirs and makes it beat more than usual, and sends the blood rushing to the face.
When his horse was running I was very moved (stupid?); it is stupid to say so, but it is true. I felt a general agitation, and the minutes during which they went round the track, which always seem so short, were too long this time. It is the first time I have had a favourite horse. All horses are equal to me; I have therefore no other interest than the love of racing — horses, jockeys, bets, etc. etc. This time it is different; it is torment, and this agitation is charming; I blush at every moment, and henceforth it can be no other way. Well then — we leave, alas!!
There was a race between two, Copernius and Orphelin; it was very interesting — they ran evenly. I do not know who won. I was in a dreadful state, a little like... oh! no, quite differently. I am not capable of describing my great emotions — it is stronger than I! My wretched pen is nothing!!!
It begins to rain; I put on my coat. We go to dinner at the Russian restaurant. By mistake we did not take a private room but sat in a room for at least twenty, thinking no one would come. But three French ladies arrive, then a cocotte with a man, and then a gentleman and a lady. We were in company — yet I ate well all the same. I began with the end and finished with the beginning. I can imagine what those ladies must think of me!
1 — tea, four cups,
2 — crayfish,
3 — cucumbers,
4 — beef,
5 — more crayfish, 6 — fruit.
With all that, a small glass of brandy — but mixed with water. I swallow the little glass in a single gulp. We are merry
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as always at dinner. I was somewhat restrained in my comic outbursts by the presence of Bikowsky and the others. I want to rid myself of this clownish wit.
We return to the hotel; they examine my waterproof with attention. Bikowsky stays some time with us and leaves around half past two. I undress without saying goodbye and, as he leaves, give him two fingers through the door.
My aunt is cross because I write too much; she will not leave before I go to bed. Very well, I obey — and it is not too late. I chatter too much.
Oh! Hamilton! I love you!

Notes

In English in the original. ↩