Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Tuesday, 18 November 1873

I go out first on foot with Hitchcock; I am beginning to get used to the brown dress -- the bodice fits admirably. We cross the Quai Massena and the promenade after that. The seasonal visitors are already planted on the promenade from the public garden to No. 7; I do not pass between those two rows of eyes that stare like the cannons of a warship. For some days I have been walking on the house side -- it is more novel. All the riffraff go near the sea.
I hear abominable things! Maman has bought the house (Coupello). I was quite indignant -- buy a house in Nice? Good heavens! A house in Nice, to live in Nice! And even if (Georges is acquitted at Aix; Mme Anna de Tolstoy will receive only a fine of five hundred francs for the two slaps) such a disgrace happened, one ought not to live in a house fit only for a newly rich dentist! If it were a noble villa, on a height, with a garden, well situated, or on the Promenade des Anglais, even such a house could pass. But in a hole! Far away, in an alley! Beyond the Avenue de la Gare! In a slum! Oh! Oh! It is that horror near the Villa Marguerite, beside the hydrotherapy, towards the Skariatines'. A little mushroom crushed at birth! If this villa were on the promenade, one should seize it, not merely take it. For if one does not live there, one is sure to let it. We cannot live in Nice; Maman did not know how to establish herself at the beginning, and now it is too late for people so nonchalant, thoughtless, and lazy. There is besides that stupid affair in Russia which tangles everything. That Tolstoy woman has left no small poison behind her, that scoundrel.

^[In English in the original.]
I pray to God every evening that He will allow us to go to Russia and settle, with His help, this lawsuit that gnaws at us and poisons our life -- mine above all. Then to return to France and establish ourselves in Paris properly. For to live as we do now is a dreadful thing. How is it that in Nice -- in Nice itself -- we play no part and are unknown to its wretched aristocracy! It torments me at every moment; every pleasure is a vexation. When we go out, alone. At the races, alone. At the theatre, alone. Everywhere, everywhere alone. Without even being complete strangers who know no one and who arrive with the charm of novelty. Everyone wants to know who they are, what they are! We are I don't know what... nothing -- yes, in Nice worse than nothing. It is shame, pity, misery for me. The wise may mock what I say, but those who have found themselves in a similar situation will understand me.
The carriage comes but full; Maman wants me to wait still longer, but it is too late -- I must have it. So Maman and Dina take a sort of victoria and go to Mrs. Howard's, leaving us the landau with Papa and Renard. I go then to fetch the balance (it doesn't work) and Bete. Return the balance, and to Auda's for Bete. We meet Maman on the promenade; I catch up with her, get into her carriage, sending Dina back to the landau, and we pass near the Coupello house. I repeat to Maman what I have just said, but calmly; I am going to try winning victories with calm and tranquillity. They are not accustomed to seeing me fight calmly, and it will work, I hope. We turn onto the promenade, where one sees all the youth of Nice, who are numerous and not bad today; there is Saint-Clair and several others more presentable. I then spoke to Maman about life in Nice (page 182-183), also very calmly, and I nearly wept -- fortunately no one was there at that moment.
I was keen today to be seen, because of yesterday's accident.
The whole time in the carriage, Bete tells me, I had the look of Pauline. I felt it myself and did not want it at all. Copy Pauline -- fie! How vile!
Mrs. Howard comes a little before dinner and we talk about yesterday. She wants to assure me that I was galloping. I have never galloped since the summer. It is Lise and Helene who gallop ignobly; I trot, as it is more skilful and prettier, to say nothing of being a hundred times more pleasant. Walitsky even said that "in that dreadful chaos a god drove his spur into my horse's dusty flank." That is to say, I was beating it with my riding crop. I did not even have one! Oh truth, holy truth, where art thou?!! I am still young and I cannot bear lies and injustices. They say one grows accustomed to them and even comes to say and do them oneself. Say after that that men have not reached perfection!

^[Racine, Phedre, Act V, Scene 6.]
Maman is too weak. I should be the mother, she the daughter. They took my horse; I mount some I-know-not-what that falls without me. And they come to tell me they love me, and for that they beg me to be more careful -- not to gallop. Oh! Good heavens! Oh! Truth! Oh! Justice! Me -- gallop.
The horse fell, not I.
But poor woman (Howard) -- she is sure of what she thinks; she does not know! They know not what they do. Besides, she is charming and exceedingly kind.
The deacon agrees with me.
Hamilton is selling his stable. Poor duke -- you are degrading yourself!
I said this to Bete in front of Termosiris, and that little insect supposes the duke is ruining himself. He even said that no doubt a woman costs more than horses. I nearly said that Gioia was not cheap. (In reply to the sale.)
"Well, he is getting married," says Bete.
"No," I say, "he is degrading himself."
I cover my mouth without finishing "degrading" -- that Terme is there, and he has a tongue!