Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Saturday, 27 December 1873

I have just read the Apocalypse, and I understand no more of it than the rest do. I dozed off several times and caught myself with my nose bent over the book, but as soon as I looked elsewhere I was not sleepy; it is half past ten in the evening.
It rained a great deal this morning, but toward noon a charming sun. (It is like me.) We take Maman and my aunt to the station (brown dress, not bad), then I go to try on my white dress at Monier's.
It is a fine day -- a few drops of rain through the sunshine. This year there was no Autunno, when it rains for six weeks and one goes out in waterproofs with umbrellas; the carriages loaded with mud splash the wretched pedestrians; the regulars arrive little by little, make their appearance on the Promenade and look left and right with an astonished, pleased gaze that seems to recognize everything and everyone. The strangers who come for the first time make the tour of the city with a superb air, cross the quays, stop in crowds to watch the waves that come onto the Promenade bringing pebbles and sometimes bathing the too-curious English, or those who wish to look it, who stand on the benches and talk aloud, pointing at I know not what in the sea with the tips of their umbrellas. Then at last those crowds stuck like flies to the edge of the bridge, admiring the Paillon when that terrible river rolls with the impetuosity of the Styx and hurls itself furiously into the sea, combating the waves that are tinted by its waters. The whole presents a mass of cafe au lait. When the bathing cabins are withdrawn onto the Promenade itself, and the bathers transform themselves into coachmen, servants in livery, etc. etc.

^["Waterproofs" and "pleased" in English in the original.]
People begin to complain of the bad weather; the sun appears for an hour; they write an article in the Echos about that star that gives light, etc. Mme Prodgers appears majestically reclined in her victoria, nose in the air and hat beyond her head, feet covered with a fur of doubtful origin. The Vicomtesse Vigier comes too, dragged by impetuous steeds in an antediluvian shell, looking at the passersby with the air of a fairy come to reconquer her domains. Boreel appears, all in blue, with his well-shaven poodle -- first on foot, then on a dog-cab or other fantastic vehicle. Then the tall Audiffret, who, unable to leave, hid all summer to have the charm of a stranger. At last, at last come the Falkners, Lady Howard with her red-haired husband and fat Merck -- an indivisible trinity. By this time Nice is already flooded with cocottes of every kind, and at last one sees the Duke of Hamilton -- first appearing on foot, but he always seems to fly above the earth; scarcely a few minutes does he stand talking to someone before he throws himself into his devil's carriage borne off by a rat. One sees him perhaps sometimes before the Hotel d'Angleterre, cane resting on the tip of his shoe, or with Lady Howard & Co. -- but always passing like an arrow along the Promenade, after which one sees his splendid chariot and steed, head bowed, at the door of No. 77. Toward five o'clock, carried off together with Merck toward that mysterious palace; or else in the rain, in a white rubber coat, without umbrella, lighting a cigarette -- always toward that dwelling. Or else with the little Italian marquis -- it is amusing to see the two backs side by side. Going to the races one sees him in that grove, on that sort of terrace, seated with Lais (since he is Alcibiades) and eating. He is seated and looks as if in the air, flying like a shot.

^[In English in the original.]
Enough of him.
I forgot the hangers-on: Gros (Maurice), always eager to seize someone's arm; Saetone with his superb air; several other infusoria; and other young men less remarkable but touching.
The balls follow one another, the soirees, the concerts, the races. In the stands one sees the same Countesses of Good-Heavens, Duchesses of Clear-Off, and Dukes of Barefoot -- all of great distinction and high nobility. One sees the Duke of Hamilton climbing and descending the steps of the stands, limping with a cane, whistling with an insolent air, going to lose himself in the paddock.
But the most curious and amusing thing is a new foreign crowd, like the Galves. Everyone speaks of them. They stand out so from the others; they have the stamp of the foreign among foreigners. But I was only speaking of autumn, and here we are in the depths of winter.
Mme d'Auzac with her childishly irritating and stupid laughter, la mere Michel, the Polish tribes, people one does not know -- and finally the cocottes.
This wretched year, nothing of all that.
But let us return to our sheep. I go to fetch Hitchcock and we walk; I put on the conspirator cloak and Wellington boots. I was warm after walking as far as Lais; I wanted to take it off, but catching sight of Lambertye I want him to see it. Both Galves, in grand sky-blue outfits, are at the windows with gentlemen. I did not recognize the little one, so much had the outfit and the blue bow in front changed her. I take the carriage to go as far as No. 17 and return to see the Galves. They do not look very comme il faut thus -- the prince is not there; instead they have the ugly black Duke de La Conquista.

^[In English in the original.]
In the evening the princess lights (and we with her, Dina and I) the Christmas tree for Nadia, which she bought at the London House for a hundred francs. This tree reminded me of my childhood. I never had one -- a childhood!
They called Fortune and he was allowed to choose -- poor little fellow, he was very pleased. The disgusting and indelicate Anitchkoff children imposed themselves; they too were given something. There is a bonbonniere for all of us -- Maman, etc. etc. -- even Solominka and Hitchcock. The scene took place in the yellow salon, with the following characters: myself, the princess, Dina, Solominka, Hitchcock, Nadia, Papa, and the Anitchkoff children. The Strikers dined with us; I do not like these free manners.
Solominka received a bonbonniere in the shape of a postal parcel; it was printed: Envoi -- "from Serbia," I added.
One must know that there is here a Serbian gentleman -- I do not know his name -- who lodges in the boarding house (Buxearlet) like Tormosoff and of whom the latter speaks constantly. Every morning he comes and says:
-- Do you know what the Serb has done? etc.
Walitsky for several days has been making us laugh terribly by forestalling Tormosoff and saying every morning that now the Serb has swallowed the nightshirts, now that he has carried off all the papers from the closet; the last time, he gnawed a bell. And I can no longer think without laughing of that wretched Serb. Solominka had a sweet in her mouth when she read Serbe; she nearly choked and remained a long time suffocated with laughter, unable to say a word.
And so I, Marie, end the long series of foolishness and go to bed. Let those who have ears hear what I shall say, dreaming on my pillow.
Amen.
[In the margin: The Apocalypse reminds me of the letter Walitsky wrote to Makaroff. A horse without a tail and rails without an embankment are not a bird, etc. etc. etc.]