Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Sunday, 18 January 1874

We were late for church; we stop at Simone's to collect my white dress and go home. I had great difficulty doing my hair (brown dress, good). My aunt, myself, Dina -- we go to fetch the Strikers; No. 1 comes with us and No. 2 with Paul in another carriage. That heavenly body which gives light, etc., is absent. The air is delightfully cool. Oh! how I prefer that sort of weather! I feel free, gay...
As Paul and Striker were not coming and we had already passed the Villa Gambart, we kept looking back, and it seemed to me that it was they I saw at that moment; Dina looked through the opera glasses for them, but -- oh terror! -- it is Prince Furstenberg. I hope at least he did not see the bino-eie.
There are not as many carriages this time and almost no one in the stands as far as ladies are concerned, and I am very glad -- I am not miserable and crushed. But still there are many people; and to put it more precisely, there was almost everyone from last time, but in carriages. Lambertye passed near our landau. I do not detest him today. That requires an explanation. Well, it is very simple: there are days when I cannot look at him, so much do I detest him -- I could tear his eyes out -- and there are others when I bear him very well; today I bear him.
Centifolia in black, a Directoire hat, also black -- ravishing and original. She places herself very near us. All the men at her carriage; poor Emile d'Audiffret melts away beside her; he is transported, smiling, inspired. He is right, for she is so beautiful. It is not a commonplace beauty; one must be a connoisseur. I bet every time and always lose; in the second-to-last race I took Woerth and at the last jump he fell as if dead; besides, there were three of them and not one cleared that last barrier.
I was at that moment near the stand with Dina and Paul; we rushed at the same instant, and meeting Striker on the way we run towards the wretched Woerth who had been picked up -- he had blood on his neck and chest. We go to the carriage; Dina stays with No. 2 and Paul, and myself, my aunt, and No. 1 go up to the stand, right to the top; from there one overlooks the whole turf. Before taking our place thus we went, for the first time in my life, into the paddock itself, "where his head mingled with the others"; I saw at last the paddock; I saw now a yellow mushroom, now a blue one, step onto the scales; I saw the horses being saddled; I saw how they were mounted; I heard the big bets; I... oh, I no longer know what I saw, only I am pleased. It is at least something new for me. We passed all along it to the military band. It is a very good idea they had, to have an orchestra; it reminds me of Baden. Dear Baden!
When I was in the carriage before the second race, Lambertye passed again, but not to look at me (I add this so that in reading these follies later I do not think this wretch passed every time for my sake; besides, I never thought he was looking at me. It was my aunt who noticed it first). He jumped a small stream; I confess I was making the most ardent wishes that he would fall face first in the mud.
My aunt wished it aloud.
The last race (I leaf through all the racing programmes I have; I find his name; it seems to me it is no longer now but then -- I see again the grey and rainy day when he danced a round with Mme Randouin, etc.) was very interesting. Roitelet, belonging to Baron Finot (speaking of Baron Finot, I absolutely wanted to see him; they say he is here), and La Prasle, belonging to Barresse, were equal till the end; they fought for the prize so fiercely that my heart was pounding, mi sono levata sulla punta dei piedi e non osavo respirare vorrei volare; La Prasle wins, but by so little that I do not believe it myself, but the number indicated it. In great leaps I come down from the stand; by this I drew attention to myself. I did not leap badly, but with grace and like a woman.
I chose No. 1 to lead the cotillon with me; No. 2 nearly wept over it, says Paul.
Several turns on the Promenade. Mlle de Galve and Mlle Choupinski at the window. Lambertye on the box of the monster. I decidedly do not know to whom this monster belongs -- very convenient and original, however.
Paul arranges the cotillon; he pastes, he arranges, he plays the important one. Misery. They have transformed the drawing room etc. etc.
I couldn't care less! What does it matter to me... Climbing the stand, I thought of how he used to climb it (they will spend the winter in Egypt) last year. When I passed Gioia, who was sitting on her little terrace with Soubise, I remembered how the year before, going to the races, I saw him with her on that same terrace. When I was on the stand and I looked into the paddock at all those heads, I thought that I had seen his head there, a few months ago.
I cannot take a step without a memory presenting itself. And to think it is a street affection! I absolutely must have a purpose, an interest, and I had one, and... oh! the old song!
If I have made such a fuss over a street affection, what would it be then if... But more still: if I knew him, if I were grown up, if he courted me and then married, that is when it would be dreadful! I am still quite fortunate. No man of our acquaintance has ever pleased me. And none of those we know will please me.
Besides, I make little distinction between faces, with the exception of a few insurmountable antipathies. Only one pleased me, but he is no more. I love everyone and no one. What is singular is that a man without a title never attracts my attention; never do I find handsome a man who is not of the first quality.
I am happy today; I went to the races to fish for some emotion; I had "sweet memories"; I am inspired; I want to fly far away; my heart seems to want to burst out. At least I felt something; I saw him.
The other evening at the theatre I made the following reflection. What strange animals men are; while other beings content themselves with eating, drinking, dancing, and sleeping, men arrange different sounds so as to form melodies; they criticize them; they find one good, another bad; they see the difference between a large nose and a small nose; they distinguish voices; they distinguish colours; they know what is good or bad taste; they invent tracing all sorts of little lines and marks and flowers to ornament; they study the manner of walking; in short they invent moving their feet so as to form steps; the slightest difference is noticed. Why does an old dog not want to rejuvenate himself? He stays old as he is, while a man arranges himself, powders, paints. What astonishes me is that they see the smallest things; they make distinctions between paintings; they find one too light, another too dark; they... and no, the subject is too vast for me; I understand what I mean but I cannot express it, and besides, I must sleep.
This stupid journal takes up too much of my time as it is.

Notes

In English in the original. ↩
In Italian in the original. "I rose on tiptoe and did not dare to breathe; I wanted to fly." ↩