Sunday, 14 June 1874

GRAND PRIX DE PARIS; 1874, June 14.
The first I have seen since I was born, on the 12th of November 1858; I shall be sixteen on the 12th of November next.
Here then is this famous Grand Prix de Paris; I am a little moved. immense place
I have been unfortunate in the choice of my hats; I have three and not one pleases me.
I put on the black one, which is very uncomfortable and which suits me rather badly, and the grey dress. It is very cold.
We set out at half past twelve but we are not the first; there are already seven rows of carriages, but soon more arrive and we look as though we were near the front. The entire field is full; it is like an ocean of flies -- all the colours merge and form with the horses and carriages nothing but a greyish, liquid mass.
When I climbed up on the seat during the first race and took in this buzzing multitude at a glance, I did not feel wretched and small as they always say, but, quite the contrary, I felt as immense and as varied as it was. Because I was on a height I believed I dominated and reigned over this crowd that stretched from the stands to the Bois, and that invaded the entire field, like water under pressure in every direction. All at once M. Moreno presents himself, showers me with a thousand flatteries and Maman with a thousand veiled endearments; he says I have wit -- naturally, I understand all his amorous words and do not hide it from him; with him I am forced to make myself out more than I am, to bar his way. This wretched Lovelace has a vast imagination and his amorous designs rise higher than he can reach, for my mother is impregnable: I am there.
De Gonzales lavishes a thousand attentions on me out of policy, like two years ago that box of bonbons; when he gave it to me I pointed to it, and addressing him I said to him: “Policy” -- as laconic as the Spartans. Before leaving this morning Maman said that Gioia would do wonders if Hamilton were there, to crush his wife (she would not have much difficulty). But Hamilton is not here, said I.
-- No, he is here; Platkarcha told me so. During the ten minutes she stayed near my carriage, she talked and talked -- this, that and the other, etc.
-- What, said Walitsky, two pretenders to Hamilton.
-- Only not me! I blush at every one, but please, no nonsense.
-- Well, Moussia!..
-- Yes, I am a pretender to all that is valuable. And not to one more than another.
By this I am safeguarded; it is a sort of profession of faith. I shall have practically nothing to conceal, and they think it is the truth.
crossed outIt is the truth, but with a modification.
I have said only half; the other half is safeguarded and safe from teasing. They will think me worse than I am, but what does it matter -- this way I am at peace; I shall blush for no one since all that is valuable, etc. -- That is really clever! said Maman.
I am bored in the carriage; one sees no one, besides I know no one. Rothschild came to speak to an actress not far from us; I looked at him, he seemed embarrassed and went away at once with a deliberately casual air, as these gentlemen do in the company of such ladies. The stands and the ground in front of them -- everything is full.
Moreno introduced his friend to us, a man of the tropics, M. Muliner. He said to him:
-- Look toward the stands, no, nearer, nearer, nearer still, near you.
I was looking too, but it was I he wanted him to look at. I blushed, very slightly.
-- I seenk you ‘ave a sunburn, said Moreno.
This Muliner is his great friend, and Mme Muliner is a great friend of Mme Moreno’s. Another family of monkeys.
These two swarthy men said the very best things about me.
Maman says it is because I am blonde.
The Grand Prix for me is not the Grand Prix. Alone, in a carriage, seeing no one, knowing no one -- I do not complain, I merely say what it is. (Moreno says that Rémy would be stunned to see me.) I was thinking that this mass of carriages could never get out. Here then is this long-awaited day, and the fine sum of it: I saw no one! I saw the stands full of people, but as for seeing who and what -- impossible.
I was there and I was thinking of nothing. The black hat pressed on my forehead and gave me a headache. I believe I was not too bad.
Another time I climbed up on the seat; there was an imbecile with three or four of his kind who stopped quite near and began praising me to them in an undertone, without looking at me too much, so that it was entirely proper. Only I ask myself what sort of manner this is, and why? For he took me for what I am, and he spoke very aptly, just loudly enough to be heard a little. All the same, I take this as an impertinence, though there is nothing to warrant it.
At last, here is the prize of a hundred thousand francs; the whole crowd surges, roars, stirs. The winner is Trent, belonging to M. H. W. Marschal. It is the turn of the English this year. Today’s races were for me like all the others.
When the moment of departure came, there were more people than ever. How frightful a revolution riot must be! It goes without saying that from the lakes to the Place de la Concorde one went at a walk, stopping at every moment. Coming down the Champs-Elysées we saw Wittgenstein, but not in a wheelbarrow. He was yawning -- how beautiful! Today I saw him from behind but in three-quarter view; that is better than from the back. Then Maman with her eternal phrase, on seeing Blackprince:
-- Your Wittgenstein, your oh-so-fine fiancé, the... what is it (I forget the word) he is nothing but a good-for-nothing, he associates with a kept woman. Under no circumstances would I give my daughter, so long as this... that is, if my daughter married against my will, even if this slut had left or married...
-- Who? Rosalie Léon! And I burst out laughing.
-- How can one marry at fifty-five?
Oh! what an enormity! I did not blush. Walitsky was watching in astonishment.
Since we have been in Paris, Wittgenstein has not seen us; it is strange, as a rule I am noticed. Again today I was much looked at.
Poor Fedus makes himself so small at the races that one does not even see him. I noticed his absence. It was impossible to tell who was there and who was not, there were so many people.
I was burning to change my hat; this one makes me miserable. We go home, I put on Dina’s old black one, which grows younger and prettier on my head. And we go out again: the rabble has gone, one sees better, and a better class of people.
-- Your Wittgenstein, says Maman. I blushed a little, but very little; on the way back there is no one about any more.
The street is bare, and the pavement (which they are watering now, instead of this morning, when there were people and dust...) sad and grey. The cold wind blows and night is coming.
Blackprince is my amusement of the day; wherever I am I look for him and Fedus, or Fedus and him. One cuts a pitiful figure when one is taken up with a man, but who knows it except me? And since it amuses me...
Let this Grand Prix pass; let us not be impatient; my time will come, with God’s help.
On the Champs-Elysées Maman pointed out to me the Lwoff woman and -- oh Lord, the name escapes me... what is that other one called?... well, no matter, she was in Nice -- the Levachoff woman. I cannot help making the following remark aloud: the Russians have taken the ugliest there were, poor Russians, so long as it is a Frenchwoman. It is wretched to see: the three Russians, Lwoff, the one whose name I forget, Levachoff and... -- Wittgenstein, Maman broke in.
-- Yes, and Wittgenstein, who have taken what the others throw away...
Then, however much one tells oneself that beauty is not what these women have, that they have a particular chic -- very well, agreed, for beauty very often counts for little. But these three have nothing. The Lwoff woman has a pretty figure.
They could have chosen better. As for Rosalie Léon, she is a Mme Brenne, with her pencilled eyebrows and her dry skin.
Hamilton had chosen well; that is because he himself is above all that rabble. I am ashamed to admit it, but I speak and think of him with enthusiasm.
Enough! -- I could weep...
I have found the name: Levachoff!

Notes

Written in Russian in the manuscript; French translation by the editor. ↩
Family nickname, likely from Russian platka (headscarf). ↩
Written in Russian in the manuscript; French translation by the editor. ↩
Written in Russian in the manuscript; French translation by the editor. ↩
Written in Russian in the manuscript; French translation by the editor. ↩
Written in Russian in the manuscript; French translation by the editor. ↩
Written in Russian in the manuscript; French translation by the editor. ↩
Written in Russian in the manuscript; French translation by the editor. ↩
Written in Russian in the manuscript; French translation by the editor. ↩
Written in Russian in the manuscript; French translation by the editor. ↩
Written in Russian in the manuscript; French translation by the editor. ↩
Written in Russian in the manuscript; French translation by the editor. ↩
Written in Russian in the manuscript; French translation by the editor. ↩
Marie’s exclamation in Russian. ↩
Written in Russian in the manuscript; French translation by the editor. ↩
Written in Russian in the manuscript; French translation by the editor. ↩