Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Friday, 2 October 1874

I rise in good health and fresh-faced, thanks be to God; they no longer torment me about my pallor. I dress at once (grey dress) and go without a hat to the Promenade, where there is not a soul. I go to look at the Villas Leon and Gioia; the windows of the latter are open. Paul is with me.
Having walked as far as the Villa Souvoroff, I was coming back and was quite near ours when I saw a skirt and tunic and a gentleman's legs — the trees of the Promenade prevented me from seeing the rest, for I was walking on the pavement between the carriage drive and the trees. Then the bodice appeared, and then at last the charming and graceful face of Gioia, that jewel of my soul. We recognised each other; I blushed, turned my head away, but near the hole that is our present entrance (we have neither gates nor doors, but I passed between two planks of the door that blocks the hole in the wall, as a rat would have passed), I turned round again. The gentleman told her, and she turned round too; then I slipped between the planks. This [Crossed out: charming] beautiful creature — I almost smiled on seeing her. It is so convenient here; one morning there will be no one, she will pass, and I shall try to speak to her.
I admire more than ever our houses, so well arranged in their smallest details, and I feel at home in them, because thanks be to God they are ours and it is so agreeable. I go out a little, but Nice is ugly, deserted, small.
Lucarini was on the Promenade when we passed, and old Barter.
I dined well; I had been craving borsch, and at last I had some.
They opened all the trunks, wardrobes, baskets, et cetera, and from them they pull dresses, scraps, linens, boots, hats, and so on and so forth — everything that had been shut away since winter. But I saw with a kind of despair that much time will pass before all these vexations are put away and before everything is set in order.
There is so much old junk, so much rubbish, so much — so much of everything that clutters.
I foresee a war over the pavilion. They have lodged Papa there, nearly blind, and Trifon who is necessary to him, and he cannot do without my study, where he spends his days and where they dine.
Nothing remains to me but the little cage upstairs; this cage would be adorable, but with the other rooms — alone, it is impossible.
But to grieve me they took — Maman took a plaintive tone: this poor Papa cannot manage otherwise, it would be barbarous to dislodge him, et cetera.
No doubt, once lodged, to dislodge him is impossible; once accustomed at his age to dining and spending his day in that room, it is impossible to change it. I cannot bear contradiction; when they oppose my wishes they wound me and make me unhappy, whereas when they anticipate them I scarcely dare accept these attentions, because I was born with a delicacy of feeling that, alas, so many people lack!
I sleep in my poor pavilion, which has been taken from me.

Notes

In English in the original. ↩