Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Sunday, 24 January 1875

At one o'clock we set off — my aunt, Olga, Marie, and I (grey dress and hat — pale I am), Cima between Marie and me, Paul up on the box.
We take our place in the third row of carriages, directly opposite the grandstands, but even so I cannot make out the people in them. Everyone is at the Var, but there is none of the usual splendid show of last year — no Duchesse de Mouchy, no Comtesse de Galve, no Princesse Souvoroff. The day is grey but fine and not at all sad.
As for acquaintances, there is only M. de Mauldre, whose carriage is behind ours; around it, one by one, all the young men of Nice gather — not Niçois, mind you, but from Nice.
A little further along is the Englishman or American whom I noticed the day before our departure — for his distinguished bearing, for his beauty. I do not think he is a first-rate plobster, but in any case he is a very handsome man.
On arrival I climbed up onto the box with Marie, and from that vantage point I commanded the carriages and the whole plain of Marathon.
I was entirely absorbed in the horses, always backing the Finot stable — Finot, with whom I was in love, Finot whom I have never seen...
Audiffret prowled around us — sometimes alone, sometimes with Lambertye, sometimes with Furstenberg.
I have not been seen for a week, and consequently all these people are looking at me. Audiffret is constantly in the vicinity of the carriage and turns around in the way of people who, when they turn, think no one notices that they are turning. What makes me think he was prowling there more or less on my account is that he spoke to no one, and if he had been looking for someone he would have come once or twice — not ten times.
In writing this I have thought that I am mistaken and that it is ridiculous to think always of oneself — but, my God, if I am mistaken what harm is there in it? So many people who are better than I am are mistaken and ridiculous.
I believe Furstenberg heard when, as he passed, I called down from the box to my aunt, "reveller, reveller," and not being understood, said softly and craning my neck, "Furstenberg." At that moment I turned my head to see if he was far off — he was quite close, and while walking forward was looking back; but perhaps he simply turned and did not hear.
This little fellow so resembles Merjeewsky that I fear I shall end by detesting him.
Pelikan and Bihovetz came to speak with my aunt, then Comte Markoff; from the height of my perch I exchanged only a few words with this portly redhead. Then de Mauldre approached. A few drops began to fall; fearing the feathers on my hat might uncurl, I climbed down and opened my en-tous-cas [for-all-weathers] from London. Much was said about the death of poor Comte de Barrème, who for thirty-two years has directed all the pleasures of Nice; about who will replace him as president of the Massena; and then, at the word Spa, M. de Mauldre suddenly asked:
— At Spa, Mademoiselle, did you know M. de Gericke?
(Annotation: There was something, I am sure of it, something to do with Gericke and me — but no matter how I search, no matter how I rack my brains, I cannot guess what. Even at Spa I sensed that there was something against us — something that embarrassed him terribly and made my composure dreadful... but what, good God?)
— Yes, I said, going quite rigid; but in a moment, feeling myself unbend and flush, I turned my head toward Paul and Cima. Fortunately at that very instant the steeple-chase was coming to its close, and I had the pretext to become animated, to stand up, and to follow the race with extraordinary interest. Then, with a composed expression, I turned back to the gentleman.
— There they come, here they come, it's done — look, Condé wins!
— Ah, it is over; in that case we must be going. Good day, Madame. Good day, Mademoiselle.
Why on earth did I become so flustered, and why did he suddenly bring up Gericke?
From that moment Spa returns to me entire, and I cannot cease thinking of it — for our sweetest pleasures live in our memories. I was never in love with the charming baron, but whenever I recall him it is with pleasure.
This return from the Races made me think of those of previous years. Ah, how much grander the Races were before! Under the patronage of the Cercle Massena this year — but before, the Duke of Hamilton was steward. Before, the names on the programme were great names; and now, what does one see?
Barrème, Page, Jennings — former coachmen and ex-jockeys!
It is plain that everything is degenerating. Despite this decline, I seemed to live again for these few hours. Well then — here I am, at sixteen, living on the past.
But since the past was and the present is not. The rain would not come on in earnest but let fall a few drops now and then, like tears over that pleasant past and this wretched present.
But all at once my heart heaves and strikes so violently against my chest that it hurts; a cloud passes over my eyes, I flush slightly... it seems to me that the man who just flashed past swift as lightning is the Duke!
While I am shaken thus, Audiffret follows our carriage; seeing him I make an effort and, holding my head up, present a calm and smiling face. He passes us, and I have the carriage turned in the hope of catching another glimpse of the vision — of determining whether it was only a vision. With held breath and watchful eyes I watch the carriages rolling past, each faster than the last; everyone is animated, everyone rushing by, heads high and eyes bright; at last the same man passes again — but no, it is not he. It is a fat blond and pallid man with a stupid look; I had seen only the back of his neck, and this time his face strikes me disagreeably.
[The bottom of the page is torn away and removed.]
Marie, Olga, and Cima dine with us, and I go to bed at eleven o'clock.
On the balcony of the club were all the gentlemen, while the Promenade was overflowing with carriages and onlookers ranged along its edges.

Notes

Marie distinguishes the cosmopolitan winter visitors ("de Nice") from the native locals ("Niçois"). ↩
In English in the original. ↩