Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Sunday 29 August 1875

Going to luncheon I meet Kechko — that girl so beautiful and so common. Everything has changed in her: bearing, gaze, even her face. There is good reason for it. The blessed creature is marrying the Prince of Serbia — a prince who is nearly a reigning one. All around me happiness rains down; when will my turn come.
Plevasko stays with us almost until dinner — this celebrated lawyer strikes me as as honest as one can be in his profession.
Stiopa leaves at seven o'clock — my heart tightened when I said goodbye to him. He is going to Schlangenbad to fetch his wife, then on to Russia.
We dine with my aunt at the table d'hôte. The people who queue at the door when the bell rings strike me as the animals of a menagerie at feeding time — it is degrading for humanity, this table d'hôte at the Grand Hotel.
We talk — one can guess of whom — and I learn something new.
Nina has been talking again with the footmen of Monte-Carlo, and one of them told her that Girofla — the great, the celebrated, the eternal Girofla — was an infamous wretch, and had ruined a young girl as beautiful as the day: Miss Robenson. Unfortunately — no, no, fie! What am I saying — fortunately is what I mean to say; fortunately, one cannot believe servants.
There are a crowd of Brazilians at the hotel who follow me and stare.
We go to the Vaudeville to see Le Procès Veauradieux, and I have the fatal idea of dressing in white — besides, I have no other dresses than white ones.
In our box we are comfortable and laugh our heads off — the play is as amusing as it could be and admirably performed.
I say "comfortable" because at every interval the Brazilians would place themselves at the entrance to the circle, two boxes away from ours, and stare at me — especially one of them — with an insistence that bordered on impertinence.
I kept myself in the furthest corner, hiding as much as possible.
At the exit I was nearly trembling — two women alone, and one of them in white, white hat, all white. I was holding my aunt's arm, but here behind us are the Brazilians — I would have wished to sink into the ground. But as long as there were only the Brazilians it was still manageable; then two idiots pass on the boulevard — "Oh! how pretty she is!" says one of them in an English accent, stopping in front of me. Then I leave my aunt's arm and, almost running, throw myself into a cab; my aunt follows, scolding me; I was trembling as I gave the address to the driver.
The Brazilian rushes up and stops in front of the cab, staring straight at it — that second while the driver was preparing to move seemed to me an hour. I repeated twice: "To the Grand Hotel!" — hoping that address would be a protection.
At the door — the Brazilian again. Finally my aunt goes to collect the key and finds him once more at the desk, rushing up in a fluster. It would be amusing, had I not been in white. I go in and laugh like a madwoman, while swearing to myself to order a black dress and a dark hat.
But really — what an idea! Two women alone going to the Vaudeville and dressing in white.
I need a black dress. I have outfits for the Bois, for indoors — but for the street, none at all.
It repels me to dress like everyone else. And yet white cannot go everywhere. I decide to disguise myself.