Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Thursday 20 / Friday, 21 February 1879

Well! I am in Nice! I wanted to take an air bath, to flood myself with light, and to hear the sound of the waves. Do you love the sea? I am mad about it; only in Rome do I forget it... almost.
I traveled with Paul... people took us for husband and wife, which offended me to the highest degree. As our villa is let, we go to the Hôtel du Parc, the former Villa d'Acqua Viva where we lived eight years ago. Eight years! I make a pleasure trip and arrive in the midst of petty annoyances. They have not even prepared a room for me; then they argue about the price and try to find ways to squeeze three of us into the same room.
In short, a heap of irritations and stupidities and lamentations — Maman's specialty. I shall not describe them to you; it is quite enough to have to endure them! At last we go to dine at the London House. Antoine the head waiter comes to pay his respects, the ladies at the counter too, and then all the cab drivers smile and bow; the one we take compliments me on my height — he has known me "since I was this small." And then another offering his services, crying that he served Madame Romanoff. Then my friends on the rue de France. Very charming — all these good people gave me pleasure.
And as I always have part of my mind in the clouds, I recall that I am neither French nor a man, and have no need of voters.
Dina is vulgar as usual and everyone is bourgeois... it clips my wings — but the night is beautiful, and I escape alone until ten o'clock in the evening, going to prowl along the seashore and sing with the accompaniment of the waves.
There is not a living soul, and it is quite beautiful — after Paris especially. Paris!
But I came here to hear Patti, who sings tomorrow — just this once in all.
But you know what luck I have. The diva is indisposed and the Opera postponed to Monday — and on Sunday I am supposed to leave so as to be in Paris on Monday for the competition. I shall not. It would be too stupid to have endured twenty-four hours on the train for nothing.
On the journey I was seated beside a soldier, and as I had just read Dumas's "Story of the Foot-soldier Eaten by a Crocodile," I could not look at the fellow without laughing.
I must bring my mother back to Paris. Has it not been invented that she has withdrawn here after quarreling with me?
I am told he is no longer "half disheveled and half elegant" as he was. If he has become merely "elegant," it is a great pity. The window is open and I hear the clock of the tower — that poor Girofla who is in China.
Up there, up there, on the mountain.
You see that fine castle... As for me, mine are only in Spain — I am on the third floor, at the hotel...