Tuesday, 20 September 1881

In the morning I walk… with Maman, and find Biarritz less [words blacked out: fine than in the afternoon]; we go to the races, the road is ravishing and I find only too many things to paint. My mothers are in black; I in a white dress, a hat lined with black velvet and covered in white feathers, black gloves and shoes. For we are still in mourning for the Tsar.¹ All respectable Russians wear it, and many wear it in order to appear respectable. To think I had quarrels at home trying to persuade them that wearing colored dresses would make a disastrous impression. I regret wearing white, for there are here two or three affected women who are entirely in black, though it is already nearly seven months. Yes, Biarritz is pretty, very elegant, agreeable — in short the most fashionable spa I have seen — but I am too bored.