Thursday, 22 September 1881

It rains; I paint a seascape from my window. Around five o'clock we try to go to the races, but it is bitterly cold. After lunch we stayed rather a long time in the hotel drawing room — Maman having left there yesterday the Russian newspaper that speaks at length about me (see the press album I am in the process of organizing) — and a Russian lady and her husband read it and said that they had indeed heard of me as a talented painter, in Naples. Had Maman been there she would have struck up an acquaintance — but she has a migraine, and my aunt and I let these

flattering things pass without raising our eyes from our papers. The lady is ravishing, the husband presentable, the child pretty — they know no one, as we do not, and I believe they would very much like to make acquaintance. After dinner we go back to the drawing room; I read there for the sake of composure — but we really look too foolish in the face of all these people who know each other, who talk, who come and go; I mean the Russians in the midst of whom the Basilevitch lounges. In short — I am at Biarritz, where I have been dreaming of enjoying myself for three years. This afternoon I wore a gray wool dress, plain skirt with a gray satin embroidery cut out and applied along the hem. A Louis XV bodice with a waistcoat matching the embroidery of the skirt; panniers sewn on after the bodice, simply turned back very far and falling rather low. Gray felt hat, matching shoes [words blacked out: Molière style lined] with mauve satin. The ensemble is of a regal simplicity. Yesterday evening Coquelin Cadet¹ gave a performance at the Palais-Biarritz. I was all in black; [word blacked out: hat] — correct, have no fear. I was to send Saint Amand society chronicles of Biarritz — names, outfits and so on. I do not know a soul who could name anyone to me.