Tuesday, 3 October 1876 (21 September) — Administrative Affairs and Family Management

My day is contained in a letter I have just written, which I shall give here — it is a reply to Collignon, who asks me for news of Miloradovitch.
... To begin where one should perhaps end: I must tell you that our calculations during the portrait sittings have come to nothing, given that the young man is a [blacked out: fool] and his fortune does not equal his stupidity — I can endure anything except stupidity. I am not desperate enough for a husband to accept such a creature. And besides, his mother has a lover who himself has a mistress, and these two rob Madame and consequently the son. When I see you I shall have many marvellous things to tell you about the manners of this place. Debauchery is practised as a matter of course, and the courts of love of the Middle Ages were no more naïvely depraved than the people here.
I am still in the country.
There are in me two selves, and one of these creatures marvels at how the other can do all that she does.
Tenant farming, tenant farmers, stewards, buyers, notaries — (O Galula!) — all of this descends upon me. I write ten letters a day; my father's library has been converted into a chancery; the telegrams and couriers are costing me a fortune; I direct, I give orders, and I fume.
I have to struggle against the entrenched power of my uncle, who, with motives far from disinterested, muddles everything for me. I bombard him with such letters that if he were an honest man he would hurl all the documents in my face and turn his back on me. But he laughs and continues with the most revolting impudence. Yet since my plough encounters stones, I shall grind them down rather than stop and fail. One has before oneself a self-regard bordering on boastfulness — and excited by my own resolution, I stiffen against the others. I thank God for having placed me, so young, at the head of the intellectual... establishment of my entire family, for I am acquiring great experience, enormous disillusionment as to many things, and a profound contempt for all of humanity. Experience will spare me those disagreeable lessons one receives at every step from complacent teachers. Contempt will save me from the disillusions that are the cruelest thing in the world for sensitive and honest natures.
All this useful knowledge necessarily damages my charms, removing from my face that youthful and candid expression that people love — but it will perhaps make me happier. Do not laugh (though I myself feel like laughing) and do not suppose I consider myself learned and infallible.
I believe only that I know a little more than another, and that my education will be completed sooner than that of those [blacked out: of the] unfortunates of the oppressed sex.
On that note I bid you farewell, begging you to preserve this letter — for after my death all my letters will be piously gathered up and published by a grateful Posterity.
All of the above is perfectly true and I exaggerate nothing. Mme Gorpintchenko — whom I shall call Hélène for brevity — is a woman of wit, and I recognise in her the source of the excellent principles I have remarked in her son.
I have written to Gambetta, to Foster, to Berthe, to Maman, to Alexandre, to Mouzay, to Collignon, to Etienne.
My father and my aunts were helping — copying, sealing, leafing through the Civil Code. Activity revives me; I feel energy for everything; my letter to Maman is a marvel — I am killing myself to convey my will to her — and I fume in advance thinking that everything will be useless as always.
I prostrate myself at her feet and threaten to die if my orders are not carried out.
Paul has returned without Pacha; I shall not explain here, but the copy of the letter I am writing to Pacha will explain. As to whether I am speaking seriously or not — I could not say. I do everything at once laughing and weeping. In a previous letter I had told him gravely that I was furious at his lack of consideration toward me — this lack of consideration consisting of "having eaten my favourite preserves." A ridiculous invention which he took seriously, swearing to Paul that he had never touched the preserves, and sending me a dish of compote.
[One line cancelled.]
Paul says he has a locket containing me. My portrait sits before him on his desk. No matter — I produce a strange effect on people. I wager this madman has sworn never to see me again.
Ah! What a tempest is my brain! May God continue to illuminate me with His light and protect me.
I prostrate myself before Him and give thanks.
A newspaper speaking of Rome has moved me to tears — and I am not going to Rome!
[At the top of the page:]
— Lamps of Loves that the God extinguishes by lowering his hand.