Monday, 3 September 1877

Simply to tell you that I still exist, that my mothers see to it that I eat and am well wrapped when it is cold — the rest matters little to them, and the moment I stop speaking they forget what I have said.
I could expatiate further if I were to describe my charms, my delightful humour despite everything, my witticisms, my observations; when I love myself and begin to find merit in myself, it goes on a long time. But I love myself rarely, and of late I do nothing but complain and detest myself.
Where is my head?
Paul writes that he is out on the street. His father, without actually turning him out, made life so hard for him — putting him under the authority of the lowest servant — that he has left Gavronzi. Another one who has come to reassess M. Bashkirtseff. I hope Uncle Alexandre will bring him back to Gavronzi and that things will muddle along again after a fashion — for in the end, what is to be done with Paul? He is good for nothing, knows nothing, can do nothing except perhaps become a gentleman-farmer. But he is a minor; and even if one gave him a bit of land to manage, he would live miserably and barely scrape out a miserable existence. As for giving him land outright — that is impossible, first because he is a minor as I have already said, and second because he would squander it immediately.
I do not flatter myself with the hope of seeing Paul take an interest in running a household, sowing, harvesting, selling — managing an estate, in short. It is better to be a pessimist.

Notes

In English in the original.