Friday, 11 April 1879

At three o’clock to church — it is Good Friday — and I overcome my fear of people to go; I must be seen at church, otherwise they will say that I am a painter and a freethinker and a nihilist, etc.
I have such a horror of mingling with all those Russians, of being known by sight and knowing no one, that I never go to church on Sundays.
If you knew how... stupid my family is! Or else perhaps I am mad; I am wounded every minute. At table they talk of chamber pots; they hold inquiries to find out which of the dogs has made a mess. Since this morning there is a new housemaid. There are two of them, and then the cook. Maman has already invented thirty-six petty grievances against the new woman, saying that she does nothing and that there are too many servants. And then insipid things at every step.
I do not believe it is the same everywhere; it is not possible. Having all the tiresome qualities of the bourgeois, we do not have their virtues. Well, they have made their devotions, but I am not making mine. It would bore me — and besides, I made them last year; I shall make them next year.
And their morality in the third person! Instructive and respectable allusions on the subject of a serial story. And then this notion of saying that one cannot go to the Comédie-Française to see Ruy Blas because a queen is in love with a lackey — “besides,” says Maman, “I know it; I have seen the opera of Ruy Blas several times, and it is the same thing.”
I am reading Renan’s Life of Jesus, and they are greatly alarmed that I may become an unbeliever, and they reel off to me such silliness as could easily make me what Monsieur Renan never could.