Thursday, 13 January 1881 (1 January)

The Russian New Year. Léonie Tchoumakoff sends me a cushion she embroidered herself, and I send her a fichu and some artificial flowers taken from my own.
I need none of all that, and the little one, who goes out a great deal and has no dowry, sets the greatest store by all these little things which cost a lot and which young girls believe necessary to their beauty.
Alexis came, then cards from Bojidar and Gavini.
A sad New Year’s Day, like all the other days, for that matter.
To take my mind off things I have ordered a dressing gown in yellow plush.
I still cough a little and breathe with difficulty but no notable change, neither loss of weight nor pallor. Potain no longer comes; my illness, it seems, needs only air and sun; he is honest, Potain, and does not want to stuff me with useless medicines. But I am taking asses’ milk, and élatine. I know that a winter in the sun would have cured me, but... I know better than anyone that my larynx has always been prone to illness, and constant agitation has helped that along a great deal; and then what helps to keep up this product of a natural disposition, admirably cultivated by the rages my life has caused me, is that I am not married. There are natures which this circumstance, or rather the absence of... this circumstance, plunges into a host of ailments.
In short, I have nothing but this cough and my ears. It is nothing, as you see.
I spend my evenings playing the guitar in front of the fire, and reading.
Could I really be an artist and a poet “by nature”? Perhaps that is why the bourgeois notions at home shock me. Like this expression of Maman’s in her last letter: “Dina,” she says, “is quite tapée” (the Russian word is untranslatable and has a more wretched and extremely humiliating sense), “send her some dresses that Marie does not want, and some of Marie’s boots too, the ones she does not wear.”
It is an odious way of putting it, do you not think? There have always been stubborn and stupidly irritating efforts to get my old dresses worn; she often took some herself, too, and had them made over for herself — imagine the effect.
Now, it can be done — well and good; only in her manner of doing it there was something degrading that filled me with shame and pain. And when Dina said she needed dresses, she did not answer but said things that meant: there are heaps of dresses at home, you will find something there. I know very well that Dina was here as I too would have been, were I not what I am, but all the same; I am quite willing to believe it is unconscious, but all the same.
But even with me — in hotels, for instance, when we travelled, there was always such a wish to economise that it showed; she often reproached me for ordering too many things for dinner, and ordered nothing for herself, eating the leftovers and hiding them in her bedroom to make her breakfast of them the next day.
I have seen this ever since I came into the world, and yet it is impossible not to find it degrading, stupid and... irritating.