Friday, 28 January 1881

Potain came again; I amuse him with senseless chatter. A ring at the bell during dinner: it is Uncle Etienne, arriving from Nice, where he has settled with Mme Hamsley.
He speaks of his wife as of a beloved saint, the hypocrite. And to my reproaches he replies that all this will calm down, that they will be reconciled, and that God alone is without sin. And all this without arrogance, but simply, good-naturedly, like an honest Christian. It is so odious — if only it were affection. They take these things mildly; it is rather the Russian character. They bring us news of Nice, details about the villa, the animals, the people, the old tradesmen, all the cab drivers, the shopkeepers, all the townsfolk except those in society; they ask after us, they know us all by name; it is touching from afar, like a scent...
After all, life in Nice was dreadful, but all that... And then I am so unhappy. I am buried. There is no way out; it is all over.
He also tells us about affairs in Russia; it would be tedious to speak of them here, for You know the carelessness, the indolence and the childishness of my family... No need to dwell on it.
Oh! my life is dreadful... and when I have finished working at five o’clock I feel lost.
Etienne has aged and grown stouter, and he is even more like Cassagnac than before.
Yes, I am buried!
You have read novels about girls shut up in convents by force; well, there you are... It is horrible, it is atrocious, it is hideous, it is inhuman, against nature, against God, and God, whoever He may be, I call upon Him and fall on my knees for Him to deliver me!