Saturday, 11 June 1881 – 30 May

Yesterday, then, we went to Poltava; my father was to go there officially to see Prince Sviatopolk-Mirsky, governor-general of three or five provinces, who was coming to spend twenty-four hours in Poltava. It was raining, and as I could not work I wanted to come. My father was rather embarrassed by it: as I had not paid a call on Mme Abaza, he was afraid of being invited to dinner alone, which is in fact what happened. Abaza is mayor of the town (that is more than the French mayors; there is only one) and the Prince is staying at his house. So all these idiots in uniform went to receive him at the station, then to dine at Abaza’s, with an official reception of the functionaries at eight o’clock. Maman and I went to the Trégouboffs’ — madame is the sister of the little aunt, Etienne’s wife; Dina and her sister Lola, who are staying there, come to dine with us. Then a cousin of theirs, M. Votrogradsky, an officer of hussars, I believe; the delirious young man of Poltava. We go to the theatre, where wretched actors were playing to an empty house, and then in the evening Papa, by little childish, veiled detours, began to apologise for the Abaza dinner; I replied that I did not understand what he was saying and, weary of it all, went to bed, saying that I was really a fool to sacrifice my health and come and bury myself here, but that this is the last time. In that way I appeared to have come to Russia for his sake. He kept saying that it would have been otherwise if I had not declared ten times that I wanted to see nobody and sworn to hide if anyone came. I replied that I certainly refused to see Poltava society, which I consider unworthy of me. He came into my room, still making speeches: “Union is strength; do not discourage me; these little pinpricks take away any wish to do anything at all.” Of course I replied that if he came to talk to me about all that, I should have nothing to say to him, having explained everything thirty times, and that he should leave me in peace.
No, it is really ridiculous, and I am sick and tired of it. It is not this dinner, for that, after all, is proper, but everything. What more has he come to tell me? Did he not come and offer me arrangements and promises, no longer even requiring me to make this journey? The journey was no longer a condition sine qua non; he was to do everything without it. And now here I am making this blessed journey, for one reason or another, but I am making it, and nothing seems settled; everything is in question. Ah! the devil confound them! Nothing can express how tired of it I am.
Towards four o’clock we return to Gavronzi. M. Sperandio, the husband of Pacha’s sister, has arrived. He is from Ancona, I believe, and knows the Bruschettis; Count Vincenzo Bruschetti, so shamefully blackballed by your humble servant, has married and is now a widower with a child. His brother has died, and now he finds himself with an income of two hundred thousand francs. Already in a bad temper, this finishes me off...
That is no life! But there is no thinking of going back to Rome as before; otherwise I might perhaps have rekindled the old flame.
But impossible under bad conditions.