Wednesday, 13 July 1881

Still sad — perhaps from the departure — we arrive at Poltava around nine o'clock. I make the journey with Dina and we talk a little, of all this stay taken together... First: the newlyweds who do not look like newlyweds at all.
Paul is almost always sullen; his wife is indifferent in the satisfaction of having achieved her goal. She is married — that is all the girls here aspire to. I never believed in her love for Paul: throughout the courtship and Paul's torments, she kept another suitor in reserve — older, common, horrible, and rich. Then she had herself abducted because that is considered romantic and fashionable here... It was Micha who arranged the wedding at his estate; they supped until seven in the morning in the company of the priest, his wife, another lady, and Kapitanenko, who was sent for. So that, Nini tells me, I had female company. And when they retired, Micha and the others went to spy whether Monsieur and Madame were in bed. The next day they arrived at Gavronzi, and the day after they went to carry their... happiness to the wife's father. In short, neither
refinement nor modesty. [words blacked out: It was a reception] — here I might perhaps not speak so harshly, but everyone is like this here. One kisses one's husband openly in front of everyone, and since Paul has forbidden that, no tenderness remains. A tenant farmer marries a young woman for love, and those two simple beings will have enough poetry — relative poetry, born of youth, love, happiness — to want to run through the woods together, or spend an afternoon on the riverbank. The countryside is so beautiful.
In Paul and his wife, not a gleam of youth... Good Lord! When one marries for love — were one living in a garret — it seems to me it ought to look cheerful, contented, fresh. Ah, indeed! They live in a pavilion that looks like a nest buried in great trees, yet they sleep in two narrow separate beds with the dressing-table between them, and the room is hung with dark printed cotton.
Then the hairpieces lie scattered among the dirty linen and the boots. A Bohemian household — without the cheerfulness and the wit.
When, two months after the romantic wedding, Paul took his wife to the great New Year's ball, he found nothing more entertaining than to get drunk — and his wife waltzed with young men, then came laughing to tell Dina that she had found her old admirer again and was falling back in love with him.
I know those are only jokes — but... But I repeat: however incredible it may seem, there is here neither refinement, nor morality, nor modesty in their true sense.
In the small towns of France one fears one's confessor; one has a grandmother, an elderly aunt, whom one deeply respects... here, nothing. People often marry for love and very easily elope — and all of it without passion, cold-bloodedly. Nini is a very good little wife and I wish to see her take the right path under our guidance — but I fear... Do you know what I fear? Well — Micha, that small stupid, pretentious, ridiculous creature, will cuckold Paul within a year, and it will come about without passion, cold-bloodedly...
We are told at the hotel that M. Oustimovitch had twice inquired whether we had arrived, and as we are dining, he arrives.
He has written verses for me and has not been able to sleep. He reads them to us — they are agreeable and truly better than the others; we had already prepared our most cutting mockeries and had to swallow them.
He also brings his portrait. We overwhelm him with compliments.
In the evening we go to the theatre — Dina, her mother, Alexandre, Nadine his wife, Etienne, Paul, Nini, Maman, Papa, myself, Lihopoy — after which supper, to which M. Patchenko arrives and pays for a bottle of
I should dearly like him to marry Dina — but alas, I fear he is making eyes at me; he stayed on purpose for us this evening... I believe we leave tomorrow.
I shall stop at Kiev to have masses said — the darkest forebodings torment me and I am so afraid of all the omens. At Paul's name-day dinner I found a church candle on my place-setting, left there apparently by the man who was lighting the chandeliers. No matter — and all these broken mirrors. So I wonder whether some nastiness is not about to arise from the direction of Julian and Tony... Or else my eyes... but I have no confidence in doctors. If God does not cure me... I pray to him so fervently to spare me what these omens foretell.

Notes

Faire dire des messes: to pay a priest to say masses for a specific intention — in this case, to pray for Marie's health.