Friday, 15 July 1881

We are in Kharkov; on the platform we find Micha and Lihopoy, who left Poltava before us. Sperandio arrives with his wife (Pacha's sister) — perhaps the ugliest woman I have ever seen — and his little daughter Margot, three years old and charming. We go walking on foot through the town. Lihopoy is attentive to Dina — I hope that my talk of painting, of ambition, of contempt for the life here, has damaged me
in his eyes, and that he will appreciate the very real charms (without double meaning) of Dina, who is delightful — with hair as golden as wheat and a dazzling complexion since she has been looking after herself in the country.
I am coughing and choking. I have just come from looking at myself in the mirror, expecting to find signs of illness — but no, not yet; I am slender but far from emaciated, and then the bare shoulders have a bloom that does not accord with the cough and the sounds I hear in my throat and those I no longer hear so well through my ears... It is only a cold — that is why I cough more forcefully... Well...
We went with Maman into a convent, and Maman knelt with fervour before the painted icon of the Virgin — how can one pray to an image! I had fully intended to, and could not. But when I pray at home — when it comes naturally — afterward I feel better, I swear it, and I believe that God can cure me — but He alone. Only for that, He would have to forgive me so many small things.
I have always heard it said and read and almost seen that unrequited or ignored love causes suffering. I do not suffer on account of Cassagnac, and when I think of him it is even with great pleasure. So???