Monday, 12 September 1881

M. Géry came last evening; Bojidar was there; we had tea, five of us, until ten o'clock — in the most saintly manner imaginable. I, when I used to hear women of society spoken ill of — when I heard it said they were not comme il faut, they should not be received, they were light women, compromised, and so on — I imagined that these women had gotten tipsy in company, had had lovers, or at the very least embraced men, had shown too much décolletage, gone to dine late at restaurants… It seems none of that is necessary, and it is enough simply to lead

the monastic existence we lead — adding only a Soutzo and a Tchoumakoff. But this no longer grieves me. In short — I am spitting blood. 0 poetry! To spit, I spit. It is delicious.