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 respectable, they should not be received, they were light women, compromised, and so on — I imagined that these women had got 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.

Notes

In French in the original: comme il faut. ↩