Quite a few people — Princess Jeanne among others, but not the Fitz-Jameses or the Charettes; they have never come on a Saturday... Besides I am very afraid that all this will collapse — we have no support, and there are too many jealous people; for without being aristocracy or truly millionaires we have been placing ourselves for the past year in the first rank: aristocratic and illustrious names are cited at our evenings, I am elegant, interesting, we are seen in very chic company...

And who, then? The Bashkirtseffs are of very ordinary gentry, from the provinces, and have not even those millions which explain everything. I do not know by what series of affecting tales Maman won over the Duchesse de Fitz-James, but I suspect many humiliating lamentations... In any case she did everything for us, but it cannot last if we are not backed by our embassy... Now at the embassy there trail along some old summonses regarding an affair of Georges's, in which my aunt was involved as a girl because she had seen, from a window I believe, Georges striking a government official. Now my aunt has never been willing to go back to Russia to clear up this trifle, and people take this ridiculous nonsense for a dreadful business and say that she dares not return to her country because of a criminal trial... Society will not go and examine what these papers are, and having heard that there was a Romanoff trial, and though it is thoroughly finished, though there was an order of dismissal... People confuse one thing with the other and it goes on forever... Now tell me, is it possible that a woman can be so stupid and so criminally negligent as to leave things lying about that destroy me...

It will never be explained — these women will close windows so I do not catch cold, will strip the early-produce merchants bare for me, and at the same time leave me dragged through the mud for their brother Georges, by a Soutzo; they will laugh about it not understanding that it is horrible, or they will complain to anyone who will listen about my eccentricities, my infamous character, will slander me dreadfully with tears in their eyes because I did not put on a warm enough coat... They are of a rare and formidable stupidity.

These women have ruined me, and towards me they are criminal.

Since they do not understand, you will say. Agreed — but for ten years I have understood, and for ten years I have been telling them so from morning until night. Imbeciles who believe in the superiority of others are bearable, but imbeciles who believe themselves to be profound and clever... It is worse than everything. They have never listened to me, never taken me seriously, and confine themselves to trembling and moaning when I catch cold...

And then at times, after some catastrophe: Oh yes, Marie is right — if only one listened to her! etc. etc. But the next day it starts again, and as they are afraid of my judgment, they hide things from me like children...

And I must count myself lucky when they do not act in my name... As last year. Saint-Amand had introduced us to Etincelle — very good. Exchange of cards — very good. And then all of a sudden I receive a letter of thanks from this lady for the magnificent flowers I sent her. It was Maman who had found it ingenious and delicate to send out of the blue, on my behalf, a great basket of flowers to this journalist — a little word in your next article, dear Madam! How furious I was. In any case, this gives you an idea of the persons involved. You can imagine what it must have been ten years ago, coming out of Poltava!... I am truly happy in nothing. This life is terribly sad...

After some wretched disappointments mixed with feminine successes, I set to work five years ago; I wanted to acquire a strength of my own... When will it come?... In the meantime, misfortunes and miseries have arrived...

And since the blows redouble I return to believing in God and praying to him — it is the only refuge; otherwise one would go mad... I noticed that after fervent prayers some new vexation always came... But that no longer repels me; whether I pray or not it is the same, I prefer to pray — it is consoling... Not to pray would be worse than dying... Religion... No. God — yes. A God who concerns himself with everything and hears me, and tests me, and will have pity. In short, for me, prayer is a protest.