Friday, 21 December 1883

One must conclude it is a disease with Bojidar, for he lies too stupidly at every step. He knows perfectly well that I see Claire almost every day — and he tells us that the Marshal came to call on him, and not finding him in told the concierge to repeat carefully that he had come in person and was devastated not to have found him. The Princess tells the same story — which strikes me as extraordinary — and I ask Claire about it this morning, and we laugh together. He must have been counting on the death of one of us within twenty-four hours, or else he is simply ill. The idea that the Marshal would pay a personal call on a worthless young nobody is also far too amusing. He is truly entirely ignorant of what goes on in the world. Two days ago he served as second in a duel for some unpleasant gentleman and was boasting of it everywhere, delighted to have had a part in it. He allows himself to be caught every day — and lies, lies, lies, invents, embroiders, arranges; one is stupefied and revolted. A specimen of Mother Karageorgevitch's stupidity: Maman says to her one day that it is truly a pity for her friend Mme Yablahowska not to marry Baron Cartier — her situation would be regularised and one could receive her. Now this lady does not like us because we dropped her — and the Princess says to her: "You are wrong, my dear, not to like the Bashkirtseffs, who were only saying to me the other day, etc.," and repeats Maman's words, then comes and tells us about it. They are tiresome beings in every way and dangerous; the only thing to do would be to drop them. But they would not drop us — it would be such an accumulation of gossip, anonymous letters, and deprivations of every kind that the simplest thing is still to let them come, for we are their vanishing point, to borrow a term from perspective-drawing. I still have done nothing! The model who was supposed to laugh was horribly sad, and I wanted to find another...