Saturday, 28 February 1874

I had a very disagreeable scene with Manotte this morning. It was a question of playing a six-hand overture at a matinee at his house. I consented to play, but he brought me the most ungrateful and ugly score. I told him the score was not pretty; he said it was pretty.
-- But I tell you it is not pretty; for me it is not pretty.
-- You understand nothing about it; I tell you it is pretty.
-- I beg your pardon, Monsieur, I understand as well as you what is pretty and what is not.
He began to shout rather coarsely; several times I told him not to shout, that I was not accustomed to it, that he might shout at a Tolstoy but not at me. But then he said impertinent things and shouted so loudly that I did not know what to do. I should have left at once, but I was so astonished that I remained seated and listened to all his impertinences until he went away.
The fact is that I am furious, but so furious that in cold blood I am capable of inflicting the greatest misery on this man. I do not understand whence comes this fury. I believe it is partly because Dina's lessons were refused him -- by me, this very morning.
It goes without saying that I shall take no more lessons with him. Constantly I reminded him not to use such expressions, not to shout, etc.
I am more than furious; I am wounded. A peasant like that dared. And my aunt was in the next room and did not silence him. No one will have any respect here, for they see that one can do and say anything, that the elders will take no notice and will not lift a finger. This conduct is in truth rather wretched. Everyone will agree that at least in this I am right. Often I ask myself what sort of people these are who surround me!
How can one have not the slightest feeling of amour-propre and not the slightest understanding of what ought to be and what ought not? They know only how to shout and rage at one another. If a dirty teacher dared to raise his voice at Mme Howard's or Mme Patton's or Teplakoff's, and anyone heard it, I am certain they would have conducted themselves differently from my most honourable aunt.
To hear a peasant say rude things to a young girl -- for I am no longer a child, and even if I were a child -- to his niece, and to hear it calmly, to allow this peasant to shout, to be right there, to hear all that, and to remain motionless as a stone and seem to say "So much the worse for her" -- it is simply infamous.
At least for the honour of the family, for the sake of outward respect, one should have silenced this boor. But no, they do not understand that in our house; they think, well, let him say impertinent things to her, it will pass. People without the slightest feeling for duty and honour. For honour was at stake.
Since neither my mother, nor my aunt, nor anyone takes any care of anything -- if only at least I could harm this man as much as I can. And Walitsky, who was in the room, could say nothing to him but thought it better to leave. But if Potemkine or Teplakoff saw that a brutal peasant was shouting and hurling insults, they, who are outsiders, would have told him to be silent and would not have let me be exposed like that. And this is called a mother, who allows someone to be impertinent -- and to whom! -- to her fifteen-year-old daughter. She is not a mother, she is not an aunt; they are two scoundrels!! They are not in the least angry about it, as if it were meant to be!
God, among what brutes and scoundrels I live! I have thought and felt it for a long time; today is an occasion to write it. Certainly I do not hate my mother; I love her very much, I adore her, [Crossed out: but] I should go mad if I lost her -- but I am always just; she does not know her duty, she does not know what it is to be the mother of a fifteen-year-old daughter. She gives me dresses and thinks that is everything, that she is the best of mothers. O error! She is good only for [Crossed out: loving] loving me, and even that she does all wrong.
I go out with them at three o'clock; we go to the notary's, I leave them and walk the Promenade once -- almost no one (waterproof, Dina's black hat -- good) -- and I go home. It rained; it is damp. I love this weather.
In the evening we play. But a very tedious game; I played five francs each time, I had lost (two hundred and eighty francs) but resolved not to leave the table until I had won it all back, which is what happened. I am very tired. And for this evening I do not like roulette. They have bought a wife for Pitou.

Notes

In English in the original.
In English in the original.