Friday, 29 September 1876 (17 September) — Practical Jokes and Family Dynamics

I was so desperate yesterday — it seemed to me I was chained to Russia for ever; it exasperated me, I was ready to climb the walls, and I wept softly.
Pacha is becoming quite a Girofla for my correspondence. I do not know why I appear to be furious today, which enrages my father and casts a chill over the whole company.
Paul kept reminding me it was time to sleep, and when I reached my room he asked me for money to go and fetch Pacha. The idea seemed a good one — I am bored without that good, truly good fellow.
His mother makes me uneasy. Why? Because she has said several things from which I see in what extravagant terms her son has spoken of me to her. And finally, when I insisted that she send for him, she said to me, half laughing, half serious:
— No, no, he must stay where he is. You are bored here and, having nothing to do, you torment him; he came back to me crushed and stunned.
To which I replied with great candour:
— I do not think Pacha is the sort of man to take offence at a few friendly jokes; if I tease and banter with him a little it is because he is my close relation — almost my brother.
At table, where we sat almost immediately, she studied me for a long time and said:
— Do you know what the height of folly is?
— No.
— It is to fall in love with Mousse.
Instinctively connecting this remark to others, and to still others, I blushed to the tips of my ears.
In the end, none of this prevented me from sending Paul — at the risk of provoking unpleasantness.
I am writing in my father's room; we have been chatting for a long time, he lying down, I seated on the edge of his bed. Paul tells me he [blacked out: speaks] never to anyone in the household — he would spend entire days in his armchair and to everything told to him would only say: — Hm... yes... hm...
— And that was all.
With me he talks, he chatters, he laughs; I irritate him, he exasperates me; we say — or rather I say — foolish things to each other, and then I wait for him to come back first; he never fails to, and we sit down together again.
Having reviewed fifty projects together, I left him to sleep and came to his library to write this. I remembered that he always keeps a loaded pistol in the drawer of his bedside table — and I made a dash for the door of the Chinese salon to work myself up and cry out more naturally, and I let out a great cry of distress that, owing to the laughter choking me, came out as heartrending.
— God! Someone is climbing in... Help! Help!
— Where? What? cried my father.
— There, by the window! Help! Stepan! Kousma! Here, help!
I hid behind the door, rattling it and hammering it with fists and feet.
— Oh! He's coming in this way! Ah!
— Wait, wait, my father was shouting, I'm coming, I'm running!
I heard him shaking the drawer that would not open, and at last he rushed into the room — in his nightshirt, his scrawny bare legs exposed, revolver in hand.
— Where — who's there? he was shouting.
— There, by the window! — and I was hiding behind the door to keep my composure and feign terror... but he looked so exactly like a little wax figurine from a match-box that I burst out —

Notes

Girofla is a character from Charles Lecocq's comic opera Giroflé-Girofla (1874); Marie uses the name as shorthand for an obliging go-between or messenger.
Mousse is Marie's family nickname.