Friday, 29 September 1876 (17 September)

I was in such despair 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 almost 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 can tell in what glowing 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 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, sounded 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! oh! Ah! This way — they’re getting in!
— 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, at the window! — and I was hiding behind the door to keep a straight face and feign terror... but he looked so exactly like a little wax figurine from a match-box that I burst out laughing, and the sight of his face passing from consternation to stupefaction and then to merriment brought mine to its height, and the poor man ran back to his bed shaking... his head and trying by flight to hide those legs from view.
— Ah! he kept saying, all the same, it does give one a turn, you know — no, really.
I was delighted with my success, and having given him two minutes to calm down:
— Papa, it is midnight.
— Eh?
— Are you afraid of ghosts?
— Eh?
— Ghosts, spirits, the dead.
— Ah! no, no, I beg you, let us not talk about that.
— What, you are afraid?
I took the candle, carried it into his room and held it under his nose. He was serious and began to talk to me of the grave consequences such frights can bring on, begging me not to speak of alarming things
We are a coward...
Ah! wretched Roman! How I would crush you if I could — not for the offence, but for the slander that followed his courtship and his love.
He is the sort of man to tell tales, to laugh, and my reputation is ruined...
Ah! wretch, ah! wretch... If I had him here, I am in the mood... to throw myself into his arms... and strangle him... while kissing him.
No, truly, in cold blood I say that I would like to clasp him in my arms and then kill him, telling him it is the punishment for his cowardice.

Notes

Girofla: Marie’s nickname for Émile d’Audiffret (from Lecocq’s operetta Giroflé-Girofla, 1874), who in 1875 was the standing subject of the family’s letters («ma tante écrivait toujours de Girofla», 050.0224). Pacha is becoming the same kind of subject in her letters. ↩
Mousse is Marie’s family nickname. ↩