Thursday, 29 August 1878

By what Providence I know not, I was running late, and at nine o’clock was not yet dressed, when someone came to tell me that Grand-papa was worse. I dressed and went to see him several times. Maman, my aunt, Dina wept — softly and aloud. M. Georges walked about freely; I said nothing to him — this was no moment for moralising. At ten o’clock the priest arrived, and within a few minutes everything was over.
I remained there to the end, on my knees, now passing a hand over that poor brow, now feeling for the pulse.
I watched him die — poor dear Grand-papa — after so much suffering. I do not care to speak in commonplaces.
During the service held beside the bed, Maman fell into my arms; she had to be carried to her room. Everyone wept aloud — even the nihilist Nicolas; I wept too, but quietly. The servants had laid him out badly — they are abominable in such things, applying a zeal that only pains... I arranged the pillows myself, covering them with batiste bordered in lace, and draped a shawl around the iron bed that he loved and that would seem poor to others. All about, white muslin — that whiteness suits the honesty of the soul that has flown away and the purity of the heart that beats no more. I touched his brow when it was already cold, and I felt neither fear nor disgust.
One was prepared for the blow, and yet one is stunned all the same.
I drafted the telegrams and the death announcements. But it was also necessary to care for Maman, who had a violent nervous attack. I believe I conducted myself quite properly — and that, though I do not wail aloud, my heart is no worse than others’...
I can no longer distinguish my dreams from my real feelings — have I not gone so far as to say to myself, passing before the portrait: how he would share our griefs, how good he would be to me.
Mourning dressmakers had to be sent for, etc. My family would be capable of not wearing outward mourning, not understanding that no account is taken of the mourning of the soul, and that the more crape one wears, the better a mother, the better a daughter, the more inconsolable a widow one is.
Georges weeps, but at the same time he asks the seamstress whether she makes “trousers for men”, and now he is quarrelling with everyone — that is to say, he quarrels all by himself, for no one answers him. Monstrous soul, play-actor, false, detestable, mad, idiotic.
The air is a dreadful mixture of flowers, ether and incense; it is hot and the shutters have been closed, and the drunken voice of the elder son resounds like a hammer, drowned at moments by the noise of the carts coming from the Exposition. It is shameful, this drunken man, when there is another man lying dead in the house.
At two o’clock I began painting the portrait of the poor dead man, but the sun came round at four and I had to stop; it will be only a sketch.
I do not know how everything is supposed to proceed, but I instinctively try to observe etiquette while still having a good heart.
While talking inheritance, the two excellent brothers Georges and Nicolas have fallen out, and Nicolas wants to leave before even seeing his father laid in the coffin. Every moment I open this book to record some new vileness. My mothers are children, but they have human feelings, whereas these monsters!... truly, the only good thing in all this is the portrait; I look at it and he... shares all my feelings.
You think I do not love my mothers; yes, I hated them before I had understood everything. I understand now that they are my children — spoilt children, incorrigible, ill-bred, but who render me what services they can, and whom I love when I am reasonable enough to be indulgent and to ask nothing of them concerning etiquette, society and certain moral attentions... And yet they are not stupid, as many I have seen are; but those stupid women know how to live, and they do not.
Poor Dina — Grand-papa has left her 50,000 roubles in a bank draft in Maman’s name. But she will not see a sou of it; without doubt the brothers will go to law. Nicolas was already spreading word in the kitchen that his father had been delirious and singing — when since our return he could not even raise his voice! The deed was drawn up at the same time as the will when we still lived on the Champs-Élysées; besides, Grand-papa never lost consciousness — witness the Multedo letter. Only in these last two days did he lack the strength, fading away little by little...

Notes

In English in the original. ↩