Friday, 11 October 1878

Maman lost consciousness while trying on a dress. Her health is deteriorating little by little — but continuously. She worries me.
I am writing a letter of condolence to Marcuard, and another... letter to my — alas! — only brother.
Dear Paul,
I truly do not know why you imagine you owe your mother only a little affection in your spare moments. Affection for the authors of our being is a sentiment natural to all animals — dogs, cats, hyenas, etc. What we, as human beings, owe them additionally is deference. I do not meddle in your acquaintances; I assume they are respectable. But what I do have the right to call to account is your improper, ill-bred, and coarse conduct toward your mother.
There are people who think that because it is Maman she counts for nothing, and that one does not even owe her the common politeness one shows a stranger.
Why do you fear to vex your father and yet have no concern about offending your mother, who has had you on her hands for fourteen years?... Because your daily comfort does not depend on her; because your father would say coarse and unkind things to you; and because your mother will say nothing — she being in Paris and you in Poltava? In truth, if those are the only pressures your mind and heart submit to, I pity you. For a whim you neglect appeals that would have brought another running — too happy to find that his mother loves him and wishes to see him.
Suppose this occurred between mere acquaintances, and I assure you that even then the gentleman who acted as you do would be considered quite ungracious. Now, if what I have just said does not touch you, it is because you are truly cowardly by nature, and these sentiments are not made for you. Good day.
That is the official letter; now know that Maman is very ill, and that this evening she fell on the carpet senseless, and is now confined to bed. (I forbid you to show this letter, for I will not have some wretch daring to make jokes about the fainting spells.) Neither our joys nor our sorrows are written to you to be profaned, blighted, soiled by hateful, stupid, and cowardly words. But let us say no more of these horrors.
I earnestly counsel you to come. If you wish to give Maman pleasure. We do not know whether we shall keep her long, and if she were to die I am sure you would be deeply sorry (cretinised as you are) at not having done what she desires.
Marie