Wednesday, 25 December 1878 — Christmas

My father lunches with us. He bores me completely, and I trust he feels all my coldness.
I went walking in the Champs-Élysées with Paul; we picked up Filippini on the way. Monsieur my father was still there when Mme Gavini arrived to thank us for our pretty bonbonnières. I am sorry to have missed yesterday’s performance. Canrobert, Fleury, de Bourgoin and Duruy were there. And a Tuesday at the Français. In short, we are making plans for amusements with her, and at six o’clock we, the family only, are taken to dine at the Café de Paris.
I put on a mask of nonchalance so as not to take notice of all the unpleasant or hurtful allusions of this personage, whom I endure for Paul’s sake. He does not seem to understand it. At eight o’clock I go home with Dina. He bores me, this useless father, and... yes, he is almost as incoherent as my mother. The peacemaking interventions of that wife (all of it for Paul’s sake) are not happy ones; I have no need of anyone to explain me or to soften me — I express myself very plainly!
Two years ago I wanted to take the Bonapartists by way of Cassagnac. I had no idea of anything. Now I am very wise...
I live in a milieu that stifles everything that is not insipid and commonplace, while allowing useless extravagances...
There is nothing in the world more poisonous than the words of this man who is my father. No, no, one could never imagine anything more spiteful. And impudent! And such assurance, and a brow of brass. I am so exasperated I could cry.
Instinctively I began to recite prayers, to ward off from me the evil spells of this viper, the poisons of its sting. Oh yes, there is one man I frankly detest.
At the end of dinner he pretended to notice that I was displeased.
— Good heavens, my dear, I said to him, do not play the fool. I am not in the least hurt, but I am annoyed to see that you mean to needle me.
— But I swear to you I did not, and if I said anything at all... well, I ask you to forgive me, I had not the slightest intention...
— I believe you, I went on very calmly, but in that case I would advise you to go to school a little to learn how to speak. I am used to amiable, courteous people, and I do not see at all why I should stay and listen to you... Oh, do not protest; you do not do it on purpose, but for me it comes to the same thing. You are utterly disagreeable.
The teasing consisted in telling me in veiled terms that I would regret not following his advice, seeking far afield what is close at hand. That in a few years I would admit he was right; that unless I went down there to the country I would never find myself husbands; that he pities me, that it is really a shame. I would think I was old, if the same commiserations had not exasperated me even more when I was barely seventeen than they do now.
This man fills me with despair at life; his words freeze me and have the effect of a spell. I hate him absolutely. I would like to crush him when he puts on his airs of good-natured commiseration. He pities me. The monster, the coward, the hypocrite! Do you know what every gesture, every word, every movement of his says? — Poor blind child, you are walking towards misery and despair; when you get there, I shall hold out my hand to you.
He said it to me word for word at the Grand Hôtel two years ago. He dared to tell everyone, and to say it to my mother and to my very face, that I had never been so happy as at Gavronzi, that I would remember that stay as a paradise. He knows, the liar, the scoundrel, that he is lying, and that I curse him, and my journey, and his house, and him a hundred times over! He wanted to marry me to that fat Gorpintchenko! I could strangle him. He also wanted to marry me to his sister’s lover; he told Maman so, adding that Sophie would consent to it on condition that we stayed at her house and that things went on as usual.
I believe my mother threw something at his head, but he was not moved by it; he shrugged his shoulders and looked as if he pitied us. His household and his sisters are a heap of depravity. His sisters are the friends of his mistresses; the little Princess Eristoff was brought up with his bastards and patronised by the French actress. The old princess keeps an Italian coxcomb; Gorpintchenko’s mother consorts with hotel waiters... None of this was invented for me here. I am old enough to know what is true. I am afraid you may think my head is being turned against him. Besides, what I am telling is known to everyone. Paul tells it in moments of pique, and then the poor child explains it away and offers excuses so sickening that they need no labels; one knows they come from the Father.
This man has an assurance as astonishing as the incoherence of my mothers. He confesses things to you and then excuses them, lies, invents. And a cynicism that makes you leap out of your chair! A revolting hypocrisy!!
But the height of impudence is that he sets himself up as a model in everything and seems to take pity on you. What would make me tear his eyes out is that he does not believe a word of it himself, but practises these hypocrisies with the intention of enraging everyone around him.
All the same, he is not too bad a man.