Monday, 20 June 1881

I tell myself — more often than you think — that I am unjust toward Maman and the others, that she does everything she can, etc. Well — I will say in passing that she swore to me on her knees and in tears, kissing my hands, that from the moment of her arrival here heaven and earth would be moved, and that she would have but one thought: to finish the legal matter and return. Do you remember the letters over which I was moved, in which she told both me and my aunt that she would not survive me by a quarter of an hour? And no later than the day before yesterday Paul and his wife told me of Maman's fainting spells, spasms and sobs on receiving the telegrams and letters announcing my approaching end last winter.
We have been in the country — [words blacked out: for] weeks, for three weeks now — and I speak to her every day about the matter, repeating that I would go to Paris and stay there without her and would not look after my health. And she always swore to me that only the necessary steps had been taken. I was foolish enough to almost believe it. And it is only today that the first step has been taken... The lawyer came today, and on learning everything I burst into tears... [words blacked out: It would be now] the source of feelings and the pretext for mortal anxieties, without which neither Maman nor my aunt — not very intelligent, idle, and cut off from the world — can live. Very good women otherwise, and adoring me. But they are made that way.
Why deceive me for three weeks — why procrastinate? No one knows — just like that... It appears she thought Skebinsky would act (he had replied he could not come, a long time ago), and as he was doing nothing she called this other man. Out of stupid cowardice and ridiculous fear of the outcome of the legal matter she preferred to procrastinate. She knows, as does everyone, that there is not a sou's worth of risk to run — "but all the same, who knows, perhaps it is better to wait, for after all, etc." One cannot hold her outrages toward me against her as a crime any more than my own insolences toward her — if I make scenes and say harsh things it is in cold blood and in the hope of making her act like the others. As for her... let us assume she is genuinely afraid (of what?) — from weakness, from goodness, etc.
But when one sets against this feeling — or rather this natural disposition — the love she professes for me, and everything this delay would entail for me in difficulties, worries, illness, drama, domestic heartbreak, and all the harm it would do to my health over which public mourning is made and over which there are weeping fits and nervous attacks — when one thinks of all that, knowing all that, one remains dumbfounded as I am, and there is only one thing left to do: weep all one's tears if one can weep — for in truth there have never been sadder and more disgusting things so easily avoidable.