Wednesday, 22 June 1881 – 10 June

I have been telling myself, more often than you think, that I am unjust towards Maman and the others; that she does everything she can, etc. Well, I will tell you in passing that she swore to me on her knees and in tears, kissing my hands, that from the moment she arrived here heaven and earth would be moved, and that she would have but one thought: to finish the case and come back. Do you remember the letters that moved me so, in which she told 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 fits, spasms and sobs on receiving the telegrams and letters announcing my approaching end this winter. Here we are in the country for some weeks, for three weeks now; I speak to her about the case every day, repeating that I would go to Paris and not stir from there without her, and would not look after my health. And she always swore to me that only the necessary steps were being taken. I was foolish enough almost to 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... It would now be the fount of sentiment and the pretext for mortal anxieties without which neither Maman nor my aunt, not very intelligent, idle and cut off from the world as they are, can live. Very good women otherwise, and they adore me. But that is how they are made.
Why deceive me for three weeks — why procrastinate? No one knows — just like that... “I thought,” so she says, “that Skebinsky would act” (he had replied to her long ago that he could not come), “and as he does nothing I called in this one.” Out of stupid cowardice and a ridiculous fear of the outcome of the case, 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 can no more hold her outrages towards me against her as a crime than my insolences towards her against me; 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, which has been made a matter of public concern, over which they weep and have 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 so many sorrows and disgusts so easily avoidable.