Sunday, 14 May 1882

Well, what then? Well, absolutely nothing! What do I know? And even so? And the rest of it? But still? And the apartments? The house? Building? And the money? And my aunt who refuses to go there to sort everything out. And they say they spoil me! Nothing is more maddening than watching easy, possible, and useful things go undone — and why? Oh! these spineless characters! And now, to prevent my saying anything, they lie, they invent excuses, to buy themselves a fortnight. To what end, for what purpose? When they want everything settled just as much as I do! Ah! it makes one want to weep. You understand — if there were material impossibilities, serious obstacles, if I were mad and capricious. But no — so it is useless to insist; no one will believe that such infuriating creatures exist, and everyone will conclude that I am the mad one, naturally — because to explain my grievances one would have to form some idea of my family's inertia, their spinelessness, their stupidity.

All seasoned with Slavic cunning and guile! Oh! These creatures!