Thursday, 1 March 1883

My father is truly a disagreeable and malicious man. It is possible that his illness is the cause — yet it seems to me he has not changed. What is curious is that he appears annoyed and displeased to see us with connections in Paris; he would like to humiliate and destroy all our friends, and with a nerve worthy of Julian, he glorifies the three old bourgeois and the five foolish old or young women of that hole called Poltava. One ought not to respond to such absurdities, and so that is what I do. But he truly lacks delicacy, and he certainly does not lack perfidy in complaining before his sister that he is invaded (he has a whole floor to himself), that he cannot have a moment's peace, and that we go chasing after evening parties with our tongues hanging out. It is idiotic no doubt — but I cannot endure [blacked-out words: these manners] so unbecoming. We owe each other nothing [Crossed out: and one should not] and a certain politeness would be welcome. What I always admire is what they call audacity. Perhaps it is because — even for jokes — I lack it entirely.
This man pampered and coddled, around whom everyone hastens as though... Well, he is arrogant, brusque, impertinent... And seeing such behavior, one yields. Not I — I withdraw... But the others... For it is the logic of the fable... [blacked-out words: Seeing someone] adopt an impertinent tone, one ends by believing he has the right to it.
Life is nothing but a fabric of miseries — not for everyone.
My eyes worry me — especially the right one. Grand-papa had a cataract on his right eye and I have an idea I shall too. I had it examined by a doctor; only I asked him to say nothing to me if there were anything serious, and he told me it is nothing but a slight short-sightedness. Slight — he is very kind. I see a third less far than everyone else, and with the right eye more than half as little... Or less than half. There would be nothing for it but to die... And this time for good.