Friday, 21 September 1883

Discussion — or rather conversation — about the inheritance. Paul has brought the plans, the calculations, etc., etc. I do not for one moment suspect his good faith, yet Little Russia people are such liars; and besides, there is a way of stating the full truth, all the figures, and yet having it turn out not quite right. Here is what he proposes: he gives me 10,000 roubles (ten thousand roubles) for my rights. For, he says, everything must be sold at once, otherwise all is lost! The people who want to buy will not buy if I keep my piece. Why? Because Paul assumes I will take the best part, and without that good piece no one will buy the rest — whereas on the contrary those buyers would also purchase the poorer land if it is imposed upon them together with the good, sine qua non. Yes, but I say to him: if I take for my share some of the good and some of the bad, the property does not change its nature — it merely diminishes.
That is the point he cannot get past. And it is what I persist in demanding he explain to me.
The true explanation — and I believe it is this — he will give me his ten thousand, sell nothing, and old Eristoff will help him pay the interest on the debts, which amount to one hundred and forty thousand roubles, that is to say five or six hundred thousand francs. And the whole property comes back to Paul. This is a supposition.
It is very disagreeable to me not to allow myself the pleasure of saying: let us not discuss it — take everything. But if I said that, it would not be appreciated. They would say: she understood perfectly well that she ought to do it and was forced into it, etc.
My inheritance is regarded as a small usurpation because my aunt will leave me her fortune. If Paul is sincere — entirely sincere — I am ready to relinquish everything. But.
And then really taking these ten thousand roubles… when I have no need of them… for I have no need of them. And yet, in receiving my very small share of the paternal inheritance, I am not only within my rights, but also in my duty, my dignity. We did not get on well, but we embraced when we parted.
And then what else.
He even loved me more than Paul, for I flattered his vanity — his supreme sentiment — and I resembled him.
Well, what of it?
That is all. My painting is stalled — so little left to do — and I am worn out, sawn up, steamed, bored, etc., etc.
I have played patience and the cards say I shall die within the year. They have deceived me so often — no matter; I have the jitters, as Rosalie Pitauchard would say. So I would linger another month, then suddenly a chest inflammation, and toward the end of December…
Let us write my will.
Done.
At table, I make Maman weep by speaking of my death, depicting with eloquence how she and my aunt will end their days at Monaco in the company of the Daniloff, conversing with croupiers and gamblers.
It is very cruel, and it seems to me very true.