Monday 6 September 1875

A basin for my tears, please!
My mother writes me words of comfort; my aunt reads me the letter. I am naked and ready for my bath; instead of bathing I sit down on the floor like the Crouching Venus and for an hour I weep in silence.
I need not state the cause of my eternal grief. I have wept and I am weeping still; I am disheartened, crushed, wretched. I no longer hope for anything — yes, I do: I hope either for death or for a change. The tears and the fits of despair grow more frequent day by day; such a state cannot last. A great change will come to me, or at least a few days of forgetting.
If I die, which seems to me near and likely, I want a marble statue made of me thirty-three times life-size, and this statue set in the middle of the garden of the villa in Nice, after the houses and everything else on the property have been pulled down. Not in the middle, rather: a rise six metres high is to be built at the far end of the garden, sloping down to the Promenade, where the garden will be at its ordinary level.
Tall trees are to be planted in a very wide amphitheatre near the wall on the rue de France, so as to form a kind of great green wall, and my statue placed on this rise so that the green wall serves as its background; but the statue must stand three metres away from the trees. The garden will be planted and well kept, and this will depend on the day of my death: every week, on the Monday or the Tuesday — on whichever day I die — the municipal band of Nice will play in the garden and people will come as to a public garden, only they will be admitted solely on invitations issued by the members of the Cercle de la Méditerranée, so as to keep out nursemaids and soldiers. There will be dancing: dancing matinées. And every year, on the anniversary of my passing, there will be a night fête and my statue will be crowned with roses. This is to be done at the expense of my mother or my aunt, who are to set aside a sum whose interest will pay these costs — that is, half the interest, the other half to be distributed to the poor on the anniversary every year. In this way it will be in perpetuity, and in this way at least I immortalise myself.
This is to be regarded as my last will and carried out to the letter.
In this dejection and this incessant, dreadful pain I do not curse life. On the contrary, I love it and find it good. Would you believe it, I find everything good and pleasant, even tears, even pain. I love to weep, I love to despair, I love to be grieved and sad. I regard all that as so many amusements, and I love life in spite of everything, and I want to live. It would be cruel to make me die when I am so accommodating. I weep, I complain, and at the same time I like it — no, not that, I don’t know how to put it... In short, everything in life pleases me, I find everything pleasant. And while asking for happiness I find myself happy to be wretched — it is no longer I who find myself so; my body weeps and cries out, but something in me that is above me rejoices at everything.
It is not that I prefer tears to joy — that would be absurd — but far from cursing life in moments of despair, I bless it and say: I am unhappy, I complain, but I find life so beautiful that everything seems beautiful and happy to me, and I want to live.
Apparently this someone who is above me, and who so enjoyed weeping, has gone out this evening, for I feel very unhappy — more than ever before, it seems to me.
Well then, my God, why not kill me at once, why drag out so wretched a life! And what have I done that He should turn away from me? Have I not always worshipped His name! Ah, God is unjust to His poor creature. If one is all-powerful, is that a reason to torment, to roast over a slow fire?
Ah, my God, I dare to reproach You. You can send me other misfortunes, but You cannot make me more wretched.
Besides, in my utter dejection I am ready for anything!
Hardly have my tears subsided when Rémy comes. And we spend an hour, my aunt, he and I, saying nothing.
He is a serious young man, affectionate and kind. But I am beside myself. My aunt goes out for ten minutes and he begs me to tell him my troubles, since I told him he was my friend. I told him nothing and steered the conversation elsewhere. Are my troubles the kind one tells? Can anyone understand them without having felt them? Those who have not felt them will laugh. Ah, may they choke on that laugh!
I am overwrought; I talk without stopping and deliver a sort of speech on jealousy. Why on jealousy? I have no idea. Jealousy and monarchy are my favourite subjects.
Is there anything in the world more absurd than jealousy? One makes oneself ridiculous by being jealous. You love a woman, she loves you; one fine day she stops loving you — but is it her fault? Does she stop loving because she no longer wants to love?
Did she love because she wanted to love? No. Well then, why torture oneself, and torture her? Why this useless, stupid, pitiful fury? For a man or a woman cast off and exchanged for another is always, whatever anyone says, pitiful, and the great tragic robe drapes their ridiculous side very badly. One no longer loves the same person, one loves another, but not because one wants it so, [Four lines crossed out] it is an incomprehensible, involuntary change, produced no doubt by the shifting of the molecules of our imagination.
If one is jealous past all bearing, well then, kill! Kill them both, and oneself afterwards.
I always wonder whether there is anything in the world uglier or more ridiculous than scenes of jealousy. When one is jealous without cause, when one suffers or doubts, then one should go to the woman and beg her, in the name of all she holds dear and sacred, to put an end to the doubt. One is far more wretched then, for women are great hussies, always ready to torment those who give themselves up to them in good faith.
This speech finished — a speech that, for the first time in my life, faithfully renders my thought — we go out.
But everything seems to be against me. Let a great misfortune come: one is crushed by it, one weeps over it, and in the end one calms down. But no, that is not how I am tormented. At every step I take, the ground gives way under my foot.
The furniture — fallen through; the journey to Russia — fallen through; the journey to England — fallen through; the horse — fallen through; horses and carriages — fallen through; all the dresses I have ordered just now — botched, spoiled.
The journey to Florence on the point of falling through; if it does not, it will be a miracle.
Everything, everything, everything! And I have forgotten to count Audiffret, but I am so wretched that I am in no mood for such trifles.
To crown my misfortune there is nothing to pay for the orders with; my aunt, not knowing I was in Paris, brought nothing — the money is waiting for her in Nice.
Everything fails me. Year after year I dragged along my pitiful hopes; year after year [they] kept me going with empty promises. For four years I have been howling, for four years I have been begging, for four years they have been promising. And nothing, nothing, nothing!
Ruin, dishonour, wretchedness, shame! Isolation. Oh, that is the most terrible — contempt and isolation! Do understand me: this is not a spoiled child throwing tantrums over a horse or a carriage; it is a soul in torment, a wretched heart, a creature whom God spurns with His foot. One who, before having lived, has had enough of life. Oh no, no, I lie: I have sorrows enough, but I want life!
One who has only just been born and who hates the human race. In a heart where there should be nothing but trust, sympathy and kindness, there is nothing but mistrust, rage, hatred, despair.
I have not yet done harm to anyone, and already I have been slandered, offended, humiliated! How can I love people? I hate them! But God does not permit hatred. But God abandons me. But God is testing me. Well, if He is testing me, He must end the test; He sees how I take it, He sees that I do not hide my grief beneath a cowardly hypocrisy, like that rascal Job, who simpered before Our Lord and made a dupe of Him.
The years fly by and nothing moves forward. I knew my life would be either brilliant as a star or short and wretched. I see which of the two it is. By the most abominable paths God is leading me to the grave. In that case I beg — I order, if need be — the execution of my last wish concerning my statue. It is my one and only wish.
Ready to weep at any moment, but outwardly calm, I go to the Bois! I am going to speak again of Audiffret, the ex-Girofla, and it will probably be the last time in the way I have spoken of him until now. I am in no mood for these trifles, but I would just as soon be done with it at once, since the occasion presents itself.
We see him hopping about in the Bois. He is a very strange gentleman: after spending two whole months never leaving our side, after being very well received in our house, he barely bows and has not paid a call. Really, I shall never understand these people who make your acquaintance, come, are all amiability, and then one fine morning turn away from you. Just as one does with shopkeepers: one comes, one buys, and one goes off without a care.
All at once he ceases to be Girofla, the interesting young man, the poseur, who shows off and plays the disdainful one but stays within the bounds of propriety, and becomes simply M. d’Audiffret, a gentleman like many others, who behaves rudely — or rather, who behaves as so many others have behaved towards us.
As soon as he is seen in this light he no longer moves me; in an instant he is a hundred leagues from me, I shall not lift a little finger for him, and he is as indifferent to me and as detested as the others, as all of them.
How happy I am to love no one. There were moments, though, when I wondered whether I did not love that one. Oh, but they were only moments, seconds, when I was irritated, when I needed a cause for my fits of anger. It is strange of me to speak here of those moments of impossible doubt. I speak of them to rejoice in the impossibility. I am astonished that in one minute a man who occupied me for so long should drop so completely out of my thoughts. I have spoken.
One thing grieves me above all: not the collapse of all my plans, but the regret this string of mishaps causes me. Not for my own sake — I don’t know whether I shall be understood — but because it pains me to see reverses piling up on my life, my life that I should like to be clear and happy, as it pains one to see stains piling up on a white dress one wanted to keep clean. At each little sorrow my heart tightens, not for the sorrow myself, but out of pity, for each sorrow is like a drop of ink falling into a glass of water: it never fades, and added to those before it, it turns the glass of water from clear to grey, to black and dirty. However much water one adds afterwards, the grimy bottom always remains.
My heart tightens because each time it is an irreparable stain on my life, in my soul. Does one not feel a strange, deep sadness in the face of irreparable things, however insignificant they may be? My white dress has long been spotted like a jaguar’s skin, and yet at each new stain I am sad.
My aunt tries to talk to me at dinner; I beg her rather roughly not to talk to me, to leave me in peace, for in my state my greatest happiness is to be alone and undisturbed. I tell her so, and it is the truth.
In the lift she attempts a sort of reproach about the fortune. But this reproach had no other aim than to prove to me that she was powerless to meet my needs; the reproach was an excuse and a consolation at the same time. But my pride takes it seriously, and besides, I want to sound this woman out; so, as we come into our rooms, my heart tight, my lips pressed together, tears in my eyes, I say in a trembling voice:
If twenty-five souls live on this fortune, why not take one’s own fortune and live apart?
I no longer know what she answered, but after a moment she burst out in complaints against heaven knows whom, and into sobs, just as I was dissolving in tears on my side, in my room. I saw so much sincerity, love and grief in those tears that I felt disarmed and more wretched than ever, for I no longer had anyone to strike at — I had only a creature as unhappy as myself; for this is the first time I have seen her weep since her mother’s death.
Then I wanted to go to her, kiss her and weep with her, thank her for the proof she had just given me that not all people are unworthy of love, that there are good and true feelings in this world. For after all she is only my aunt; often, exasperated by my endless lamentations, she cries out:
— Why do I put up with this? What does it have to do with me? I am a stranger to you — go to your own people!
Today she cried out in the same way, and for the first time I said to her what I said this evening. You have seen how well I succeeded. And I thank God, for from now on I am sure of her, as sure as of myself, as of my mother — more than of my mother.
I wanted to go to her, but I had not the strength; I stayed in my dark room, dazed, crushed, my eyes full of tears. But I did not grimace as I wept; the tears fell naturally, as water falls from a fountain without stirring the stone in the least. I was numb, strange; had anyone given me poison to drink I would have drunk it. I thought I was going mad, and I longed for madness without understanding anything.
I sank to my knees; my soul rose towards God, but I could not frame any prayer. I raised my eyes to heaven, rested my chin on my hands and stayed like that for some time. But no doubt God does not receive my prayer, for I felt very wretched and let myself slide to the floor, sat like an idiot on the carpet without moving my head, without moving the blinking like an owl or a madwoman.
No human language can explain my state; it seems to me that I was not alive, or that during those terrible moments only my body was alive.
At last I went to fetch a candle and began to write.
My God, Thou whom I have doubted, Thou whom I have accused, Thou who hast a hundred times the right and the power to crush me a hundred times over or to torment me without end — Thou, my God, who alone art good, eternal and merciful, have pity on me.
Forgive me, turn not away from me, hear me!
My God, my God, my God, I have only Thee. Protect me! My God! My God!

Notes

In Latin in the original: Dixi. ↩