Sunday, 23 September 1877

Lautrec writes still. If he truly loves us, it is touching.
We went for a drive in the Bois. There were races. I no longer know what is happening. We met Lady Spencer Cooper, the Durands.
I am ashamed of myself.
Detestable indecision. I have become ugly again. Eyes ringed, cheeks swollen, eyelids heavy. A horror.
Georges comes every evening. Grandfather lets him nearly starve and talks to him of this and that as if he were a caller. And since besides this he always tells the same things, gets muddled and makes mistakes, I find this poor old man simply disgusting — selfish, despotic, unfeeling, out of date, and by dint of all these qualities... revolting.
Fauvel says I am cured. But I can feel without even having tried to sing that the voice is still weak. Besides, a three-year illness cured in two months seems to me something too good to be true. Yet the vocal cords show nothing now, and the throat is good too; there are only a few small red patches, and naturally the fatigue produced by all these treatments.
I give myself the whole of this winter to rest; that is not too much when one thinks that my throat has been ill for three years on and off, and for a year continuously. You remember — in Russia I could not even speak in St. Petersburg, and three weeks later...
In truth I am adorable to entertain you with such interesting matters. Dog that I am.
The Vigiers lunched at a table next to ours. I was troubled: to greet her first would be my duty — but I was so uncertain! Not to greet her was embarrassing. The excellent woman spared me the difficulty by greeting me first, for which I am infinitely grateful to her. I shall know henceforth that I must greet her.