Friday, 31 May 1878

I went to Alexis’s, and this time I did not help him at all.
I gave him three letters...
The first is false, and harms me by recounting trifles of no importance about my character that do me damage. The second is fair-haired, rather stout, blue-eyed, with a gentle face but a rather strange gaze. He has a nascent affection for me; I intimidate him, and he does not know what to do. But these two have infinitely less in common with me than the third — with whom there is community of mind, of feeling, of heart; who loves me greatly, but who has it in his head to marry a tall brunette.
Then I asked him whether I can be magnetised and can magnetise others. To be magnetised — with some difficulty — but to magnetise — very easily. So I set off through dear old Paris to buy books on magnetism, and since certain ones cannot be had elsewhere, I am sent to the Baron du Potet himself. Rue du Dragon 10. There I find a great staircase, wide and dark as in Italy, a library, and an old eccentric who declares himself to be the king of magnetism. I shall make a serious study of it. I find that this power is a reflection of the divine.
My family go to see a fairy-play at the Châtelet; I go with them. We find the Lacons and the Fosters there, who come to visit us in the box. When you have seen one fairy-play you have seen them all. I was bored, and while mechanically watching the advertisements on the curtain I was thinking that my life is withered, faded and... done for. It is a pity to feel such emptiness, such desolation around oneself. Come to think of it... now I see it. I thought myself born to be happy in everything; I now see that I am unhappy in everything. It is exactly the same thing — except that it is precisely the opposite. Once I know where I stand, it is quite bearable, and causes me no more grief since I know it in advance. I assure you I am saying what I think. What was atrocious was the constant disillusion — finding serpents where one expected to see flowers. That is what is horrible... But these shocks have schooled me in indifference. Everything passes around me; I do not even put my head out of the carriage window when I go to the atelier. I close my eyes or read a newspaper.
You may think this resignation is desperate... it is caused by despair, but it is calm and gentle, though sad. Instead of rose, it is grey — that is all. One makes one’s peace with it, and is tranquil.
I no longer recognise myself... it is not the feeling of an hour — I have become like this. It seems strange to me, but it is no less true.
I do not even need wealth — two black smocks a year, linen that I would wash on Sundays for the week, very simple food provided there are no onions and it is fresh, and the means to work. No carriage — the omnibus or my feet; I wear flat shoes at the atelier. Why live, then?!
Why? Why, naturally — in the hope of better days, and that hope never leaves you.
Everything is relative — thus, compared with my past torments, the present is well-being; I enjoy it as a pleasant event.
In January I shall be twenty. Mousse will be twenty!
It is absurd and impossible. It is frightening.
At moments I am seized with the urge to dress up, to go about, to show myself at the Opera, at the Bois, at the Salon, at the Exhibition. But I immediately say to myself: what is the use? And everything falls back into the void.
Between each word I write I think a million things; I express only in fragments the indistinct thoughts of “complete deductions in their understanding.”
What a misfortune for posterity.

Notes

Jules Denis du Potet de Sennevoy (1796-1881), the leading French practitioner and teacher of animal magnetism. ↩