Monday, 18 November 1878

It is one in the morning. Robert-Fleury was at the atelier, after which I called on Mouzay to have her read the article and to chat with her daughter, which always gives me pleasure. That is how I sing her praises.
The old woman told me a few hard truths. I know myself that I have been making a fool of myself, that such things are only acceptable once or twice, that I shall never have a proper salon if I continue, and that — in the end — with this same Cassagnac I have committed nothing but follies that compromised me, harmful, stupid follies, and that he dropped me when he had had enough.
I assured her the whole time that I had always laughed at Cassagnac, that if it were to be done again I would do it again, and that I am certainly sorry about his marriage, but only because it deprives us of our escapades; and what I miss most is Cassagnac coming back from the kitchen with a teapot of hot water.
In short, I stayed there until one o’clock and came home in a mood... amusing though sad. She is right, I said to myself; I was mad about him, he could have done what he liked with me. How can it be! There was everything — and now there is nothing. Nothing interests me; nothing is worth pausing for. That man was everything; without him there is nothing. There is no cheating; whichever way one looks, that is the truth. Emptiness and desolation. Is it the creature he has married that... it is not even a woman, so they say. What should one call her — or him?
One cannot say “his wife,” or “Mlle Acard”... one will simply say Acard. Emptiness and desolation. Those who have felt it will understand me.
So I come home in a poetic mood and find my aunt gone out to look for me, although I had said where I was going.
This stupidity can only be explained by the numbing torpor that is gaining on them more and more. One of them is ill — but the other?!
I cannot tell you how it enraged me; once [?] the tender-hearted aunt is back, I shall call her to account for this folly, which has no reason whatever to exist.
Go and spend an hour or two with friends, chat quietly, come back thinking about love and a heap of things of that sort — and find stupidly upset faces, astonished expressions.
For a moment I thought M. Georges had come back, but no.
When I had understood the great affair, I no longer understood it at all, and it was precisely this absurdity that put me in such a rage! For some time now I have been irritated by little things that have no reason to exist. They come and pester me if I sit up an hour later, as though I were a child, or they badger me to go for a drive in the Bois, and, when I go out, to be well wrapped up. There are families where that would be quite natural, but in ours!!! Well! all these little things piled up made me rebel against this attack on my liberty, which, after all, I really do not abuse. It is all so stupid when one thinks of it coolly... but stupidities drive me beside myself. And then they spoilt my evening; I was coming home far removed from their everyday trivialities.
And Maman, who began howling at my first words, which were quite moderate on the whole and were not addressed to her; and Dina, who has grown stupid too from playing sick-nurse, who starts to intervene. Oh! you see, those virtuous, pleading, tragic airs — it is disgusting! These women are literally stupefied by their isolation, the deaths of this winter, the illnesses; but do you think a person in good health can endure that!! Seeing these fine things, I said to myself: if you do not strike a great blow, they will eat up your existence with these innocent, well-meaning little vexations. So I went and broke a washbasin in my aunt’s room; she flew into a rage; whereupon shouts, big explanations, curses, declarations of hatred and contempt, on both sides.
Departure at last. I oppose it, at night. In come Maman and the conciliatory Dina — shouts, tears; they pretend to be afraid, to believe that I am going to beat them or kill them.
It is four o’clock, and when one thinks what all this uproar was about, one thinks one is dreaming.
I am so unhappy that without these domestic squabbles I might still manage to live without complaining too much. I was accepting this wretched existence, and seeing that, God sends me torments that make it odious to me, for God wants me to torment myself; and if, worn out, I resign myself to these troubles, He will no doubt send me others!
Emptiness and Desolation.