Tuesday, 18 February 1879

I read the newspapers; I know everything that is happening. I want to attend the receptions and the Academy sessions and who knows what else. And instead of that... I can only weep. I believe that if I did not think I would be read after my death, I would die on the spot.
The Institut tickets bring me back to the Deceased. If I were his wife I could lead the life I adore, and have tickets to the Institut sessions and invitations to official receptions. You see how moderate I am in my desires... I do not know what to do or what to become... Never, never have I been so lost, so mad. And if my mother were here, I would go to her, and at the first words I said about my tedium she would speak to me of my scenes, my outbursts, Madame Tutcheff — and would end by fleeing into the street in her nightgown or dressing gown, or I know not where.
Ah! beautiful it is, my life — ah! sweet — and I believe the tears falling from my eyes would be enough to wash Amélie's face or poison an honest man.
Just now I went and fell to my knees before my bed to ask God for justice, pity, or pardon! If I do not deserve these tortures, let Him do me justice! If I have committed abominations, let Him pardon them! If He exists, if He is as we are taught, He must do justice, He must have pity, He must pardon. I have only Him; it is therefore natural that I should go to Him and beseech Him not to abandon me to despair, not to lead me into sin, not to let me doubt, blaspheme, die.
My sin is no doubt equal to my torment. I no doubt commit at every moment small shameful acts that together form a dreadful sum.
Just now I answered my aunt harshly — but I could not do otherwise; she came in at the moment when I was weeping with my head in my hands and demanding of God that He attend to me. Ah! misery of miseries!
And I must not be seen crying — people would think I was weeping for love, and I would... weep with vexation at that.
~~I avoid the catastrophe of the Strasbourg spire~~
I continue reading Dumas. Thérèse is a story I do not understand. But in it he speaks of a fellow who climbed to the cross of Strasbourg Cathedral by the exterior ladder.
I did the same myself nine years ago, and as I was not keeping a journal at that time I recorded the fact in my child's portfolio. And since a stone — barely larger than a twenty-sou piece — had fallen under my feet from I know not where, and since I was thirsty for thrilling things, I tucked the monolith into the coin compartment and added this curious note on the page: "stone fallen on me while descending the spire of Strasbourg Cathedral. If this stone had been larger and if I had received it on the head, it would have been the end of me."