Tuesday, 19 October 1880

Alas! All this will come down to dying in a few years, wretchedly, lingering on. I rather suspected it would end this way. One cannot live with a head like mine; I am like children who have too much wit. I needed too many things to be happy, and circumstances have grouped themselves in such a way that I am deprived of everything except physical comfort.
When [blacked-out words: it was] two or three years ago, and even six months ago, I would go to a new doctor to recover my voice, he would ask me if I did not experience such and such symptoms, and as I replied no, he would say more or less this: well, there is nothing wrong with the bronchial tubes nor the lungs; it is only the larynx. Now I am beginning to feel all those things the doctor started by assuming. So the bronchial tubes and the lungs are affected. Oh! It is still nothing, or almost nothing. Fauvel has ordered iodine and a blister plaster — naturally I uttered cries of horror. I would rather break my arm than undergo a mustard plaster. Three years ago in Germany a spa doctor found something or other in my right lung, beneath the shoulder blade. I laughed heartily. And again in Nice, five or six years ago, I would sometimes feel a pain in that spot, only I was convinced that a hump was going to grow on me, having two hunchbacked aunts.
And there it is — a few months ago still they were asking me if I did not feel anything there, and I replied no without thinking about it. Now when I cough or even just breathe deeply, I feel it there on the right side of my back.
All these things together make me believe there is perhaps truly something... I take a sort of pride in demonstrating that I am ill, but it hardly pleases me. It is an ugly death, very slow — four, five, ten years perhaps. And one becomes so thin, so ugly.

Notes

A vesicatoire was a counter-irritant treatment that raised blisters on the skin, believed to draw out disease.