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 those children who are too clever. 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 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 an 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 I do not much like it. It is an ugly death, very slow — four, five, ten years perhaps. And one becomes so thin, so ugly.
I have not grown much thinner, I am just as one ought to be, only I look tired and I cough a great deal and breathing is difficult. There you are, though! For four years treated by the greatest celebrities, taken round the spas, and not only have I not recovered my beautiful voice, so beautiful that I weep when I think of it, but I am more and more ill and, let us say the horrible word, a little deaf.
Well then, so long as death comes quickly, I shall not complain.
written across the page
Has it ever happened to you that you began to speak or took up your pen to say that you no longer believe in something you once believed in, and, even as you are saying — “and to think I was convinced of that!” — to be seized again by the old idea and believe in it anew, or at least to doubt the new one strongly?
It was in this frame of mind that I made the sketch for a picture: while waiting for the artist, the model, a little blonde woman, sits astride a chair and smokes a cigarette while looking at the skeleton between whose teeth she has stuck a pipe. Her clothes are scattered on the floor to the left, to the right her boots, an open cigar case on the floor and a little bunch of violets. One of her legs is thrown over the crossbar of the chair back; the woman is also leaning on her elbow, with one hand under her chin. One stocking on the floor, the other still hanging from her foot. The colour scheme works very well. By the way, I am becoming a colourist — oh! I say that in jest, but joking apart, I feel colour, and there is no comparison between my paintings of two months ago, before Mont-Dore, and now.
You will see, any number of things will turn up to bind me to life when I am no longer good for anything, when I am ill, rotten, disgusting.

Notes

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