Wednesday, 25 May 1881

So I left yesterday evening. My aunt, who had seen how unhappy I was to stay in Paris, did not weep — fearing I would reproach her for working on my feelings — but she has death in her soul and believes she will never see me again. The poor woman who adores Maman adores me doubly on that account, and I am as disagreeable as possible. I even wonder how it is possible to repay such sublime devotion so badly — but it seems to me a thing owed, and then... she has no one but me, and besides when one loves someone it is for oneself... From grandmother's time, since my very birth, she has been accustomed to seeing in me the ideal of the whole world; now, whatever I do, she has for me only care and attentiveness — I need not even speak; she watches for my fancies. All the more so since knowing me very unhappy and ill [words blacked out: she cannot, by contrast]... than not to make my material life disagreeable.
I believe the state I am in has at last achieved the miracle of making them all understand that my complaints were not the caprices of a spoiled little girl. Five or six years of worries, griefs, shocks, humiliations, and tears have had their effect — I am struck down, and my poor family, exaggerating everything, believes me nearly lost. Besides, I have always had the consolation of seeing the finest fruits, the season's first produce, my favourite dishes, whenever I had some obvious trouble. Such attentions may seem simple-minded, but there is something touching in them. And I cannot appear gentle — my poor aunt noticed, without my saying a word, that I avoid all human faces as much as possible; so having seen to it that supper was prepared, she slips away and leaves me alone with a book. When there are three or four family members I can bear them and speak — but one alone is an intimacy that hampers me, and I sulk while reproaching myself for being so little tender with a woman so devoted, so attached, so virtuous. For one is very virtuous in our household — my poor aunt in that respect is an angel.
So — here I am gone. Saint-Amand came at the last moment. La Brimont knows nothing; I spent the previous evening with her — in fact these last few days we have been seeing each other constantly. I went to Tony's — he is very ill — and left him a letter of thanks; and to Julian's, who was out...
He might perhaps have changed my mind and made me stay — and I needed a change... For the past eight days no one in the family dared look at another for fear of melting into tears, and left alone I wept the whole time. Feeling all the while how cruel it was to my aunt... but she must have seen that I also wept when it came to leaving her.
She believes I do not love her at all, and when I think of the life of pure sacrifice of this heroic creature I dissolve in tears — she does not even have the consolation of being loved as a good aunt... and yet I love no one more.
At last I am in Berlin — my family and Gabriel at the station; we dine together. Yesterday he received my family with bouquets.
The kind boy has lost his bloom — each time I see him again it strikes me so...
I am going to paint a picture out there... Oh — that Paris, that picture, Breslau, the Gavinis and then Mme de Peyronney, Mme Adam, the Krishabers, etc... all of it... I had fallen into an inexpressible derangement.
The height of the horrible is my ears... I am struck there in a frightful manner... Given my nature it is the most cruel thing that could have happened... And so I dread everything I used to desire, and it is a dreadful situation. Now that I have more experience, now that I may perhaps be beginning to have talent, now that I know better how to manage... it seems to me the world would be mine if I could hear as before...
And in my illness this happens barely one time in a thousand, as all the physicians I have consulted have told me. "Rest easy — you will not go deaf because of your larynx; it happens very rarely." And it is precisely my case... You can imagine all the concealment, the continual strain, required to try to hide this hateful infirmity. I manage it with those who knew me before and who see me seldom — but at the studio, for instance, people sense it.
And what it takes away from one's intelligence — how is one to be lively or witty?! Ah — everything is over.