Thursday, 18 August 1881

What with my painting I have said nothing about Oelsnitz’s departure; she has been wanting to leave for a long while now, and we always kept her back. But the poor child is at the end of her strength, she is bored to death; just think, I say good morning and good night, and every evening I reproach myself for not talking to her more, and every day it starts all over again.
I have had a hundred and fifty generous impulses to draw closer to her, but there it stopped, and I find my excuse in the sorrows that weigh me down.
My aunt says nothing to her either, except about household matters, and besides she is hard, not very delicate... an excellent woman, so they say... Well, she has gone, the poor little thing; a truly angelic nature, and her departure wrung my heart terribly, but she will be happier over there, she will live like everyone else, she has incomparable friends in the Anitchkoff family. But what grieves me most is that I can no longer make up for my coldness, my indifference; I treated her the way I treat Maman, my aunt, Dina, but for my own people it is less painful, whereas this child, a stranger, alone, so gentle, so calm... and so I went straight to the Réunion so as to leave no room for softening. She left yesterday at nine o’clock; I could not speak... so as not to cry, and I put on a detached air, but I hope she saw... No, I ought to have forgotten my troubles a little and looked after this angelic girl. It is too late, and I am only showing off by voicing these regrets, which make it seem I have a heart... It is easy to have one after the event, and at no cost.