Saturday, 26 November 1881

I was to go to Tony's — to come to an arrangement, as you will recall — to work under his eye and show him my sketch and settle something. But I did not go out. I am weak and can eat nothing, most likely still having the

fever... It is horribly sad to be kept in inaction by — by — I don't know what! By sheer lack of strength, in the end! Charcot has returned. Maman and Dina arrived yesterday, summoned by my aunt's lunatic telegrams. This morning Dina receives a letter from her sister asking how I am. "If the last telegram is true," she writes, "it is dreadful." I can imagine what that damned madwoman must have written with her concierge's spelling. At that I start to cry. You see, they put me in such a state of exasperation with all their fuss that I feel capable of committing a crime — I see red — I want to strangle them, scratch their faces with my nails, tear out their hair, and trample all this vile abomination underfoot. They will drive me mad, they will drive me mad — you will see. I caught cold, I know, but that can happen to anyone... And yet — all is finished. My ears are in a sorry state with this cold and this fever; what can I aspire to, what can I have. There is nothing left to wait for. It is like a veil that tore the other day, five or six days ago — all is finished, all is finished, all is finished. And they will not even respect my last remaining whims, will not leave me in peace.