Tuesday, 29 November 1881

Well, it has been a fortnight now, and I have at least another fortnight ahead of me. Little Brisbane came to see me, then Villevieille — who has herself been ill. And Amélie! Julian is forever anxious for news of me, and the other evening she came running [two words blacked out:] to give him her report, that very same evening at the class. That girl will no doubt achieve her ends. No one has ever found a more ingenious way to wind herself around a man from every side. Madame Nachet brings me a bouquet of violets today; I receive her as I do everyone, for despite the fever which has not left me for a fortnight and a pulmonary congestion on the left side — alias pleurisy — and two blister plasters, I do not capitulate. I am up and about and conduct myself as a person in ordinary health. Only the quinine is making me deaf; the other night I thought I would die of terror, hearing my watch no longer. And

it will have to go on yet and always. [Crossed out: Besides] I feel almost strong, and were it not that for a fortnight I have been unable to swallow anything, I would not feel my illness at all. Even so — my work, my painting, my poor painting. We are the 29th of November. I shall not be able to begin before the end of December; in two and a half months I shall never have the time. What ill luck, and when one is born unhappy there is no fighting it — look at me. Painting seemed a refuge, and now I am going deaf, which means terrible embarrassment with the models, perpetual anxieties, and the impossibility of doing portraits unless I confess — and I have not yet the courage for that. Then this illness, unable to work, forced to stay shut in for another month... But it is too sad for words. Dina does not leave my side; she is so good to me. Paul and his wife arrived yesterday. The Gavinis and Géry came. Bojidar, Alexis. And I, always keeping my high spirits, extricating myself from difficult moments by sheer force of will and jokes. The doctors are the source of amusement now. Potain, being unable to come every day, sends me a doctor who will come daily. Charcot [words blacked out: already at] sent a replacement, but so stupid that I could not stand him, and taking advantage of my illness I told him I detested him, that he bored me, that it was a positive torment to see him, etc. Naturally I relate all of this to Potain, who promises me that his man will be less stupid. Nevertheless this worthy fellow, before entering, addressed himself to my aunt to say that M. Potain had warned him I was excessively capricious and wayward, and that he would very much like to know how one ought to approach me. And I find that delightful! For I play the madwoman and profit from this state to deliver absurdities.