❦
Tuesday, 7 February 1882
I am done for. Wolff devotes some twenty of the most flattering lines to Mlle Breslau... It is not my fault, besides. One does according to one's gifts. She is entirely devoted to her art; I invent dresses for myself, dream of bodice draperies, of revenges in Nice society. I do not mean to say I would have her talent if I did as she does — she follows her nature, I follow mine.
Je suis cuite. Wolff consacre une vingtaine de lignes les plus flatteuses a Mlle Breslau...
But I am left helpless... For I feel my impotence to such a degree that I want to renounce everything, for ever. Julian would say I would do as much if I wished. Wish! But to wish one must also be able. Those who succeed by saying I will are without knowing it sustained by secret forces that I lack. And to think that at times I have not only faith in my talent-to-come but feel the sacred fire of genius!! Oh, sadness.
Mais j'en ai les bras coupes...
At least here no one is to blame — that is less maddening. Nothing is so horrible as telling oneself: without that person, or without that circumstance, I might perhaps have.
Au moins ici il n'y a de la faute a personne, c'est moins enrageant...
I believe I do all I can and I arrive at nothing.
Je crois faire tout ce que je puis et je n'arrive a rien.
And the fever for two days again — my arms and legs feel broken. But a resplendent complexion; I am putting on weight.
Et la fievre depuis deux jours de nouveau, j'en ai les bras et les jambes cassees. Et une mine resplendissante, j'engraisse.
O my God, grant that I am mistaken, and that this consciousness of my mediocrity is only an injustice!
O mon Dieu faites que je me trompe, et que la conscience de ma mediocrite ne soit qu'une injustice !