Friday, 7 July 1882

I am a little tormented by my note to my father.
I ought at least to tell Maman, for I do not even enjoy the foolish revenge... Revenge always seems foolish when one is no longer angry.
Paul, if the telegrams are to be believed, is very ill, and Maman is in a state of anxiety that is pitiable — she can barely drag herself about. We speak to each other [Crossed out: but barely] only so as not to make a show of not speaking... Besides, I believe she tells herself, with that incredible childlike unconcern, that it is all over. Poor woman... It seems to me now that I conjure monsters for the pleasure of it... And to be truthful one must admit that she is unconcerned and ignorant of life... That is all. Only when one is furious one dramatises things, and in the end I do not know whether I am right in anger or in cold blood. If I judge as a stranger... But as a daughter — and that is what I am, whatever I do — I cannot think seriously ill of her, for there are faults but alongside them devotion — a foolish devotion, if you like — but it amounts to the same, or nearly... And besides, one cannot remake one's nature; she does not know how to be better, though she loves her children. Consider her distress over Paul's illness and mine... In short, it is touching.
One may tell oneself what one likes!... In short, the thing is, it is better not to judge one's mother because one loves her, and despite all one's rebellions one returns to that feeling — I cannot express it...
It appears we shall stay in this house — the one I had asked Émile to enquire about is too expensive and not yet ready. He lunched with us; he is rather amusing. I believe I am getting colour into my painting.