Sunday, 24 September 1882

The days follow one after another and are all alike.
From eight till five, painting; a good hour for the bath before dinner, then a silent dinner; I read the papers. A few rare words exchanged with my aunt.
She must be dreadfully bored, poor thing — and I am not kind, truly; she has nothing in life and has never had anything, for she was always sacrificed to Maman who was beautiful, and now she lives only for us, for me — and I cannot manage to be gay and kind during the rare moments when we are together. But what do you expect — I have nothing to say to my own family! Still, when they are all there... But like this, and then I am happy in the silence during which I do not think about "my infirmities."