Thursday, 16 November 1882

I had a series of ill-omened dreams that were to presage something dreadful. It has come — I believe at least that this is it, though it is a misfortune foreseen and to which I have in a way grown accustomed; but what still more dreadful thing will happen if it is not this? I went to see a great doctor, a hospital surgeon — unknown and modest, so that he would not deceive me. Oh, he is not an agreeable gentleman. He told me it very simply. I shall never be cured. But my condition may improve satisfactorily, so that the deafness will be bearable — it already is; it will be more so, apparently. But if I do not follow rigorously the treatment he prescribes, it will increase. He also directs me to a junior doctor who will follow my case for two months, as he himself does not have time to see me twice a week, which is necessary. For the first time I had the courage to say:
"Monsieur — I am becoming deaf,"
— until now I had used formulas such as "I do not hear well," "my ears are stopped up," etc. This time I dared to say that atrocious thing, and the doctor answered me with a surgeon's bluntness.
I hope that the misfortunes announced by my dreams are this — but I dare not hope for it, since it is neither new nor unforeseen; heaven had no need to warn me of it by dreams; there will therefore be something else still.
I may become blind, or nearly so — I already have one eye that sees half as well as the other. But let us not concern ourselves in advance with the kindnesses God holds in reserve for His humble servant. For the moment I am only deaf. In the evening, when there are many people, in the hubbub of a gathering I hear well enough — also in a carriage.
But it is in ordinary, quiet conversations that I am to be pitied. I must always try to be very close to people — which is awkward and which no longer allows me to maintain that calm, graceful bearing which suits me so well, nor the coquetry of attitude, nor... If I have a portrait to paint... And if...
In any case he says it will certainly improve. As long as I have my family watching over me and coming to my aid with the skill of affection, it is still manageable... But alone, among strangers.
And if I have a husband who is unkind or insensitive... At twenty-two years old. If at least it were to redeem some great happiness with which I had been overwhelmed without deserving it... But —
Why, then, do people say that God is good, that God is just.
Why does God cause suffering? If it is He who created the world, why did He create evil, suffering, wickedness? I refer my readers to Musset's "L'espoir en Dieu," which I beg my editor to insert here in full.
So — I shall never be cured...
It will be bearable — but there will be a veil between me and the rest of the world. The wind in the branches, the murmur of water, the rain falling on the windowpanes... Words spoken in a low voice... With the Kotchoubeys I was not at fault a single time; at dinner either — as soon as the conversation is even a little animated I have no cause to complain. But at the theatre I do not hear the actors fully, even from a front box; and with models, in that great silence, one does not speak loudly... In any case... How ---? Doubtless it was foreseen in some way for the past two years; I ought to be accustomed to it... I am accustomed to it, but it is nonetheless dreadful.
I am struck in what was most necessary to me, most precious... An imbecile will be able to mock me. I was... I shall no longer be able to...
If only it stops there...

Notes

A "hospital surgeon" (chirurgien des hôpitaux) in 19th-century Paris: a senior consultant at one of the major public hospitals, the highest designation in French medicine. Marie's anonymity was a stratagem to prevent the kind of reassuring vagueness that prominent patients sometimes received.
"L'espoir en Dieu" (1838): a major philosophical poem by Alfred de Musset (1810–1857), grappling with the problem of evil and divine justice — asking why God permits suffering. It was one of the most widely read philosophical poems of the century, and Marie's invocation of it here is both literary and deeply personal.