Since the package of June last I have received neither books nor reviews. I thought that you would continue to send me books and reviews each month regularly. Think of my perpetual tête-à-tête with myself. I am more silent than a Trappist Monk, in my profound isolation, a prey to sad thoughts, upon a lonely rock, sustaining myself only by the force of duty.
4 October, 1895.
My dear Lucie:
I have just received your dear letters of August, so impatiently waited for each month, and with them the letters of all the family. Always write long letters to me. I feel a childish pleasure in reading what you have written, for then it seems to me that I hear you speak, that I feel the beating of your heart close to mine.
When you suffer too much take your pen and come and talk with me.
I thank you for your good tidings of the children. Kiss them tenderly for me.
My body, dear Lucie, is indifferent to everything; it is fortified by a strength almost superhuman, by a higher power—the anxiety, desire for our honor.
It is the sacred duty which I must fulfill—my duty to you, to our children, to our families—which fills my soul and rules it, which silences my broken heart. Were it not for that the burden would be too heavy for human shoulders.
Enough of moaning, Lucie; it will not make things any better. This appalling suffering must end for us all.