September 7th, 8th and 9th.
This new kind of life would not be without its charm, were it not disturbed by a sensation of anxiety, of uneasiness, of constant expectation, suspending all thought, and rendering all artistic work an impossibility. I can only undertake those trivial occupations, those necessary details of everyday life, of which I have always had such a horror, and to which I must resign myself now that I am my own servant. Shall I confess it? These trifles do not really weary me very much, and I understand recluses amusing themselves by carving roots or weaving baskets. Manual labour is a good means of regulating life for those who have too much leisure and liberty. Therefore every morning I begin by paying a visit to the poultry-yard, and when I feel the warmth of an egg in the straw, I am happy. Then, walking slowly, and leaning on a stick, I go round the garden, picking the ripe fruit; and from the long, dry, sunburnt stalks I gather the beans, whose pods burst open and shed their contents through my fingers. It is laughable to see me seated in front of my door, cutting up the bread for my soup, or washing my salad in a bucket. All these things give me rather a childish comfort; but is not convalescence itself like childhood?—a fresh beginning of life.
In order to avoid going up and down the broken and irregular steps of the staircase, I have placed my bed in the large room on the ground floor, which therefore answers the purpose of drawing-room, bed-room, and kitchen. In this very mild weather, the door leading into the garden remains wide open all day. I hear the noise of the hens, always busy and cackling, their little claws pattering on the sand and scratching up the straw. Next door, in the keeper’s small field, I see poor Colaquet stretched out, shaking off the flies, and, with the idleness of an invalid, lolling out his tongue in front of him on the meadow, all purple with the thousand clusters of lucern. When evening comes on, with some difficulty he approaches the fence that divides us. I also drag myself there. I bathe his wound, renew the water, throw a rug over his back for the night, and he thanks me by shaking his long ears.
What really distresses me in my present state of suffering is having to fetch water from the old convent well, just at the end of the enclosure.
When I reach it, I am obliged to sit down for a moment on the edge of the cracked stonework, overgrown by rank weeds. The ornamental wrought ironwork, of an elegant and ancient style, appears, under the rust that tarnishes it, like climbing tendrils laid bare by the autumn. This melancholy is in complete harmony with the deep silence of the Hermitage, and the atmosphere of loneliness that surrounds me . . . The bucket is heavy. On returning I stop two or three times. Over there, at the far end, there is an old door that the wind keeps slamming. The noise of my footsteps echoes, and troubles me . . .
Oh, solitude! . . .
