1 January 1889

The alley of chestnut trees stretches out through the fog. Limited by lengthy bouts of melancholy that have afflicted me for many weeks, I take this path in the hopes that a cheerful wind will come and chase away my mood and the fog. Although nature is always unique, winter, for me, is heartbreaking. Why can I not experience the rustling of leaves, the yowling of animals, the chirping of birds? Why can I not, like wild beasts and birds, migrate south once the twilight of the year has commenced? Man is a summer, I say to myself. But I remain there with my disappointments, my heaviness and my joyless days.

Suddenly, my gaze is attracted towards the ponds where the sky, finally pierced with a little blue, is crossed by a grey and black shape. It’s a grey heron, whose image is soon reflected in the calm waters of our moats. A single appearance and Nature appears to me anew as it is in all seasons: mysterious, prodigious, light. Farewell, sad 1888! Carry away with you my youth and my despondency and give way to a year of studying and marvels. The great theatre of Nature is now open.