31 December 1889

Another year is dying and heading to the abyss. The time is now for taking stock and, alas, for regrets. The park was still shrouded in fog this afternoon. As I passed through the alleys of the vegetable garden, which contained only the slightest of hints of the abundance of previous seasons, I heard the thumping of a woodpecker. This succession of regular, rapid and dull impacts died in my ear and appeared to me a sort of warning. A warning of what I was not quite sure, but I sensed it had to do with the passing of time and the obstacles that lie in wait. Why can I not be satisfied? The harvests were good, my observations and writings satisfying, and this year, at least, I was fortunate not to lose anyone close. But the management of my estate and the birds that deign to pass through it are still not enough. It is the moment to say it: I feel lonely. Seated by the fire, I hear the distant sounds of dogs and rifle shots, I think back on the woodpecker, but also the owl, the kingfisher, the cranes…

And these lines from the poet Hugo come to mind: 

Be like the bird, who
Pausing in his flight
On limb too slight 
Feels it give way beneath him
Yet sings
Knowing he has wings.