It always seems as if others did not see me as I am. How unfortunate that, instead of these little black letters, I could not trace my portrait as I was—my wonderful complexion, my golden hair, my eyes so dark at night, my mouth, my figure! Those who saw me know how I looked.
While remaining simple, as suits one of my age, barely beyond childhood, I was gowned like a grown person. That is where the difficulty lies—to be like a grown person and yet not extravagant and overdressed.
Later I felt very unhappy and began to sing: "Knowst thou the land?" and fell on my knees, weeping. Why? It is a relief to lie on the ground. Because, in the last scene, a love scene, P—— had in her voice—it gave one a thrill—I would die for the truth—and joyfully.
This is it, he who slays with the sword shall perish by the sword.
It seems as if I had loved. I feel in despair; I don't know why, but it was a torturing feeling and made me weep.
Tuesday, November 16th, 1875.
I left Nice to-day with my aunt, I was ready to cry every instant.
"Do you want a pillow?" she asked.
"No."
"Are you ill?"