One must here work continually, or think of one's work, and of nothing else.
Sunday, April 28th.
I have been nearly three weeks at Madame Strumle's school, and my poor journal has been quite neglected during all that time; but the uniformity of my life, these monotonous hours, all passed in the constant repetition of the same occupations, afford no matter for interesting details or descriptions.
At this very moment, when I hold the pen in my hand, I am ready to lay it down, so great is the poverty of my observations.
My parents will soon leave. The princess palatiness has honored me with a visit; she remarked that my carriage was much improved. My masters are all satisfied with the closeness of my application. Madame is especially kind to me, and my companions are polite and friendly.... But is all this worth the trouble of writing?
I sometimes fancy that I am not really in Warsaw, so ignorant am I with regard to all political events. I have seen neither the king nor the royal family. At Maleszow we at least hear the news, and occasionally see Borne distinguished men.
The Duke of Courland is absent, and will not return for some time.
Sunday, June 9th.
If I were to live forever in this school, I should give up writing in my journal, and it really serves one very valuable purpose; for I find I am in great danger of forgetting Polish. With the exception of the letters I write to my parents, and the few words I say to my maid, I always write and speak French.
I progress in all my studies, and if I am sometimes melancholy, at least my time is not lost.