My journal is suffering because I have begun to write a novel, and I shall succeed.  Thank Heaven, I am capable of doing everything I wish.  Two chapters in two days is going on finely.  I have read it to Dina, and my story interests her.  But I am able to judge for myself personally, and I believe it will go.

While we were walking, surrounded by a group of young men, I was happy, proud, and of what?  I am little and vain; I took good care to express a wish to return to the carriage, before my cavaliers desired to leave.  They even begged me to take another turn.  That was all right.  They escorted me to the landau.

Monday, November 15th, 1875.

All day long the day of the opera I was restless.

At half past eight o’clock we set off.  I was dressed in a white muslin gown, a plain skirt with a wide ruche around the bottom, Marie Stuart waist, and hair arranged to match the costume.  A very pretty auditorium.  Everybody admired me.  Toward the middle of the entertainment, I began to feel as lovely as possible.  In going out I passed between two rows of gentlemen who stared at me till their eyes bulged, and they didn’t think me bad-looking, one could see that.  My heart swelled with pride and joy.  Leonie came to undress me, but I sent her away and shut myself up.  As I entered I suddenly saw myself in the glass.  I looked like a queen, a portrait that had come down from its frame.  I no longer had to say:  “Ah! if I dressed as people used to do—­” I was dressed as people used to do.  I was beautiful.

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?”

“No.”

“But you look so pale.”

“I am tired.”

“You must be ill; where do you feel pain?”

“Everywhere!—­Come, Aunt, don’t disturb me, I am composing.”