throws it into the sea, when she becomes happy. "Poor clock!"
At another time she fears she has used the word love lightly and resolves to no
longer invoke God's help, yet in the next line prays Him to let her die as
everything is against her, her thoughts are incoherent, she hates herself and
everything is contemptible; but she wishes to die peacefully while some one is
singing a beautiful air of Verdi. Again she thinks of shaving her head to save the
trouble of arranging her hair; is crazed to think that every moment brings her
nearer death; to waste a moment of life is infamous, yet she can trust no one; all
the freshness of life is gone; few things affect her now; she wonders how in the
past she could have acted so foolishly and reasoned so wisely; is proud that no
advice in the world could ever keep her from doing anything she wished. She
thinks the journal of her former years exaggerated and resolves to be moderate;
wants to make others feel as she feels; finds that the only cure for
disenchantment with life is devotion to work; fears her face is wearing an
anxious look instead of the confident expression which was its chief charm.
"Impossible" is a hideous, maddening word; to think of dying like a dog as most
people do and leaving nothing behind is a granite wall against which she every
instant dashes her head. If she loved a man, every expression of admiration for
anything, or anybody else in her presence would be a profanation. Now she
thinks the man she loves must never know what it is to be in want of money and
must purchase everything he wishes; must weep to see a woman want for
anything, and find the door of no palace or club barred to him. Art becomes a
great shining light in her life of few pleasures and many griefs, yet she dares
hope for nothing.
At eighteen all her caprices are exhausted; she vows and prays in the name of the
Father, Son, and Holy Ghost for her wishes. She would like to be a millionaire,
get back her voice, obtain the prix de Rome under the guise of a man and marry
Napoleon IV. On winning a medal for her pictures she does nothing but laugh,
cry, and dream of greatness, but the next day is scolded and grows discouraged.
She has an immense sense of growth and transformation, so that not a trace of
her old nature remains; feels that she has far too much of some things, and far
too little of others in her nature; sees defects in her mother's character, whose
pertinacity is like a disease; realizes that one of her chief passions is to inspire
rather than to feel love; that her temper is profoundly affected by her dress;
deplores that her family expect her to achieve greatness rather than give her the
stimulus of expecting nothing; declares that she thanks a million thoughts for
every word that she writes; is disgusted with and sometimes absolutely hates