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pleasure to another, and was much courted,
which always pleased her.
But this cheerfulness did not last long. After a
month, it was already succeeded by melancholia,
caused partly by the news of her sister’s illness,
partly by a little love affair, which, as usual,
turned out unhappily for her. This lay really at
the bottom of her high spirits, as well as of her
depression.
On December 27th, she writes :—
‘I am very low, for I have received bad news
from my sister; her illness makes awful
progress. Now her sight is affected; she can
neither read nor write. It all comes from the
same source—weakness of the heart, which
causes partial congestion of blood and paralysis.
It makes me tremble to think of the awful loss
that may be in store for me in the near future.
How horrid life is, and how stupid it is to
continue to live. To-day is my birthday, I am
thirty-one,[1] and it is dreadful to think that I
may have to live perhaps as many years more.
‘In plays and novels, things are arranged much
more conveniently; if a person finds that life
has lost its value to him, somebody or something
turns up that helps him to pass quickly over
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