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She resumed her lectures from a sense of
duty, but without interest. Literary work was
now the conductor for her consuming
restlessness, partly because she had not yet recovered
sufficiently from her over-fatigues to enable her
to take up science. What she wrote of ‘Væ
victis’ dates from this time. It shows the
melancholy strain of her mind; she meant
to relate part of her own history in this novel.
It was to be a tale of those who had suffered
defeat in their struggle for happiness. Then
she put the last touches to the ‘recollections of
her childhood.’ In fact we both worked ardently
for three months, though not together. It was
like a feeble echo of former days—the days of
our collaboration.
Neither Sonia nor I felt inclined to spend
Christmas at home this year. We made up our
minds to go on a journey together; this had
often been planned, but we had never been
able to carry it out. Our choice fell upon
Paris, as the place where we should be most
likely to form literary and stage connections,
which we thought would be the best means of
diverting our thoughts from personal griefs. So
we started together in December. Neither of
us, however, expected much pleasure from this
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