st they would leave me alone, and could they
do me a greater favour? She said that he had caused his own sufferings.
Is he for that less worthy of compassion? Perhaps, the remorse he feels
is the cause of his melancholy, as the consciousness of my undeserved
fate is the cause of my gaiety. Each of us has lived a different life,
and has now to resign it. I have nothing to repent of, and nothing to
regret; he does both, and so each of us dies a different death.

Why should it be a crime to exchange a few unconstrained words? Do not
people who have set out together on a long journey fraternize, and
become friends at the first station? Are they then to be blamed if they
exchange a few words before starting.

Monday, the 21st October.

I spent my Sunday at home in writing, and reading the letters of
Mendelssohn's youth, which in my opinion show his character to much
greater advantage than his other writings. They convince me still more
that even a complete and free man of genius can work earnestly at his
own improvement. If I were a man, I should only care to be an artist.
This seems an extravagant idea; for those not endowed with talents
perceive only the outward freedom of the existence of a genius, and not
the anxieties and labours of his vocation. But in some of the
attributes of an artist's nature, in the power of desiring freedom, and
of maintaining it, in enthusiasm for noble deeds, and in admiration for
all that is beautiful, I should not be found wanting, and armed with
these weapons could pass a lifetime in waging war against petty
formalists and pedants.

But of what use are all these to me, a girl, with death before me.
Well, at all events they will teach me to die calmly.

Mendelssohn's letters have awakened in me a longing for music. I hope I
have not been extravagant in hiring a small piano. This morning it was
brought to me, and now stands in my room. I have not played for a long
time, and after reading Mendelssohn's letters felt quite ashamed of
stumbling through his songs without words. I must purchase some sonatas
and study them. I confess that at the first notes of music I burst into
tears. The last conversation has left in me a wound which bled afresh,
as the first sound of music reached my heart after so many weeks
privation. I let my tears flow freely, and played on till I grew calm
again.

"The 22