Friday, 9 May 1873

I am waiting for Mlle Collignon for the lesson — half an hour now. It is like this every day. And Maman reproaches me,
she does not know how grieved I am; she does not know that I am burning inwardly with impatience, anger, indignation. Mlle Collignon misses the lessons; she makes me lose my time. I am fourteen — if I lose time, what shall I become? My blood boils; I am all pale! and at moments the blood rushes to my head, my cheeks burn, my heart beats, I cannot stay in one place, tears press on my heart — I manage to hold them back and am even more wretched for it. All this ruins my health, destroys my character, makes me irritable, impatient. People who pass their lives quietly — it shows in their faces; and I, who am irritated at every instant by trifles — that is to say, it is my whole life she steals from me by stealing my studies! At sixteen, seventeen, other thoughts will come, and now is the time to study. It is fortunate that I am not a little girl shut up in a convent who, on coming out, throws herself like a madwoman into the midst of pleasures, believes everything fashionable fops tell her, and in two months finds herself disillusioned, disappointed.
I have seen a bit of everything, and I do not fear for myself. If this infamous, conscienceless woman makes me lose time now, I shall make it up — that is to say, I shall study one more year, and that will give me one year less for pleasures, because of that...
I do not want anyone to think that, having finished studying, I shall do nothing but dance and dress — no. But having finished a child's studies, I shall occupy myself seriously with painting, music, singing. I have talent for all of that, and a great deal. How it relieves one to write! I am calmer. This constant agitation harms not only my character and my health but also my face. This redness that comes over me — my cheeks burn like fire, and then when calm comes, they are neither fresh nor rosy. Instead of the color that should always be on my cheeks, at moments I am very red and at others pale and rumpled — it is her fault. For the agitation she causes does that. I even have little headaches after burning like that. Maman accuses me — it is my fault that I do not speak English! How that outrages me! I would like her to understand that I am above laziness, that her accusations humiliate me, that I am vexed, and that even at this moment tears are choking me. She has arrived.
At the promenade (black dress, pink hat — badly). I went
to look for embroidery — nearly found. The weather is heavy, sad — ah, how I want to leave! I accuse Mlle Collignon perhaps unjustly; she is ill and misses on that account, but when not ill she misses too. I do not know what to think — one moment I am indignant at her negligence, the next I reproach myself for having accused her. The fact is that she takes one hour from me every day — it is enormous.
I think that if he reads this diary one day, he will find it stupid. And especially my love declarations. I have repeated them so many times that they have lost all their force. I said them each time they were in my heart, and if I wrote only what is fine style, I would no longer write my thoughts, my impressions — in short, all that I felt — but it would be a composition.
Let him read this diary as it is, then. And if he finds in it errors of spelling, he will not find errors of feeling.