[Boston—Wednesday, 6 March 1867]
Wednesday. Yesterday was one of many trials arising from my relations with others and chiefly my own family. In the morning Lissie was ill, indeed the night before she confessed that she had dyspepsia and she did not go out of her room until noon soon after 12. I went to her and found her unhappy with the idea that I did not care for her, treated her unkindly, and said and wrote hard things to her about her work etc. etc. etc. with so long and painful a rehearsal of diseased feelings that I was filled with sorrow. The poor child is one of those natures so subtly analysed in the few last sections of the preface to Obermann by Mme Sand & I am far too trenchant with the two edged sword I find between my hands. Yet it is deeply humiliating to discover one’s utmost endeavors so little understood—but for that I do not look nor for the love I give others—therefore why should I complain of suffering such as I seldom experience, thank God! Very seldom compared with others because in my home I find more than I ever can return until the perfection of spiritual life shall make perfect love possible.
Went in the afternoon to Dr Arnoult’s; he begged for a few moments after the lesson and then told me in great trepidation of mind what a “terrible” situation he was placed in, in his class and how sad it would be to them to see poor Sarah’s misfortune. He is evidently half insane on these topics and of course I could say nothing but with tears in my eyes tell him how hard it was to have said this to my mother. To this he assented but said solemnly before God that he did not know what else he could have done. He seemed to think it would ease his mind a little if I would take back the money and as he asked it as such an especial favor I could only assent but the frivolity of mind which the man betrayed as he opened the door for me and asked me if I would have an umbrella (the water was dripping from the houses) the old smile upon his face, was something peculiar to say the least. I had often thought how like polished steel the man was, and yesterday though he was moved as deeply as it was possible for him to be, I thought so all the more.
By this time my head fairly ached so I walked as far as Mr Fields’ office & had the fun of walking home together—in the evening went to a small party at Mrs Murray’s the artist’s where we found a queer collection of queer people, where Mr & Mrs Howard Paul sang & Kennedy the singer of Scotch sang with his small daughter of 12 to play for him, where was the Gov. of Maine & Prof Peirce of Cambridge & queerest of all Mr Murray himself reading a second-rate poem by Robert Buchanan called Fra Giacomo.
