of myself. In this sublime outpouring there are few to admire the character of Don Juan, but all must admire Byron. He is truly admirable. He uncovered and exposed his soul of mingled good and bad—as the terms are—for the world to gaze upon. He knew the human race, and he knew himself.
As for that strange notable, Marie Bashkirtseff, yes, I am rather like her in many points, as I've been told. But in most things I go beyond her.
Where she is deep, I am deeper.
Where she is wonderful in her intensity, I am still more wonderful in my intensity.
Where she had philosophy, I am a philosopher.
Where she had astonishing vanity and conceit, I have yet more astonishing vanity and conceit.
But she, forsooth, could paint good pictures,—and I—what can I do?
She had a beautiful face, and I am a
