‘Oh, if some one would say to me: “There, that’s what you must do!” Being good--isn’t much; doing good... yes, that’s the great thing in life. But how is one to do good? Oh, if I could learn to control myself! I don’t know why I am so often thinking of Mr. Insarov. When he comes and sits and listens intently, but makes no effort, no exertion himself, I look at him, and feel pleased, and that’s all, and when he goes, I always go over his words, and feel vexed with myself, and upset even. I can’t tell why. (He speaks French badly and isn’t ashamed of it--I like that.) I always think a lot about new people, though. As I talked to him, I suddenly was reminded of our butler, Vassily, who rescued an old cripple out of a hut that was on fire, and was almost killed himself. Papa called him a brave fellow, mamma gave him five roubles, and I felt as though I could fall at his feet. And he had a simple face--stupid-looking even--and he took to drink later on.... ‘I gave a penny to-day to a beggar woman, and she said to me, “Why are you so sorrowful?” I never suspected I looked sorrowful. I think it must come from being alone, always alone, for better, for worse! There is no one to stretch out a hand to me. Those who come to me, I don’t want; and those I would choose--pass me by. ‘... I don’t know what’s the matter with me to-day; my head is confused, I want to fall on my knees and beg and pray for mercy. I don’t know by whom or how, but I feel as if I were being tortured, and inwardly I am shrieking in revolt; I weep and can’t be quiet.... O my God, subdue these outbreaks in me! Thou alone canst aid me, all else is useless; my miserable alms-giving, my studies can do nothing, nothing, nothing to help me. I should like to go out as a servant somewhere, really; that would do me good. ‘What is my youth for, what am I living for, why have I a soul, what is it all for? ‘... Insarov, Mr. Insarov--upon my word I don’t know how to write--still interests me, I should like to know what he has within, in his soul? He seems so open, so easy to talk to, but I can see nothing. Sometimes he looks at me with such searching eyes--or is that my fancy? Paul keeps teasing me. I am angry with Paul. What does he want? He’s in love with me... but his love’s no good to me. He’s in love with Zoya too. I’m unjust to him; he told me yesterday I didn’t know how to be unjust by halves... that’s true. It’s very horrid. ‘Ah, I feel one needs unhappiness, or poverty or sickness, or else one gets conceited directly. ‘... What made Andrei Petrovitch tell me to-day about those two Bulgarians! He told me it as it were with some intention. What have I to do with Mr. Insarov? I feel cross with Andrei Petrovitch.