‘... I take my pen and don’t know how to begin. How unexpectedly he began to talk to me in the garden to-day! How friendly and confiding he was! How quickly it happened! As if we were old, old friends and had only just recognised each other. How could I have not understood him before? How near he is to me now! And--what’s so wonderful--I feel ever so much calmer now. It’s ludicrous; yesterday I was angry with Andrei Petrovitch, and angry with him, I even called him _Mr. Insarov_, and to-day... Here at last is a true man; some one one may depend upon. He won’t tell lies; he’s the first man I have met who never tells lies; all the others tell lies, everything’s lying. Andrei Petrovitch, dear good friend, why do I wrong you? No! Andrei Petrovitch is more learned than he is, even, perhaps more intellectual. But I don’t know, he seems so small beside him. When he speaks of his country he seems taller, and his face grows handsome, and his voice is like steel, and... no... it seems as though there were no one in the world before whom he would flinch. And he doesn’t only talk.... he has acted and he will act. I shall ask him.... How suddenly he turned to me and smiled!... It’s only brothers that smile like that! Ah, how glad I am! When he came the first time, I never dreamt that we should so soon get to know each other. And now I am even pleased that I remained indifferent to him at first. Indifferent? Am I not indifferent then now?... It’s long since I have felt such inward peace. I feel so quiet, so quiet. And there’s nothing to write? I see him often and that’s all. What more is there to write? ‘... Paul shuts himself up, Andrei Petrovitch has taken to coming less often.... poor fellow! I fancy he... But that can never be, though. I like talking to Andrei Petrovitch; never a word of self, always of something sensible, useful. Very different from Shubin. Shubin’s as fine as a butterfly, and admires his own finery; which butterflies don’t do. But both Shubin and Andrei Petrovitch.... I know what I mean. ‘... He enjoys coming to us, I see that. But why? what does he find in me? It’s true our tastes are alike; he and I, both of us don’t care for poetry; neither of us knows anything of art. But how much better he is than I! He is calm, I am in perpetual excitement; he has chosen his path, his aim--while I--where am I going? where is my home? He is calm, but all his thoughts are far away. The time will come, and he will leave us for ever, will go home, there over the sea. Well? God grant he may! Any way I shall be glad that I knew him, while he was here. ‘Why isn’t he a Russian? No, he could not be Russian. ‘Mamma too likes him; she says: an unassuming young man. Dear mamma! She does not understand him. Paul says nothing; he guessed I didn’t like his hints, but he’s jealous of him. Spiteful boy! And what right has he? Did I ever... All that’s nonsense! What makes all that come into my head?