Sickness is the preparation for the crossing-over and therefore to grumble against sickness is just the same as grumbling against cold and rain. One ought to make use of them and not grumble. In fact, only those who live playing, get angry at the rain, but those who live seriously rejoice at it. The same with sickness. More than this: not only sickness but a bad mood, disappointment, sorrows, all these help to detach oneself from the worldly and facilitate the crossing-over into the new life. I am now in such a state of crossing-over. _Evening, the 14th._ The whole day I have been ill and I am in the worst mood. I cannot master myself and everything is disagreeable and burdensome. I did nothing. I read and talked. _Dec. 15, Moscow. If I live._ _To-day, December 17._ To-day, I am still in the very worst spirits. I am struggling with ill-will. I gave the essay away.[268] Telegraphed to England. No answer as yet.[269] A pile of people here, all evening. To-day I wrote twelve letters, but did not work at all. To-day I thought the very oldest thing: That one ought to perfect oneself in love, in which no one can interfere and which is very interesting. But love is not in exclusive attachments, but in a good, not in an evil attitude to every living being. Wrote letters: 1) Posha, 2) Masha, 3) Ivan Michailovich, 4) Prince Viazemsky, 5) Bondarev, 6) Strakhov, 7) the school teacher Robinson, 8) Priest, 9) Crosby, 10) Chizhov,[270] 11) Nicholaev in Kazan, and 12) ----[271] I am finishing the note-book in a bad mood. To-morrow I begin a new one. To-day I am also displeased with the essay on art. _The diary of the year 1897, Dec. 21, ’97. Moscow._ I am beginning a new notebook, almost in a new spiritual mood. Here are already 5 days that I have done nothing. I am thinking out _Hadji Murad_, but I have no desire or confidence. _On Art_ is printed. Chertkov is displeased and those here also.[272] Yesterday I received an anonymous letter with a threat to kill, if I do not reform by the year 1898; time is given only up to 1898. I was both uneasy and pleased.[273] I am skating. A sign of an inactive mood is that I have noted down nothing. Just now I read through Chekhov’s, _On a Cart_. Excellent in expressiveness, but rhetorical as soon as he wants to give meaning to his story. There is a remarkable clearness in my mind, thanks to my book on art. _Dec. 26, ’97. Moscow._ The day before yesterday I fell ill and I am still not well.[274] I am reading much. My heart is heavy. Evening. _Dec. 27, ’97. Moscow. If I live._ _To-day, Dec. 29, ’97. Moscow. Morning._ I thought of _Hadji Murad_. All day yesterday a comedy-drama, “The Corpse,”[275] took shape. I am still unwell. Yesterday I was at Behrs’.[276] I have received letters with threats of killing. I regret that there are people who hate me, but it interests me little and it doesn’t disturb me at all. Have jotted down something.