great
sinner; perhaps that is why I am so sad, why I have no peace. Some hand
seems laid on me, weighing me down, as though I were in prison, and the
walls would fall on me directly. Why is it others don't feel this? Whom
shall I love, if I am cold to my own people? It's clear, papa is right;
he reproaches me for loving nothing but cats and dogs. I must think
about that. I pray very little; I must pray.... Ah, I think I should
know how to love!... I am still shy with Mr. Insarov. I don't know why;
I believe I'm not schoolgirlish generally, and he is so simple and kind.
Sometimes he has a very serious face. He can't give much thought to us.
I feel that, and am ashamed in a way to take up his time. With Andrei
Petrovitch it's quite a different thing. I am ready to chat with him the
whole day long. But he too always talks of Insarov. And such terrible
facts he tells me about him! I saw him in a dream last night with a
dagger in his hand. And he seemed to say to me, "I will kill you and I
will kill myself!" What silliness!

'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'