delivering a sermon. Goodness only knows what arrant nonsense he talked,
a sort of gorgeous mix-up of ecclesiastical learning, interspersed with
peasant expressions, not even in decent Russian, but in some outlandish
dialect, but he took one by storm with his enthusiasm--went straight to
the heart. There he stood with flashing eyes, the voice deep and firm,
with clenched fist--as though he were made of iron! No one understood
what he was saying, but everyone bowed down before him and followed
him. But when I begin to speak, I seem like a culprit begging for
forgiveness. I ought to join the sectarians, although their wisdom is
not great... but they have faith, faith!

Mariana too has faith. She works from morning until night with
Tatiana--a peasant woman here, as good as can be and not by any means
stupid; she says, by the way, that we want to become simplified and
calls us simple souls. Mariana is about working with this woman from
morning until night, scarcely sitting down for a moment, just like a
regular ant! She is delighted that her hands are turning red and rough,
and in the midst of these humble occupations is looking forward to the
scaffold! She has even attempted to discard shoes; went out somewhere
barefoot and came back barefoot. I heard her washing her feet for a long
time afterwards and then saw her come out, treading cautiously; they
were evidently sore, poor thing, but her face was radiant with smiles
as though she had found a treasure or been illuminated by the sun. Yes,
Mariana is a brick! But when I try to talk to her of my feelings,
a certain shame comes over me somehow, as though I were violating
something that was not my own, and then that glance... Oh, that
awful devoted, irresistible glance! "Take me," it seems to say, "BUT
REMEMBER...." Enough of this! Is there not something higher and better
in this world? In other words, put on your filthy coat and go among the
people... Oh, yes, I am just going.

How I loathe this irritability, sensitiveness, impressionable-ness,
fastidiousness, inherited from my aristocratic father! What right had
he to bring me into this world, endowed with qualities quite unsuited
to the sphere in which I must live? To create a bird and throw it in the
water? An aesthetic amidst filth! A democrat, a lover of the people, yet
the very smell of their filthy vodka makes me feel sick!

But it's too bad blaming my father. He was not responsible for my
becoming a democrat.

"