Soon after her acquaintance with Insarov, Elena (for
the fifth or sixth time) began a diary. Here
are some extracts from it:
’June. . . . Andrei Petrovitch brings
me books, but I can’t read them. I’m
ashamed to confess it to him; but I don’t like
to give back the books, tell lies, say I have read
them. I feel that would mortify him. He
is always watching me. He seems devoted to me.
A very good man, Andrei Petrovitch. . . . What
is it I want? Why is my heart so heavy, so oppressed?
Why do I watch the birds with envy as they fly past?
I feel that I could fly with them, fly, where I don’t
know, but far from here. And isn’t that
desire sinful? I have here mother, father, home.
Don’t I love them? No, I don’t love
them, as I should like to love. It’s dreadful
to put that in words, but it’s the truth.
Perhaps I am a 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.
