o 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?

'... Isn't it strange though, that up till now, up to twenty, I have
never loved any one! I believe that the reason why D.'s (I shall
call him D.--I like that name Dmitri) soul is so clear, is that he is
entirely given up to his work, his ideal. What has he to trouble about?
When any one has utterly... utterly... given himself up, he has little
sorrow, he is not responsible for anything. It's not _I_ want, but _it_
wants. By the way, he and I both love the same flowers. I picked a rose
this morning, one leaf fell, he picked it up.... I gave him the whole
rose.

'... D. often comes to us. Yesterday he spent the whole evening. He
wants to teach me Bulgarian. I feel happy with