their lodging. The sun had not yet risen, but already the chill of
daybreak was in the air, a grey dew covered the grass, and the first
larks were trilling high, high up in the shadowy infinity of air,
whence like a solitary eye looked out the great, last star.




XVI


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