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't know by whom or how, but I feel as if I were being tortured, and
inwardly I am shrieking in revolt; I weep and can't be quiet. . . . O
my God, subdue these outbreaks in me! Thou alone canst aid me, all
else is useless; my miserable alms-giving, my studies can do nothing,
nothing, nothing to help me. I should like to go out as a servant
somewhere, really; that would do me good.

'What is my youth for, what am I living for, why have I a soul, what
is it all for?

'. . . Insarov, Mr. Insarov--upon my word I don't know how to
write--still interests me, I should like to know what he has within,
in his soul? He seems so open, so easy to talk to, but I can see
nothing. Sometimes he looks at me with such searching eyes--or is that
my fancy? Paul keeps teasing me. I am angry with Paul. What does he
want? He's in love with me . . . but his love's no good to me. He's
in love with Zoya too. I'm unjust to him; he told me yesterday I
didn't know how to be unjust by halves . . . that's true. It's very
horrid.

'Ah, I feel one needs unhappiness, or poverty or sickness, or else one
gets conceited directly.

'. . . What made Andrei Petrovitch tell me to-day about those two
Bulgarians! He told me it as it were with some intention. What have I