to do with Mr. Insarov? I feel cross with Andrei Petrovitch.

'. . . I take my pen and don't know how to begin. How unexpectedly he
began to talk to me in the garden to-day! How friendly and confiding
he was! How quickly it happened! As if we were old, old friends and
had only just recognised each other. How could I have not understood
him before? How near he is to me now! And--what's so wonderful--I feel
ever so much calmer now. It's ludicrous; yesterday I was angry with
Andrei Petrovitch, and angry with him, I even called him _Mr. Insarov_,
and to-day . . . Here at last is a true man; some one one may depend
upon. He won't tell lies; he's the first man I have met who never
tells lies; all the others tell lies, everything's lying. Andrei
Petrovitch, dear good friend, why do I wrong you? No! Andrei
Petrovitch is more learned than he is, even, perhaps more
intellectual. But I don't know, he seems so small beside him. When he
speaks of his country he seems taller, and his face grows handsome,
and his voice is like steel, and ... no ... it seems as though there
were no one in the world before whom he would flinch. And he doesn't
only talk. . . . he has acted and he will act I shall ask him. . . .
How suddenly he turned to 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,