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_