_March 25. A white winter day._

I have read over what I wrote yesterday, and was all but tearing up the
whole manuscript. I think my story's too spun out and too sentimental.
However, as the rest of my recollections of that time presents nothing
of a pleasurable character, except that peculiar sort of consolation
which Lermontov had in view when he said there is pleasure and pain in
irritating the sores of old wounds, why not indulge oneself? But one
must know where to draw the line. And so I will continue without any
sort of sentimentality.

During the whole of the week after the country excursion, my position
was in reality in no way improved, though the change in Liza became
more noticeable every day. I interpreted this change, as I have said
before, in the most favourable way for me.... The misfortune of
solitary and timid people--who are timid from self-consciousness--is
just that, though they have eyes and indeed open them wide, they see
nothing, or see everything in a false light, as though through coloured
spectacles. Their own ideas and speculations trip them up at every
step. At the commencement of our acquaintance, Liza behaved confidingly
and freely with me, like a child; perhaps there may even have been in
her attitude to me something more than mere childish liking.... But
after this strange, almost instantaneous change had taken place in her,
after a period of brief perplexity, she felt constrained in my
presence; she unconsciously turned away from me, and was at the same
time melancholy and dreamy.... She was waiting ... for what? She did
not know ... while I ... I, as I have said above, was delighted at this
change.... Yes, by God, I was ready to expire, as they say, with