vera and her husband left this morning for kislovodsk. i met their carriage as i was walking to princess ligovski’s. vera nodded to me: reproach was in her glance.

who is to blame, then? why will she not give me an opportunity of seeing her alone? love is like fire—if not fed it dies out. perchance, jealousy will accomplish what my entreaties have failed to do.

i stayed a whole hour at princess ligovski’s. mary has not been out, she is ill. in the evening she was not on the boulevard. the newly formed gang, armed with lorgnettes, has in very fact assumed a menacing aspect. i am glad that princess mary is ill; they might be guilty of some impertinence towards her. grushnitski goes about with dishevelled locks, and wears an appearance of despair: he is evidently afflicted, as a matter of fact; his vanity especially has been injured. but, you see, there are some people in whom even despair is diverting!...

on my way home i noticed that something was lacking. i have not seen her! she is ill! surely i have not fallen in love with her in real earnest?... what nonsense!