3–9 July 1854

Have read all day : the work refuses to get on. In the evening chatted with Prush, Olkhin, and Antrdpov. Stupidly lost Paulenka’s porte-feuille to Prush, and despite his reluctance gave it to him. As soon as I am alone and criticise myself I involuntarily return to my former idea — that o£ perfecting myself; but the chief mistake, the reason I have been unable to go quietly along that road, was that I confused perfecting oneself with perfection. One must first understand oneself and one’s defects well and try to remedy them, and not set oneself the task of being perfect, which is not only impossible of attainment from the low point at which I stand, but at the perception of which one loses hope of the possibility of attaining it. It is the same thing that happens to me in my farming, in my studies, in literature, and in life. In farming I Wished to reach perfection and forgot that one has first to correct the imperfections of which there were too many. I wished to make a correct division of the fields, while I had nothing to manure or to sow them with. . . . One must take oneself as one is and try to correct the corrigible faults. A nature naturally good will lead me to what is good without a notebook, which has all along been my nightmare. Mine is a character which desiring, seeking, and ready for, all that is excellent, is for that very reason incapable of being consistently gooci.

My chief defects are : (i) Instability (by that I mean indecision, inconsequence, lack of steadfastness, and inconsistency). (2) An unpleasant, difficult character — irritability, excessive amour-propre% and vanity. (3) A habit of idleness. Will try always to watch for those three fundamental faults and note down every time that I fall into them. Have already disputed with Antropov with irritability and excessive egotism about whether or not he should ride to Giurgevo. Dined at home quietly enough, well, and cheaply. Bartolomey promised to read Pictures from Italy with me, but the poor fellow found it too dull and so I thought it better to chat with him till late in the evening. He seems to be a good-natured, well-meaning lad, but young. . . . My health seems better, but I am still afraid to believe it. Was undecided with Noverezhski, and did not complete the business of the report. Was irritable with Antrdpov and — alas — was again lazy, and have done nothing except this page of the Diary. I received a letter from Auntie and from Mftenka, to which I must reply to-morrow.

Read during tea, dinner, and dessert. All morning was writing one single letter to Auntie, which went well, though its French phraseology does not please me at all. From day to day it becomes more difficult for me to express myself and to write in French. Why this stupid custom of writing and speaking in a language that one knows badly ? And how much trouble, waste of time, lack of clearness in thoughts, and lack of purity in one's native language, results from this custom. Yet it is obligatory. Yesterday wrote about a chapter of An Artilleryman's Notes with ardour and pretty well. 6lkhin came twice to see me, which it is quite superfluous for me to note down, since noting it will not enable me to remember the wonder- ful expressions of stupidity which burst from him. I ate fruit, despite my diarrhoea, and commissioned Olkhin to hire a piano Tor me. These were two mistakes against consistency. My chief defect lies in lack of patience towards myself and towards others. That is not a rule but a thought, and why should I not note it down here ? It will remind me some time hence of the moral condition I was in on July 5, 1854.

All day have been reading, first Lermontov, then Goethe, then Alphonse Karr, and could not set to work. However often I say to myself that I am not ambitious, and try as I will to be sincere about it, le bout de V oreille se montre malgri moi. It was unpleasant to me to learn to-day that Osip Serzhputdvski has been slightly wounded and been mentioned to the Emperor. Envy . . . and about what an empty matter and of what a worthless fellow ! This whole day was one of unpleasant remembrances. First the remembrance of my debt to Zubkdv tormented me (on his account I almost renounced my transfer into the Horse Artillery, but afterwards decided to leave things ’las they are while awaiting the year ’55). Then the recollection tormented me that I had perhaps permitted too much to my General. On considering the matter carefully it turned out that on the contrary I had allowed myself too much liberty towards him. In order to be naturally proud (_ fier ) one must either be a fool (which I cannot be) or must be satisfied with oneself, which I have not been since I reached the army. For to-day I have two reproaches which I may, ^nd should, make to myself: (1) Unpardonable laziness all day, and as a consequence of it idleness ; and (2) the request to. . . .

I lack modesty. That is my great defect. What am I ? One of four sons of a retired lieutenant- colonel, left orphan at seven years of age in the care of women and strangers, having neither a social nor a scientific education, and becoming my own master at seventeen years of age ; without any large fortune, without any social position, and chiefly without principles : a man who has mismanaged his affairs to the last degree, who has spent the best years of his life aimlessly and with- out pleasure, and who finally banished himself to the Caucasus to escape from his debts and above all from his habits, and from there, by availing himself of connections which had existed between his father and the commander- in-chief, was transferred to the army of the Danube ; a twenty-six-year-old sub-lieutenant almost without means except his pay (for what means he has he must use to pay his remaining debts), without influential friends, with- out capacity to live in society, without knowledge of the service, without practical abilities, but with enormous self-esteem. Yes, that is my social position. Let us see what I myself am like. I am ugly, awkward, untidy, and socially uneducated. I am irritable, tiresome to others, not modest, intolerant, and shamefaced as a boy. I am almost an ignoramus. What I know, I have somehow learnt by myself, in snatches, disconnectedly, unsystematically, and it amounts to very little. I am incontinent, irresolute, inconstant, stupidly vain and passionate like all characterless people. I am not brave, I am not methodical in life, and am so lazy that my idleness has become an almost unconquerable habit. I am intelligent, but my intelligence has as yet never been thoroughly tested in anything. I have neither practical, social, nor business ability. I am honest — that is, I love goodness and have formed a habit of loving it, and when I swerve from it I am dis- satisfied with myself and return to it with pleasure ; bqt there is something I love more than goodness — fame, f am so ambitious, and so little has that feeling been gratified, that between fame and virtue I am afraid I might often choose the former, if I had to make the selection. Yes — I am not modest and therefore am proud at heart, but shamefaced and shy in society. In the morning wrote this page and read Louis - Philippe . Began to write An Artilleryman's Notes very late after dimter, and before evening wrote a good deal of it despite the fact that 6lkhin and Andrdnov came to see me. Afterwards I leant on the balcony railing and looked at my favourite street lamp, which shines so famously through the trees. Meanwhile, after some thunder clouds which have passed over and moistened the earth to-day, one large cloud remained covering the whole southern part of the sky and there was a pleasant lightness and moisture in the air. The landlady's pretty daughter was lying at her window, leaning like me on her elbows. A barrel-organ passed along the street, and when the sounds of the good old waltz receding farther and farther could no longer be heard, the girl rose with a deep sigh and quickly left the window. It felt so sadly pleasant that I involuntarily smiled, and long continued to gaze at my street lamp whose light was sometimes hidden by the branches of a tree swayed by the wind, at the tree itself, at the wooden fence, and at the sky — which all seemed better than before. I have to reproach myself to-day with three lapses : (i) forgot about the piano; (2) did not attend to the application for my transfer ; (3) ate borsh while I have diarrhoea which keeps getting worse.

In the morning I read and wrote a little. In the evening did more, but all not only without ardour but with a sort of insuperable laziness. Decided not to take the piano and replied to 6lkhin that I had no money, which no doubt offended him, especially as I signed myself simply, “ Entirely yours ”. To-day I discovered another poetical thing in Lermontov and Pfishkin. In the first, The Dying Gladiator (that dream of his home before his death is wonderfully good) ; and in the second, Ydnko Marndvich , who accidentally killed his friend. Having prayed in the church ardently and long, he returned home and lay down on his bed. Then he asked his wife whether she had not seen anything from the window. She replied that she had not. He asked again. Then his wife said that she saw a light beyond the river : when he asked her for the third time, she said that she saw the light becoming larger and approaching. He died. That is enchanting — but why ? After that, explain poetic feeling !

Spent the morning and the whole day first writing An Artilleryman' s Notes , which by the way I have finished, but with which I am so dissatisfied that I can scarcely avoid writing it all afresh or entirely abandon- ing it — not An Artilleryman's Notes alone but abandoning literature altogether, because if a thing which seemed admirable in its conception results so wretchedly, the man who undertook it has no talent. . . . Then read Goethe, Lermontov, and Piishkin. The first I do not understand well and, try as I may, I cannot avoid seeing something ridiculous in the German language. In the second I found the beginning of Izmail Bey extremely good. Perhaps it seemed so to me the more because I begin to love the Caucasus — with a posthumous but strong affection. • That wild region in which two contradictory things, war and freedom, are so strangely and poetically blended is really beautiful. In Ptishkin I was struck by The Gipsies which, strangely enough, I had not understood till now. The motto of my Diary should be non ad probandum , sed ad narrandum.