Friday, 23 August 1878

Barnola came. One idea torments and absorbs me. I am nearly twenty. And since at fourteen I looked seventeen — judge, then, what age I must appear now! People are astonished that I am not yet married. In short, I am humiliated, and I should like to avoid everyone who knows me... that would be useless... anyway, it torments me!
They do not even think of marrying off Dina! Of me I say nothing — that is not their business; but they truly believe that this poor mad creature was made to remain shut up in this dreadful apartment. They wait for a “chance occurrence” and rely on “Providence.” Out of laziness, ineptitude and torpor they are fatalists; besides, they are fatalists only when I reproach them for something — otherwise they are nothing at all. Well, instead of being indignant, I am going to act. Issayevitch will no doubt come to see the Exposition... Act — yes, a fine one I am! I believe myself a phenomenon, and when I realise that I am alone, that I have no one to count on, instead of finding it natural and being in some way proud of it, I take fright and believe myself lost. No — here is the thing.
I want to marry Issayevitch to Dina. My God — since it is not for me, You should at least grant me this. It has happened that when one applies all one’s energy to a project, one brings it to a good end. I should like to apply myself to becoming Gambetta’s wife. I shall not waste time reviewing the various chances in writing; I shall think about it... perhaps he is married. We live on a desert island and I know nothing of what is going on.