* * * * *

...  But yet, am I happy because V. and his books teach me to think?  The time was, when a spirited steed, a costly sabre, a good gun, delighted me like a child.  Now, that I know the superiority of mind over body, my former pride in shooting or horsemanship appears to me ridiculous—­nay, even contemptible.  Is it worth while to devote oneself to a trade, in which the meanest broad-shouldered nouker can surpass me?...  Is it worth while to seek honour and happiness, of which the first wound may deprive me—­the first awkward leap?  They have taken from me this plaything, but with what have they replaced it?...  With new wants, with new wishes, which Allah himself can neither weary nor satisfy.  I thought myself a man of consequence; but now I am convinced of my own nothingness.  Formerly, to my memory, my grandfather and great-grandfather were at the beginning of the night of the past, with its stories and dreaming traditions....  The Caucasus contained my world, and I peacefully slept in that night.  I thought to be famous in Daghestan—­the height of glory.  And what then?  History has peopled my former desert with nations, shattering each other for glory; with heroes, terrifying the nations by valour to which we can never rise.  And where are they?  Half forgotten, they have vanished in the dust of ages.  The description of the earth shows me that the Tartars occupy a little corner of the world; that they are miserable savages in comparison with the European nations; and that of the existence, not only of their brave warriors, but of the whole nation, nobody thinks, nobody knows, nobody wishes to know.  It is worth while to be a glow-worm amongst insects.  Was it worth while to expand my mind, in order to be convinced of such a bitter truth?

* * * * *

What is the use of a knowledge of the powers of nature to me, when I cannot change my soul, master my heart?  The sea teaches me to build dykes—­but I cannot restrain my tears!...  I can conduct the lightning from the roof, but I cannot throw off my sorrows!  Was I not unhappy enough from my feelings alone, without calling around me my thoughts, like greedy vultures?  What does the sick man gain by knowing that his disease is incurable?...  The tortures of my hopeless love have become sharper, more piercing, more various, since my intellect has been enlightened.

* * * * *

No!  I am unjust.  Reading shortens for me the long winter-like night—­the hours of separation.  In teaching me to fix on paper my flying thoughts, V. has given me a heartfelt enjoyment.  Some day I shall meet Seltanetta, and I shall show her these pages; in which her name is written oftener than that of Allah in the Koran.  “These are the annals of my heart,” I shall say:  “Look! on such a day thus thought about you—­on such a night, I saw you thus in my dreams!  By these little leaves, as by a string of diamond beads,