It is the 3rd of May 1857, and I begin a new diary. My old one covers a long period, but I did not write it properly; there was too much introspection, too much sentimentality and nonsense⁠—about being in love with Ivan Zakharovich⁠—the desire to be famous, or to enter a convent. I have just read over a good deal that was nice, written when I was fifteen or sixteen. But now it is quite different. I am twenty, and I really am in love and in a state of ecstasy. I do not worry myself with fears as to whether it is real, or whether this is what true love should be, or whether my love is inadequate; on the contrary, I am afraid that this is the real thing, fate; that I love far, far too much, and cannot help loving, and I am afraid. There is something serious and dignified about him⁠—his face, the sound of his voice, his cheery word⁠—in spite of the fact that he is always bright and laughing, and can turn everything round so that it becomes graceful, clever, and humorous. Everyone is amused, and so am I; yet there is something solemn about it. Our eyes meet; they pierce deep, deep down into the other’s, and go farther and farther. I am frightened, and I see that he is too.