On the Thursday in Easter week Papa, my sister, Katenka, and Mimi went away into the country, and no one remained in my grandmother’s great house but Woloda, St. Jerome, and myself. The frame of mind which I had experienced on the day of my confession¹ and during my subsequent expedition to the monastery² had now completely passed away, and left behind it only a dim, though pleasing, memory which daily became more and more submerged by the impressions of this emancipated³ existence.

The folio endorsed⁴ “Rules of My Life” lay concealed⁵ beneath a pile of school-books. Although the idea of the possibility of framing rules, for every occasion in my life and always letting myself be guided by them still pleased me (since it appeared an idea at once simple and magnificent, and I was determined⁶ to make practical application of it), I seemed somehow to have forgotten to put it into practice at once, and kept deferring⁷ doing so until such and such a moment. At the same time, I took pleasure in the thought that every idea which now entered my head could be allotted⁸ precisely⁹ to one or other of my three sections of tasks and duties — those for or to God, those for or to my neighbour, and those for or to myself. “I can always refer everything to them,” I said to myself, “as well as the many, many other ideas which occur to me on one subject or another.” Yet at this period I often asked myself, “Was I better and more truthful¹⁰ when I only believed in the power of the human intellect, or am I more so now, when I am losing the

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