This morning Vera left with her husband to Kislovodsk. I met their carriage as I was walking to Princess Ligovsky’s house. She nodded at me: there was reproach in her look.
But who is to blame? Why wouldn’t she give me a chance to see her alone? Love, like a fire, goes out without nourishment. Perhaps jealousy will do what my requests could not.
I sat at the Ligovskys’ for a good hour. Mary didn’t come out—she was unwell. She didn’t appear on the boulevard that evening. Again, the newly-formed gang, armed with lorgnettes, assumed a really rather threatening look. I am glad that the princess was unwell: they would have done some impertinence to her. Grushnitsky had a disheveled coiffure and a reckless look to him. It seems he was genuinely distressed, his vanity was particularly offended—but it seems there are people in whom despair is even amusing!
Returning home, I noticed that something seemed to be missing. I hadn’t seen her! She is unwell! Surely I haven’t actually fallen in love? What nonsense!