van. There have been here, Dunaiev, Posha, Maria Vasilievna.[1] They left yesterday. Yeterday also I went to see Maria Alexandrovna; she is ill. To-day Aunt Tanya[2] and Sonya came.
I didn't sleep at night and therefore didn't work. But I wrote on the girl Konefsky[3] and a little in my journal. I am reading Schopenhauer's[4] "Aphorisms." Very good. Only put "The service of God" instead of "The recognition of the vanity of life," and we agree.
Now 2 o'clock, I shall write out later what I have noted down.[5]
December 7. Moscow.
Almost a month since I have made any entries. During this time we moved to Moscow. The weakness has passed a little, and I am working earnestly, though with little success, on the Declaration of Faith.[6] Yesterday I wrote a little article on whipping.[7] I lay down to sleep in the day and had just dozed off—I felt as if some one jerked me; I got up, began to think about whipping, and wrote it out.
During this time, I went to the theatre[8] for the rehearsals of the Power of Darkness. Art, beginning as a game, has continued to be the toy of adults. This is also proved by music, of which I have heard much. It is ineffectual. On the contrary, it detracts when there is ascribed to it
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