I am entirely alone and I weaken. I often say to myself that one must live serving, but when I enter life, though I do not exactly forget, yet I scatter myself.
I have written down much, but to-day I have no time to write it out.
Father, help me. I weaken.
I am going to write absolutely every day.
Aug. 8. Y. P. If I live.
A peasant was here who had his arm torn by a tree and amputated. He ploughs with a loop attached.
Aug. 9.
Stakhovich arrived. Read the essay. The tenth chapter is bad. I worked pretty much. Have written poor letters. I must write to Posha and to Ivan Michailovich.
There is noted in the book: