16th March 1825

The house was in a state of giddy uproar today. Young Vladimir Lensky offered his hand this morning, and she accepted him. I suppose we all foresaw this event, but even the expected can bring about a shock, all the more surprising in its unalterable consequences. For she says she loves him very much, and he, in turn, vows he has never loved anyone else but my own, dear sister, Olga.

I cannot criticize him for insincerity, because I do not believe I have ever met a gentleman with more genuine convictions. Whatever he sees, dreams, or reveres, he does so to the fullest extent of his being. I believe he would die for Olga without the least hesitance or misgivings as to her affections. As such, he will make her as happy as any man could, and maybe one cannot hope for more from a young man scarcely twenty.

Still, though the choice is not mine, I may confess, here, that I am loath to see Olga affianced to him. Does she not see that all of this—his poetic daydreaming and overtures of admiration—must only be a transient thing? Can it be so resilient that it will last five, ten, or twenty years from this present moment? And without it, who is Vladimir Lensky then? Can she forgive him if her charm ever ceases to be the muse of his verses?

Ah, but he is a 'young man of property', and Mama would admonish me for my morose predictions. Only two days ago, she was reminiscing to Nurse about her youth, the books she read, and the duty which had compelled her to marry Papa. She did not know I was in the next room. It was of no matter then, because I had heard this once before when I was quite a child. In my naivete, I did not understand that such would also be my life, and indeed until this spring I have considered marriage impossible unless he were one I would both respect and love. But now I have met the whole battalion of 'eligible gentlemen', and they are all like Lensky—they have nothing but their eligibility and estates. Vladimir Lensky may be the best of the lot.

He is coming this afternoon for his second visit of the day. I will again wish him happiness as a sister ought, and try to esteem him as highly as Olga does.

There are days I wish I were like Olga. Mama has said nothing, but I know it is expected that I emulate my younger sister and marry one of these eligible suitors. But I am not like Olga in the slightest; no Lensky would see anything in me, nor would I care the least for him. As for love as a duty—it is an impossibility, and no one in the world could compel me to make that choice.