“I have only just finished the composition of a new work, the symphonic fantasia, _Francesca da Rimini_. I have worked at it _con amore_, and believe my love has been successful. With regard to the _Whirlwind_, perhaps it might correspond better to Doré’s picture; it has not turned out quite what I wanted. However, an accurate estimate of the work is impossible, so long as it is neither orchestrated nor played.” _To E. Napravnik._ “_October_ 18_th_ (30_th_). “I have just read in a Petersburg paper that you intend to give the dances from my opera _Vakoula_ at one of the forthcoming symphony concerts. Would it be possible to perform my new symphonic poem, _Francesca da Rimini_, instead? I am actually working at the orchestration of this work, and could have the score ready in two or three weeks. It would never have occurred to me to trouble you with my new work, had I not seen that my name was already included in your programmes. As you have been so kind as to grant me a little room at your concerts, I hope you will agree to my present proposal. I must frankly confess that I am somewhat troubled about the fate of my opera. So far, I have not even heard whether the choral rehearsals have begun. Perhaps you will be so kind as to send me word about the performance of _Vakoula_.” _To A. Davidov._ “_November_ 8_th_ (20_th_). “Probably you were not quite well, my little dove,[44] when you wrote to me, for a note of real melancholy pervaded your letter. I recognised in it a nature closely akin to my own. I know the feeling only too well. In my life, too, there are days, hours, weeks, aye, and months, in which everything looks black, when I am tormented by the thought that I am forsaken, that no one cares for me. Indeed, my life is of little worth to anyone. Were I to vanish from the face of the earth to-day, it would be no great loss to Russian music, and would certainly cause no one great unhappiness. In short, I live a selfish bachelor’s life. I work for myself alone, and care only for myself. This is certainly very comfortable, although dull, narrow, and lifeless. But that _you_, who are indispensable to so many whose happiness you make, that _you_ can give way to depression, is more than I can believe. How can you doubt for a moment the love and esteem of those who surround you? How could it be possible not to love you? No, there is no one in the world more dearly loved than you are. As for me, it would be absurd to speak of my love for you. If I care for anyone, it is for you, for your family, for my brothers and our old Dad. I love you all, not because you are my relations, but because you are the best people in the world....”