“To-day I have received the pleasant news that Modeste and his nice pupil are coming to join me. The boy’s father (Konradi) has only consented to this arrangement on condition that I will go to some place where the climate is suitable for his son. He suggests San Remo, where there are plenty of comfortable hotels and pensions.... I have had a letter from my brother Anatol, which was very comforting. They are just as fond of me as ever at Kamenka; I am quite at rest on this score. I had a fancy that they only pitied me, and this hurt me very deeply! Lately I have begun to receive letters from them ... but my brother has reassured me that all the folk at Kamenka--a group of beings who are very, very dear to me--have forgiven me, and understand I acted blindly, and that my fault was involuntary.” _To N. F. von Meck._ “MILAN, _December_ 16_th_ (28_th_), 1877. “I only arrived here at four o’clock, and after a short walk in the charming town went to the theatre in the evening. Unfortunately, not to La Scala, which was closed to-night, but to Dal Verme, where four years ago _A Life for the Tsar_ was produced. This evening _Ruy Blas_, by Marcetti, was given. This opera has made a stir in Italy for some years, so I hoped to hear something interesting. It proved, however, to be a dull, commonplace imitation of Verdi, but lacking the strength and sincere warmth which characterise the coarse, but powerful, works of this composer. The performance was worse than mediocre. Sometimes it awoke sad thoughts in my mind. A young queen comes upon the stage, with whom everyone is in love. The singer who took this part seemed very conscientious and did her utmost. How far she was, however, from resembling a beautiful, queenly woman who has the gift of charming every man she sets eyes upon! And the hero, Ruy Blas! He did not sing so badly, but instead of a handsome young hero, one saw--a lackey. Not the smallest illusion! Then I thought of my own opera. Where shall I find a Tatiana such as Poushkin dreamed of, and such as I have striven to realise in music? Where is the artist who can approach the ideal Oniegin, that cold-hearted dandy, impregnated to the marrow of his bones with the fashionable notion of ‘good tone’? Where is there a Lensky, that youth of eighteen, with the flowing locks and the gushing and would-be-original manners of a poetaster _à la_ Schiller? How commonplace Poushkin’s charming characters will appear on the stage, with all its routine, its drivelling traditions, its veterans--male and female--who undertake without a blush to play the parts of girl-heroines and beardless youths! Moral: it is much pleasanter to write purely instrumental music which involves fewer disappointments. What agony I have had to go