“I am very glad, however, that I continued my walk, for had I listened to my inner promptings, you would have had to endure another of my jeremiads. I know I shall feel quite differently to-morrow, especially when I begin the finale of my Symphony; but to-day? I am unequal to describing exactly what I feel, or what I want. To return to Russia--no. It would be terrible to go back; for I know I shall return a different man. “And here?--There is no more lovely spot on earth than San Remo, and yet I assure you that neither the palms, nor the oranges, nor the beautiful blue sea, nor the mountains, make the impression upon me which they might be expected to do. Consolation, peace, well-being I can only draw from within. The success of the Symphony, the consciousness that I am writing something good, will reconcile me to-morrow to all the friction and worry of previous days. The arrival of my brother will be a great joy. I have a curious feeling towards nature--at least towards such a luxuriant nature as surrounds me here. It dazzles me, gets on my nerves, makes me angry. I feel at such moments as though I were going out of my mind. But enough of all this ... really I am like the old woman whose fate Poushkin describes in his fable of ‘The Fisherman and the little Fish.’ The greater reason I have to be happy, the more discontented I become. Since I left Russia a few dear souls have shown me such proofs of affection as would suffice to make the happiness of a hundred men. I see that as compared to millions of people who are really unhappy, I should regard myself as a spoilt child of fortune, and yet I am not happy, not happy, not happy. There are moments of happiness. There is also that preoccupation with my work which often possesses me so entirely that I forget everything not directly connected with my art. But happiness does not exist for me. However, here is my jeremiad after all; it seems to have been inevitable! And it is ridiculous, besides, being in some sort indelicate. But since once for all you are my best friend, dear Nadejda Filaretovna, must I not tell you all, _all_ that goes on in my queer, morbid soul? Forgive me this. To-morrow I shall regret it; to-day it has been a relief to grumble to you a little. Do not attach too much importance to it. Do you know what I sometimes feel on such days as this? It comes over me suddenly that no one really loves me, or can love me, because I am a pitiable, contemptible being. And I have not strength to put away such thoughts ... but there--I am beginning my lamentations over again.