... I shall finish my story to-morrow or the day after, but not to-day, for
it has exhausted me fiendishly towards the end. Thanks to the haste with
which I have worked at it, I have wasted a pound of nerves over it. The
composition of it is a little complicated. I got into difficulties and
often tore up what I had written, and for days at a time was dissatisfied
with my work--that is why I have not finished it till now. How awful it is!
I must rewrite it! It's impossible to leave it, for it is in a devil of a
mess. My God! if the public likes my works as little as I do those of other
people which I am reading, what an ass I am! There is something asinine
about our writing....

To my great pleasure the amazing astronomer has arrived. She is angry with
you, and calls you for some reason an "eloquent gossip." To begin with, she
is free and independent; and then she has a poor opinion of men; and
further, according to her, everyone is a savage or a ninny--and you dared
to give her my address with the words "the being you adore lives at ...,"
and so on. Upon my word, as though one could suspect earthly feelings in
astronomers who soar among the clouds! She talks and laughs all day, is a
capital mushroom-gatherer, and dreams of the Caucasus to which she is
departing today.




August 18.


At last I have finished my long, wearisome story [Footnote: "The Duel."]
and am sending it to you in Feodosia. Please read it. It is too long for