TO L. S. MIZINOV.

YALTA,
March 27, 1894.


DEAR LIKA,

Thanks for your letter. Though you do scare me in your letter saying you
are soon going to die, though you do taunt me with having rejected you, yet
thank you all the same; I know perfectly well you are not going to die, and
that no one has rejected you.

I am in Yalta and I am dreary, very dreary indeed. The aristocracy, so to
call it, are performing "Faust," and I go to the rehearsals and there I
enjoy the spectacle of a perfect flower-bed of black, red, flaxen, and
brown heads; I listen to the singing and I eat. At the house of the
principal of the high school I eat tchibureks, and saddle of lamb with
boiled grain; in various estimable families I eat green soup; at the
confectioner's I eat--in my hotel also. I go to bed at ten and I get up at
ten, and after dinner I lie down and rest, and yet I am bored, dear Lika. I
am not bored because "my ladies" are not with me, but because the northern
spring is better than the spring here, and because the thought that I must,
that I ought to write never leaves me for an instant. To write and write
and write! It is my opinion that true happiness is impossible without
idleness. My ideal is to be idle and to love a plump girl. My loftiest
happiness is to walk or to sit doing nothing; my favourite occupation is to
gather up what is not wanted (leaves, straws, and so on) and to do what is
useless. Meanwhile, I am a literary man, and have to write here in Yalta.
Dear Lika, when you become a great singer and are paid a handsome salary,