May 10, 1891.
Yes, you are right, my soul needs balsam. I should read now with pleasure, even with joy, something serious, not merely about myself but things in general. I pine for serious reading, and recent Russian criticism does not nourish but simply irritates me. I could read with enthusiasm something new about Pushkin or Tolstoy. That would be balsam for my idle mind.
I am homesick for Venice and Florence too, and am ready to climb Vesuvius again; Bologna has been effaced from my memory and grown dim. As for Nice and Paris, when I recall them “I look on my life with loathing.”
In the last number of The Messenger of Foreign Literature there is a story by Ouida, translated from the English by our Mihail. Why don’t I know foreign languages? It seems to me I could translate magnificently. When I read anyone else’s translation I keep altering and transposing the words in my brain, and the result is something light, ethereal, like lacework.
On Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays I write my Sahalin book, on the other days, except Sunday, my novel, and on Sundays, short stories. I work with zest. The weather has been superb every day; the site of our summer villa is dry and healthy. There is a lot of woodland. There are a lot of fish and crayfish in the Oka. I see the trains and the steamers. Altogether if it were not for being somewhat cramped I should be very very much pleased sitting at a big table in a fine study....
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