The Lake Scene

I have come to a decision; the die is cast. I am going on the stage. Tomorrow I shall not be here. I am leaving my father, giving up everything, and beginning a new life. I am going away, like you, to Moscow. We shall meet there.

Stay at the Hotel Slavyansky Bazaar. Let me know at once. I shall be at Grokholsky's house in Molchanovka Street. I must hurry.

One minute more.

You are so lovely. Oh, how glad I am to think that we shall see each other soon! You will see these eyes again, this inexpressibly beautiful, tender smile, these sweet features, the expression of angelic purity. My darling...

I have wanted to tell you. You are a wonderful writer. Your writing seizes on me. I could not live without it.

You flatter me. I have never been satisfied with myself. I do not like myself as a writer. The worst of it is that I am in a sort of daze and often don't understand what I am writing. I love this lake here, the trees, the sky. I feel nature, it inspires me with a passion, an irresistible desire to write. But I am not simply a landscape painter; I am also a citizen. I love my country and her people.

But surely inspiration and the very process of creation give you great moments of happiness?

Yes. While I am writing I enjoy it. And I like reading my proofs, but as soon as the work comes out I can't endure it; I see that it is all wrong, a mistake, that it ought not to have been written at all, and I feel vexed and sick about it.

Forgive me, but I refuse to understand you. You are simply spoiled by success.

What success? I have never pleased myself. I don't like myself as a writer. I am fond of reading, but I don't like my own things. Day and night one thought haunts me: I ought to be writing, I ought to be writing, I ought to be writing.