“San Remo, January 30th (February 11th), 1878.
“Dear Friend,—I have read your letter with great pleasure.... If I expressed myself too sharply, please forget it. Now let us drop the subject entirely.
“I think you have acted wisely in postponing my opera until next year. I agree with you that it is better to have it studied without undue haste and to perform the work in its entirety. You may rest assured that I shall not give the work to the Petersburg Conservatoire. So far, I have not been asked to do so; if I were invited, I should refuse. I hope this letter may reach you about the moment of the first rehearsal of my (Fourth) Symphony. I am very anxious about the Scherzo. I think I told you that the quicker it can go, the better. Now I begin to think it should not be taken too fast. However, I entrust myself entirely to your intelligence, and believe you will find out the right tempo better than I can.
“I have read your letter a second time. You ask if I care to have your advice. Of course I do. You know I am always ready to accept the advice of a judicious friend and that I have frequently sought yours, not only in matters concerning music, but in my daily life. It was not the advice you gave me in your letter which hurt me, but the harsh, dry tone (at least so it seemed to me) of your communication, the reproach to my indolence, and the insinuation that I only refused to go to Paris because N. von Meck was allowing me enough to live upon; in short, you entirely misunderstood the true motives of my conduct.
“I have become terribly misanthropical, and dread the thought of having to change my present mode of life, in which I hardly come in contact with anyone. At the same time I am weary of it, and would gladly relinquish all the natural beauties and the climate of this place to be once more in my beloved Moscow.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“San Remo, February 1st (13th), 1878.
“My dear Friend,—Yesterday I forgot to thank you for the Schopenhauer.[59]
“Has not the thought occurred to you that now I am quite recovered I ought to return to Russia to take up my duties at the Conservatoire and my old ways of life? The thought constantly passes through my mind, and perhaps it might be good for me in every way if I decided to act upon it. And yet, with all my longing for Russia, and my attachment to Moscow, I should find it terribly hard suddenly to give up this life of freedom and the convalescence I am now enjoying, and return to my teaching and my various complications—in a word, to my old life. I shudder at the very thought. Give me your frank opinion. Answer me this question, entirely oblivious of the fact that you are making me an allowance. The fact that I profited by your wealth to travel abroad for my health’s sake does not weigh upon me seriously. I know the sentiment which prompted your offer of pecuniary assistance, and I have long since grown to regard the situation as quite normal. My relations with you are outside the scope of everyday friendship. From you I can accept assistance without any sense of embarrassment. This is not the difficulty.
“Since Rubinstein told me I was drifting into indolence and feigning ill_health (that was his expression) I have been somewhat troubled by the thought that perhaps it was actually my duty to hasten back to Moscow. Help me to decide this question, kind friend, without showing me excessive indulgence.