1.02.1914.
My dear, guess where I'm feeding you from. From Yalta! Surprised? Just arrived and am I sitting in a beautiful hotel. But do not be very happy for me. I feel disgusting, disgusting.
Remember, I wrote that I was offered a scholarship? This gentleman - his name is Parmanov - came to me the day I had a doctor who said that my lungs were not well. And Karmanov offered me not only a scholarship (for teaching), of course, mutually beneficial, but also a trip to Yalta for a month. I was, however, a little confused that he also had to do something in the Crimea. But he is a family man, he has always been correct in relation to me, and, although I knew that he liked me, but had no reason not to believe in his generosity. Dad let me go, and many people knew about my trip in general. So on the train, this gentleman suddenly made me a formal stupid offer, to which I replied that if he touched me (we were riding in the same compartment), I would spit in his face. He moved to another compartment, and I never saw him again. There was nothing to say about the scholarship anymore, even though the known amount had already been spent. Of course, I will pay him when I serve. I am sitting now without a penny, far from Peter, unwell. But you can't leave because I don't want Dad to know about this story.
We drove from Sevastopol to Yalta. Although it was bad weather, cold and snowy, I still admired the nature, about the charm of which now can not write. Please burn this letter. I don't want it to be a witness to my misfortune afterwards. I believe that everything will move, I will find a way to get settled, look for lessons. In the meantime, write to me, dear, to calm me down a little.
13.02.1914. Yalta.
My dear, my gentle friend, thank you for your sympathy, but you sent me money in vain. No doubt you need it yourself, and I will always be able to get it, and I think I have already got it. That's what I'm doing. I settled in a room with an intelligent old lady. She is the widow of a member of the Yalta city government. Together with Chekhov she took part in the construction of the sanatorium "Yauzlar" and fundraising. She has a famous photo of Chekhov in her coat, with a stick and dogs on her desk. The autograph is "Mileyshaya Olga Aleksandrovna from A.P. Chekhov". A very intelligent and cultural woman of fifty-five years old, respected by all. I have already received a small lesson - I study German with a gymnasium student at a rate of 1 rouble (old money) per hour twice a week and hope to get some more lessons, which are paid here perfectly. The doctor found "a hard exhalation in my right lung" and said I did a good job coming here. I don't know what will happen. Long as I feel fine.
You can't imagine how much I like the sea. Grey, gloomy, greenish, of all shades, wide and always so different. Then it quietly splashes on the shore wave by wave, and then begins to seem that it is angry at people for their pettiness and vulgarity. And the mountains are purple, with white spots on top. They surround Yalta from all sides, leaving free only the side facing the sea.
I sit on the shore for a long time, for hours, and I forget about everything is sad and ugly, and I think that without beauty a man has no strength to live. Don't you think, Kostik, that perception of beauty is not less strong instinct than kindness and sympathy to people? But I've bored you with my chatter, and meanwhile I haven't told you the most important thing yet. And in St. Petersburg I was struggling with the desire to write, and in Yalta I went completely mad and bought pastels with the first money I earned. I was afraid of being expensive, but I managed to find a box for four rubles. The shades were not enough, even for the beginning. I'm just looking at the pastels so far, but I feel better in my heart for some reason. Bone, can such a strong desire to join with a complete lack of talent? I'm afraid so, yes. Anyway, I am not going to leave my math. But I love it as a good relative, and painting as you do.
Here, in Crimea, you can only see Aivazovsky (in Feodosia), and have to be content with memories that, to my surprise, have not gone anywhere from me. Especially Borisov-Musatov. As a strange but interesting dream, I sometimes remember the evening of the "Jack of Diamonds", but not the paintings in which I did not understand anything, but Goncharova, who struck me with her straightforwardness.
Honey, write me more. I am alone and alone. Do you often meet Lavrov? My God, I envy you so much! If I had such a friend! I am jealous of you, not of a mysterious stranger you have written about with such simplicity.
Yalta.
You carelessly asked me to describe Yalta, Kostik. Blame yourself. The letter will be three-volume, with a prologue and epilogue.
The continuation should be...