To Modeste Tchaikovsky.“Honoured Mr. Modeste Ilich,—I do not know if you still remember me. I am your brother and a professor at the Moscow Conservatoire. I have also composed a few things: operas, symphonies, overtures, etc. Once upon a time you honoured me by your personal acquaintance. Last year we were abroad together and spent a time which I shall never forget. You used frequently to write melong and interesting letters. Now all this seems like a beautiful dream....“Just before the holidays, my dear brotherkin, I made the acquaintance of Count Tolstoi. This pleased me very much. I have also received a kind and precious letter from his Grace. When he heard the ‘Andante’ from my first quartet he shed tears of emotion. I am very proud of this, my dear brotherkin, and you really should not forget me, my dear brotherkin, because I have now become a great swell. Farewell, my brotherkin.“Your brother,“Peter.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“Honoured Mr. Modeste Ilich,—I do not know if you still remember me. I am your brother and a professor at the Moscow Conservatoire. I have also composed a few things: operas, symphonies, overtures, etc. Once upon a time you honoured me by your personal acquaintance. Last year we were abroad together and spent a time which I shall never forget. You used frequently to write melong and interesting letters. Now all this seems like a beautiful dream....
“Just before the holidays, my dear brotherkin, I made the acquaintance of Count Tolstoi. This pleased me very much. I have also received a kind and precious letter from his Grace. When he heard the ‘Andante’ from my first quartet he shed tears of emotion. I am very proud of this, my dear brotherkin, and you really should not forget me, my dear brotherkin, because I have now become a great swell. Farewell, my brotherkin.
“Your brother,“Peter.”
On February 20th (March 4th) the first performance of Tchaikovsky’s ballet,The Swan Lake, took place. The composer was not to be blamed for the very moderate success of this work. The scenery and costumes were poor, while the orchestra was conducted by a semi-amateur, who had never before been confronted with so complicated a score.
To his sister, A. Davidov.“February22nd(March6th).“I have lately found courage to appear as a conductor. I was very unskilful and nervous, but still I managed to conduct, with considerable success, my ‘Russo-Serbian March’ in the Opera House. Henceforward I shall take every opportunity of conducting, for if my plan of a concert tour abroad comes off, I shall have to be my own conductor.”
To his sister, A. Davidov.
“February22nd(March6th).
“I have lately found courage to appear as a conductor. I was very unskilful and nervous, but still I managed to conduct, with considerable success, my ‘Russo-Serbian March’ in the Opera House. Henceforward I shall take every opportunity of conducting, for if my plan of a concert tour abroad comes off, I shall have to be my own conductor.”
On February 25th (March 9th) the symphonic fantasiaFrancesca da Riminiwas performed for the first time at the tenth symphony concert in Moscow. It had a splendid reception, and was twice repeated during the month of March. In his notice of the concert Kashkin praises not only the music itself, but its inspired interpretation by Nicholas Rubinstein.
In the course of this season Tchaikovsky began his Fourth Symphony. Probably the real reason why he lost his interest in the libretto ofOthellois to be found in his entire devotion to this work.
In March and April he began to suffer again from mental depression. This is evident from many of his letters written at this time.
To I. A. Klimenko.“May8th(20th).“I am very much changed—especially mentally—since we last met. There is no trace of gaiety and love of fun left in me. Life is terribly empty, wearisome and trivial. I am seriously considering matrimony as a lasting tie. The one thing that remains unaltered is my love of composing. If things were only different, if I were not condemned to run against obstacles at every step—my work at the Conservatoire, for instance, which restricts me more each year—I might accomplish something of value. But alas, I am chained to the Conservatoire!”
To I. A. Klimenko.
“May8th(20th).
“I am very much changed—especially mentally—since we last met. There is no trace of gaiety and love of fun left in me. Life is terribly empty, wearisome and trivial. I am seriously considering matrimony as a lasting tie. The one thing that remains unaltered is my love of composing. If things were only different, if I were not condemned to run against obstacles at every step—my work at the Conservatoire, for instance, which restricts me more each year—I might accomplish something of value. But alas, I am chained to the Conservatoire!”
In the early spring of 1877 Modeste Tchaikovsky sent his brother a libretto based upon Nodier’s novel,Ines de Las-Sierras. The musician was not attracted by it; he had already another plan in view. In May he wrote to his brother:—
“Recently I was at Madame Lavrovsky’s.[46]The conversation fell upon opera libretti. X. talked a lot of rubbish, and made the most appalling suggestions. Madame Lavrovsky said nothing and only laughed. Suddenly, however, she remarked: ‘What aboutEugene Oniegin?’ The idea struck me as curious, and I made no reply. Afterwards, while dining alone at a restaurant, her words came back to me, and, on consideration, the idea did not seem at all ridiculous. I soon made up my mind, and set off at once in search of Poushkin’s works. I had some trouble in finding them. I was enchanted when I read thework. I spent a sleepless night; the result—a sketch of a delicious opera based upon Poushkin’s text. The next day I went to Shilovsky, who is now working post-haste at my sketch.“You have no notion how crazy I am upon this subject. How delightful to avoid the commonplace Pharaohs, Ethiopian princesses, poisoned cups, and all the rest of these dolls’ tales!Eugene Onieginis full of poetry. I am not blind to its defects. I know well enough the work gives little scope for treatment, and will be deficient in stage effects; but the wealth of poetry, the human quality and simplicity of the subject, joined to Poushkin’s inspired verses, will compensate for what it lacks in other respects.”
“Recently I was at Madame Lavrovsky’s.[46]The conversation fell upon opera libretti. X. talked a lot of rubbish, and made the most appalling suggestions. Madame Lavrovsky said nothing and only laughed. Suddenly, however, she remarked: ‘What aboutEugene Oniegin?’ The idea struck me as curious, and I made no reply. Afterwards, while dining alone at a restaurant, her words came back to me, and, on consideration, the idea did not seem at all ridiculous. I soon made up my mind, and set off at once in search of Poushkin’s works. I had some trouble in finding them. I was enchanted when I read thework. I spent a sleepless night; the result—a sketch of a delicious opera based upon Poushkin’s text. The next day I went to Shilovsky, who is now working post-haste at my sketch.
“You have no notion how crazy I am upon this subject. How delightful to avoid the commonplace Pharaohs, Ethiopian princesses, poisoned cups, and all the rest of these dolls’ tales!Eugene Onieginis full of poetry. I am not blind to its defects. I know well enough the work gives little scope for treatment, and will be deficient in stage effects; but the wealth of poetry, the human quality and simplicity of the subject, joined to Poushkin’s inspired verses, will compensate for what it lacks in other respects.”
To N. F. von Meck.“May27th(June8th).“ ... The plan of my symphony is complete. I shall begin upon the orchestration at the end of the summer.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“May27th(June8th).
“ ... The plan of my symphony is complete. I shall begin upon the orchestration at the end of the summer.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.“Gliebovo,June6th(18th).“At first I was annoyed by your criticism of Oniegin, but it did not last long. Let it lack scenic effect, let it be wanting in action! I am in love with the image of Tatiana, I am under the spell of Poushkin’s verse, and I am drawn to compose the music as it were by some irresistible attraction. I am lost in the composition of the opera.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“Gliebovo,June6th(18th).
“At first I was annoyed by your criticism of Oniegin, but it did not last long. Let it lack scenic effect, let it be wanting in action! I am in love with the image of Tatiana, I am under the spell of Poushkin’s verse, and I am drawn to compose the music as it were by some irresistible attraction. I am lost in the composition of the opera.”
SOME time during the seventies, a violinist named Joseph Kotek entered Tchaikovsky’s theory class at the Conservatoire.
He was a pleasant-looking young man, good-hearted, enthusiastic, and a gifted virtuoso. His sympathetic personality and talented work attracted Tchaikovsky’s notice, and Kotek became a special favourite with him. Thus a friendship developed between master and pupil which was not merely confined to the class-room of the Conservatoire.
Kotek was poor, and, on leaving the Conservatoire, was obliged to earn his living by teaching, before he began to tour abroad.
At that time there lived in Moscow the widow of a well-known railway engineer, Nadejda Filaretovna von Meck. This lady asked Nicholas Rubinstein to recommend her a young violinist who could play with her at her house.
Rubinstein recommended Kotek. No young musician could have desired a better post. Nadejda von Meck, with her somewhat numerous family, lived part of the year in Moscow and the rest abroad, or upon her beautiful estate in the south-west of Russia. Kotek, therefore, besides a good salary, enjoyed a chance of seeing somethingof the world, and had also leisure to perfect himself on his instrument.
Kotek soon discovered that Nadejda von Meck shared his own admiration for Tchaikovsky’s genius. An amateur of music in general, she was particularly interested in Tchaikovsky’s works, a predilection which was destined to have considerable influence upon the composer’s future career. Nadejda von Meck was not only interested in the composer, but also in the man. She endeavoured to learn something of his private life and character, and cross-questioned everyone who had come in contact with him. Consequently her acquaintance with Kotek was doubly agreeable, because he could tell her a great deal about the composer who had given her such keen artistic enjoyment.
From Kotek she learnt to know Tchaikovsky in his daily life, and her affection for him continually increased. Naturally she found out about his pecuniary needs and his longing for freedom, and in this way she formed a wish to take some active part in his private life, and to make it her first duty to allay his material anxieties.
Through Kotek she commissioned the composer, at a high fee, to arrange several of his own works for violin and piano. Gradually, through the medium of the young violinist, constant intercourse was established between the patroness and the composer. On his side Tchaikovsky, who liked whatever was original and unconventional, took the liveliest interest in all Kotek detailed to him about “the eccentricities” of Nadejda von Meck. Flattered and touched by the knowledge that he was a household name in the family of this generous admirer, Tchaikovsky sent her messages of grateful thanks by Kotek. Nadejda von Meck, elated that her favourite composer did not disdain to execute her commissions, returned similar expressions of gratitude and sympathy.
This was the commencement of the unusual relations between Tchaikovsky and Nadejda von Meck.
This friendship was of great importance in Tchaikovsky’s life, for it completely changed its material conditions and consequently influenced his creative activity; moreover, it was so poetical, so out of the common, so different from anything that takes place in everyday society, that, in order to understand it, we must make closer acquaintance with the character of this new friend and benefactress.
Nadejda Filaretovna von Meck was born January 29th (February 10th), 1831, in the village of Znamensk (in the Government of Smolensk).[47]Although her parents were not rich, yet she enjoyed the advantage of an excellent home education. Her father was an enthusiastic music-lover, and his taste descended to his daughter. She would listen to him playing the violin for hours together; but as he grew older the parts were reversed, and Nadejda and her sister would play pianoforte duets to their father. In this way she acquired an extensive knowledge of musical literature.
No information is forthcoming as regards her general education. But from her voluminous correspondence with Tchaikovsky, his brother Modeste derives the impression that she was a proud and energetic woman, of strong convictions, with the mental balance and business capacity of a man, and well able to struggle with adversity; a woman, moreover, who despised all that was petty, commonplace, and conventional, but irreproachable in all her aspirations and in her sense of duty; absolutely free from sentimentality in her relations with others, yet capable of deep feeling, and of being completely carried away by what was lofty and beautiful.
In 1848 Nadejda Filaretovna married K. von Meck, an engineer employed upon the Moscow-Warsaw line, and with her marriage began a hard time in her life. As adevoted wife and mother, Frau von Meck had a great deal to endure, from which, however, she emerged triumphant in the end.
“I have not always been rich,” she says in one of her letters to Tchaikovsky; “the greater part of my life I was poor, very poor indeed. My husband was an engineer in the Government service, with a salary of 1500 roubles a year (£150), which was all we had to live upon, with five children and my husband’s family on our hands. Not a brilliant prospect, as you see! I was nurse, governess, and sewing-maid to my children, and valet to my husband; the housekeeping was entirely in my hands; naturally there was plenty of work, but I did not mind that. It was another matter which made life unbearable. Do you know, Peter Ilich, what it is to be in the Government service? Do you know how, in that case, a man must forget he is a reasoning being, possessed of will_power and honourable instincts, and must become a puppet, an automaton? It was my husband’s position which I found so intolerable that finally I implored him to send in his resignation. To his remark that if he did so we should starve, I replied that we could work, and that we should not die of hunger. When at last he yielded to my desire, we were reduced to living upon twenty kopecks a day (5d.) for everything. It was hard, but I never regretted for a moment what had been done.”
“I have not always been rich,” she says in one of her letters to Tchaikovsky; “the greater part of my life I was poor, very poor indeed. My husband was an engineer in the Government service, with a salary of 1500 roubles a year (£150), which was all we had to live upon, with five children and my husband’s family on our hands. Not a brilliant prospect, as you see! I was nurse, governess, and sewing-maid to my children, and valet to my husband; the housekeeping was entirely in my hands; naturally there was plenty of work, but I did not mind that. It was another matter which made life unbearable. Do you know, Peter Ilich, what it is to be in the Government service? Do you know how, in that case, a man must forget he is a reasoning being, possessed of will_power and honourable instincts, and must become a puppet, an automaton? It was my husband’s position which I found so intolerable that finally I implored him to send in his resignation. To his remark that if he did so we should starve, I replied that we could work, and that we should not die of hunger. When at last he yielded to my desire, we were reduced to living upon twenty kopecks a day (5d.) for everything. It was hard, but I never regretted for a moment what had been done.”
Thanks to this energetic step, taken at the entreaty of his wife, Von Meck became engaged in private railway enterprises, and gradually amassed a fortune and put by some millions of roubles.
In 1876 Nadejda was left a widow. Of eleven children, only seven lived with her. The others were grown up, and had gone out into the world. She managed her complicated affairs herself, with the assistance of her brother and her eldest son. But her chief occupation was the education of her younger children.
After her husband’s death, Nadejda von Meck gave upgoing into society; she paid no more visits, and remained, in the literal sense of the word, “invisible” to all but the members of her domestic circle.[48]
Nadejda von Meck was a great lover of nature, and travelled constantly. She also read much, and was passionately fond of music, especially of Tchaikovsky’s works.
The peculiar characteristic of the close and touching friendship between Nadejda von Meck and Tchaikovsky was the fact that they never saw each other except in a crowd—an accidental glimpse at a concert or theatre. When they accidentally came face to face they passed as total strangers. To the end of their days they never exchanged a word, scarcely even a casual greeting. Their whole intercourse was confined to a brisk correspondence. Their letters, which have been preserved intact, and serve as the chief material for this part of my book, are so interesting, and throw such a clear light on the unique relations between this man and woman, that the publication of the entire correspondence on both sides would be of profound interest.
But the time has not yet come for such an undertaking. I may only use this valuable material (says Modeste Tchaikovsky) in so far as it forwards the chief aim of this book—to tell the story of Tchaikovsky’s life. I may only write of Nadejda von Meck as my brother’s “best friend” and benefactress, without intruding upon her intimate life which she has described in her frank, veracious, and lengthy letters.
Shortly after she had sent Tchaikovsky a commission, through Kotek, for a violin and pianoforte arrangement, he received his first letter from Nadejda von Meck.
N. F. von Meck to Tchaikovsky.“December18th(30th), 1876.“Honoured Sir,—Allow me to express my sincere thanks for the prompt execution of my commission. I deem it superfluous to tell you of the enthusiasm I feel for your music, because you are doubtless accustomed to receive homage of a very different kind to any which could be offered you by so insignificant a person, musically speaking, as myself. It might, therefore, seem ridiculous to you; and my admiration is something so precious that I do not care to have it laughed at. Therefore I will only say one thing, which I beg you to accept as the literal truth—that your music makes life easier and pleasanter to live.”
N. F. von Meck to Tchaikovsky.
“December18th(30th), 1876.
“Honoured Sir,—Allow me to express my sincere thanks for the prompt execution of my commission. I deem it superfluous to tell you of the enthusiasm I feel for your music, because you are doubtless accustomed to receive homage of a very different kind to any which could be offered you by so insignificant a person, musically speaking, as myself. It might, therefore, seem ridiculous to you; and my admiration is something so precious that I do not care to have it laughed at. Therefore I will only say one thing, which I beg you to accept as the literal truth—that your music makes life easier and pleasanter to live.”
From Tchaikovsky to N. F. von Meck.“December19th(31st), 1876.“Honoured Madam,—I thank you most cordially for the kind and flattering things you have written to me. On my part, I can assure you that, amid all his failures and difficulties, it is a great comfort to a musician to know that there exists a handful of people—of whom you are one—who are genuine and passionate lovers of music.”
From Tchaikovsky to N. F. von Meck.
“December19th(31st), 1876.
“Honoured Madam,—I thank you most cordially for the kind and flattering things you have written to me. On my part, I can assure you that, amid all his failures and difficulties, it is a great comfort to a musician to know that there exists a handful of people—of whom you are one—who are genuine and passionate lovers of music.”
Two months later he received another commission, and a longer letter, which paved the way to intimate friendship and lasting influence.
N. F. von Meck to Tchaikovsky.“Moscow,February15th(27th), 1877.“Dear Sir—peter Ilich,—I do not know how to express my thanks for your kind indulgence for my impatience. Were it not for the real sympathy I feel for you, I should be afraid you might want to get rid of me; but I value your kindness too greatly for this to happen.“I should like to tell you a great deal about my fantastic feelings towards you, but I am afraid of taking up your leisure, of which you have so little to spare. I will only saythat this feeling—abstract as it may be—is one of the best and loftiest emotions ever yet experienced by any human being. Therefore you may call me eccentric, or mad, if you please; but you must not laugh at me. All this would be ridiculous, if it were not so sincere and serious.“Your devoted and admiring“N. F. Von Meck.”
N. F. von Meck to Tchaikovsky.
“Moscow,February15th(27th), 1877.
“Dear Sir—peter Ilich,—I do not know how to express my thanks for your kind indulgence for my impatience. Were it not for the real sympathy I feel for you, I should be afraid you might want to get rid of me; but I value your kindness too greatly for this to happen.
“I should like to tell you a great deal about my fantastic feelings towards you, but I am afraid of taking up your leisure, of which you have so little to spare. I will only saythat this feeling—abstract as it may be—is one of the best and loftiest emotions ever yet experienced by any human being. Therefore you may call me eccentric, or mad, if you please; but you must not laugh at me. All this would be ridiculous, if it were not so sincere and serious.
“Your devoted and admiring“N. F. Von Meck.”
From Tchaikovsky to N. F. von Meck.“February.16th(28th), 1877“Dear Madam—Nadejda Filaretovna,—Accept my hearty thanks for the too lavish fee with which you have repaid such a light task. I am sorry you did not tell me all that was in your heart. I can assure you it would have been very pleasant and interesting, for I, too, warmly reciprocate your sympathy. This is no empty phrase. Perhaps I know you better than you imagine.“If some day you will take the trouble to write me all you want to say, I shall be most grateful. In any case I thank you from my heart for your expressions of appreciation, which I value very highly.”
From Tchaikovsky to N. F. von Meck.
“February.16th(28th), 1877
“Dear Madam—Nadejda Filaretovna,—Accept my hearty thanks for the too lavish fee with which you have repaid such a light task. I am sorry you did not tell me all that was in your heart. I can assure you it would have been very pleasant and interesting, for I, too, warmly reciprocate your sympathy. This is no empty phrase. Perhaps I know you better than you imagine.
“If some day you will take the trouble to write me all you want to say, I shall be most grateful. In any case I thank you from my heart for your expressions of appreciation, which I value very highly.”
N. F. Meck to Tchaikovsky.“Moscow,March7th(19th), 1877.“Dear Sir—peter Ilich,—Your kind answer to my letter proved a greater joy than I have experienced for a long while, but—you know human nature: the more we have of a good thing, the more we want. Although I promised not to be a nuisance, I already doubt my own powers of refraining, because I am going to ask you a favour which may seem to you very strange; but anyone who lives the life of an anchorite—as I do—must naturally end by regarding all that relates to society and the conventionalities of life as empty and meaningless terms. I do not know how you look upon these matters, but—judging from our short acquaintance—I do not think you will be disposed to criticise me severely; if I am wrong, however, I want you to say so frankly, without circumlocution, and to refuse my request, which is this: give me one of yourphotographs. I have already two, but I should like one from you personally; I want to read in your face the inspiration, the emotions, under the influence of which you write the music which carries us away to that world of ideal feelings, aspirations and desires which cannot be satisfied in life. How much joy, but how much pain is there in this music! Nor would we consent to give up this suffering, for in it we find our highest capacities; our happiness, our hopes, which life denies us.The Tempestwas the first work of yours I ever heard. I cannot tell you the impression it made upon me! For several days I was half out of my mind. I must tell you that I cannot separate the man from the musician, and, as the high priest of so lofty an art, I expect to find in him, more than in ordinary men, the qualities I most reverence. Therefore after my first impression ofThe TempestI was seized with the desire to know something of the man who created it. I began to make inquiries about you, took every opportunity of hearing what was said of you, stored up every remark, every fragment of criticism, and I must confess that just those things for which others blamed you were charms in my eyes—everyone to his taste! Only a few days ago—in casual conversation—I heard one of your opinions, which delighted me, and was so entirely in accordance with my own that I felt suddenly drawn to you by more intimate and friendly ties. It is not intercourse that draws people together, so much as affinities of opinion, sentiment, and sympathy, so that one person may be closely united to another, although in some respects they remain strangers.“I am so much interested to know all about you that I could say at almost any hour where you are, and—up to a certain point—what you are doing. All I have observed myself, all I have heard of you from others—the good and the bad—delights me so much that I offer you my sincerest sympathy and interest. I am glad that in you the musician and the man are so completely and harmoniously blended.“There was a time when I earnestly desired your personal acquaintance; but now I feel the more you fascinate me, the more I shrink from knowing you. It seems to meI could not then talk to you as I do now, although if we met unexpectedly I could not behave to you as to a stranger.“At present I prefer to think of you from a distance, to hear you speak and to be at one with you in your music. I am really unhappy never to have had the opportunity of hearingFrancesca da Rimini; I am impatient for the appearance of the pianoforte arrangement.“Forgive me all my effusions; they cannot be of any use to you; yet you will not regret that you have been able to infuse a little life—especially by such ideal ways and means—into one who, like myself, is so nearly at the end of her days as to be practically already dead.“Now one more ‘last request,’ Peter Ilich. There is one particular number in yourOprichnikabout which I am wildly enthusiastic. If it is possible, please arrange this for me as a funeral march for four hands (pianoforte). I am sending you the opera in which I have marked the passages I should like you to arrange. If my request is tiresome, do not hesitate to refuse; I shall be regretful, but not offended. If you agree to it, take your own time, because it will be an indulgence I have no right to expect. Will you allow me to have your arrangements published, and if so, should I apply to Jurgenson or Bessel?“Furthermore, allow me in future to drop all formalities of ‘Dear Sir,’ etc., in my letters to you; they are not in my style, and I shall be glad if you will write to me without any of this conventional politeness. You will not refuse me this favour?“Yours, with devotion and respect,“N. F.“P.S.—Do not forget to answer my first request.”
N. F. Meck to Tchaikovsky.
“Moscow,March7th(19th), 1877.
“Dear Sir—peter Ilich,—Your kind answer to my letter proved a greater joy than I have experienced for a long while, but—you know human nature: the more we have of a good thing, the more we want. Although I promised not to be a nuisance, I already doubt my own powers of refraining, because I am going to ask you a favour which may seem to you very strange; but anyone who lives the life of an anchorite—as I do—must naturally end by regarding all that relates to society and the conventionalities of life as empty and meaningless terms. I do not know how you look upon these matters, but—judging from our short acquaintance—I do not think you will be disposed to criticise me severely; if I am wrong, however, I want you to say so frankly, without circumlocution, and to refuse my request, which is this: give me one of yourphotographs. I have already two, but I should like one from you personally; I want to read in your face the inspiration, the emotions, under the influence of which you write the music which carries us away to that world of ideal feelings, aspirations and desires which cannot be satisfied in life. How much joy, but how much pain is there in this music! Nor would we consent to give up this suffering, for in it we find our highest capacities; our happiness, our hopes, which life denies us.The Tempestwas the first work of yours I ever heard. I cannot tell you the impression it made upon me! For several days I was half out of my mind. I must tell you that I cannot separate the man from the musician, and, as the high priest of so lofty an art, I expect to find in him, more than in ordinary men, the qualities I most reverence. Therefore after my first impression ofThe TempestI was seized with the desire to know something of the man who created it. I began to make inquiries about you, took every opportunity of hearing what was said of you, stored up every remark, every fragment of criticism, and I must confess that just those things for which others blamed you were charms in my eyes—everyone to his taste! Only a few days ago—in casual conversation—I heard one of your opinions, which delighted me, and was so entirely in accordance with my own that I felt suddenly drawn to you by more intimate and friendly ties. It is not intercourse that draws people together, so much as affinities of opinion, sentiment, and sympathy, so that one person may be closely united to another, although in some respects they remain strangers.
“I am so much interested to know all about you that I could say at almost any hour where you are, and—up to a certain point—what you are doing. All I have observed myself, all I have heard of you from others—the good and the bad—delights me so much that I offer you my sincerest sympathy and interest. I am glad that in you the musician and the man are so completely and harmoniously blended.
“There was a time when I earnestly desired your personal acquaintance; but now I feel the more you fascinate me, the more I shrink from knowing you. It seems to meI could not then talk to you as I do now, although if we met unexpectedly I could not behave to you as to a stranger.
“At present I prefer to think of you from a distance, to hear you speak and to be at one with you in your music. I am really unhappy never to have had the opportunity of hearingFrancesca da Rimini; I am impatient for the appearance of the pianoforte arrangement.
“Forgive me all my effusions; they cannot be of any use to you; yet you will not regret that you have been able to infuse a little life—especially by such ideal ways and means—into one who, like myself, is so nearly at the end of her days as to be practically already dead.
“Now one more ‘last request,’ Peter Ilich. There is one particular number in yourOprichnikabout which I am wildly enthusiastic. If it is possible, please arrange this for me as a funeral march for four hands (pianoforte). I am sending you the opera in which I have marked the passages I should like you to arrange. If my request is tiresome, do not hesitate to refuse; I shall be regretful, but not offended. If you agree to it, take your own time, because it will be an indulgence I have no right to expect. Will you allow me to have your arrangements published, and if so, should I apply to Jurgenson or Bessel?
“Furthermore, allow me in future to drop all formalities of ‘Dear Sir,’ etc., in my letters to you; they are not in my style, and I shall be glad if you will write to me without any of this conventional politeness. You will not refuse me this favour?
“Yours, with devotion and respect,“N. F.
“P.S.—Do not forget to answer my first request.”
Tchaikovsky to N. F. von Meck.“Moscow,March16th(28th), 1877.“You are quite right, Nadejda Filaretovna, in thinking that I am able to understand your inward mind and temperament. I venture to believe that you have not made a mistake in considering me a kindred spirit. Just as youhave taken the trouble to study public opinion about me, I, too, have lost no opportunity of learning something about you and your manner of life. I have frequently been interested in you as a fellow-creature in whose temperament I recognised many features in common with my own. The fact that we both suffer from the same malady would alone suffice to draw us together. This malady is misanthropy; but a peculiar form of misanthropy, which certainly does not spring from hatred or contempt for mankind. People who suffer from this complaint do not fear the evil which others may bring them, so much as the disillusionment, that craving for the ideal, which follows upon every intimacy. There was a time when I was so possessed by this fear of my fellow-creatures that I stood on the verge of madness. The circumstances of my life were such that I could not possibly escape and hide myself. I had to fight it out with myself, and God alone knows what the conflict cost me!“I have emerged from the strife victorious, in so far that life has ceased to be unbearable. I was saved by work—work which was at the same time my delight. Thanks to one or two successes which have fallen to my share, I have taken courage, and my depression, which used often to drive me to hallucinations and insanity, has almost lost its power over me.“From all I have just said, you will understand I am not at all surprised that, although you love my music, you do not care to know the composer. You are afraid lest you should miss in my personality all with which your ideal imagination has endowed me. You are right. I feel that on closer acquaintance you would not find that harmony between me and my music of which you have dreamt.“Accept my thanks for all your expressions of appreciation for my music. If you only realised how good and comforting it is to a musician to know one soul feels so deeply and so intensely all that he experienced himself while planning and finishing his work! I am indeed grateful for your kind and cordial sympathy. I will not say what is customary under the circumstances: that I am unworthy of your praise. Whether I write well or ill, I write from an irresistible inward impulse. I speak in music because Ihave something to say. My work is ‘sincere,’ and it is a great consolation to find you value this sincerity.“I do not know if the march will please you.... if not, do not hesitate to say so. Perhaps, later on, I might be more successful.“I send you a cabinet photograph; not a very good one, however. I will be photographed again soon (it is an excruciating torture to me), and then I shall be very pleased to send you another portrait.”
Tchaikovsky to N. F. von Meck.
“Moscow,March16th(28th), 1877.
“You are quite right, Nadejda Filaretovna, in thinking that I am able to understand your inward mind and temperament. I venture to believe that you have not made a mistake in considering me a kindred spirit. Just as youhave taken the trouble to study public opinion about me, I, too, have lost no opportunity of learning something about you and your manner of life. I have frequently been interested in you as a fellow-creature in whose temperament I recognised many features in common with my own. The fact that we both suffer from the same malady would alone suffice to draw us together. This malady is misanthropy; but a peculiar form of misanthropy, which certainly does not spring from hatred or contempt for mankind. People who suffer from this complaint do not fear the evil which others may bring them, so much as the disillusionment, that craving for the ideal, which follows upon every intimacy. There was a time when I was so possessed by this fear of my fellow-creatures that I stood on the verge of madness. The circumstances of my life were such that I could not possibly escape and hide myself. I had to fight it out with myself, and God alone knows what the conflict cost me!
“I have emerged from the strife victorious, in so far that life has ceased to be unbearable. I was saved by work—work which was at the same time my delight. Thanks to one or two successes which have fallen to my share, I have taken courage, and my depression, which used often to drive me to hallucinations and insanity, has almost lost its power over me.
“From all I have just said, you will understand I am not at all surprised that, although you love my music, you do not care to know the composer. You are afraid lest you should miss in my personality all with which your ideal imagination has endowed me. You are right. I feel that on closer acquaintance you would not find that harmony between me and my music of which you have dreamt.
“Accept my thanks for all your expressions of appreciation for my music. If you only realised how good and comforting it is to a musician to know one soul feels so deeply and so intensely all that he experienced himself while planning and finishing his work! I am indeed grateful for your kind and cordial sympathy. I will not say what is customary under the circumstances: that I am unworthy of your praise. Whether I write well or ill, I write from an irresistible inward impulse. I speak in music because Ihave something to say. My work is ‘sincere,’ and it is a great consolation to find you value this sincerity.
“I do not know if the march will please you.... if not, do not hesitate to say so. Perhaps, later on, I might be more successful.
“I send you a cabinet photograph; not a very good one, however. I will be photographed again soon (it is an excruciating torture to me), and then I shall be very pleased to send you another portrait.”
From N. F. von Meck.“March18th(30th), 1877.“Your march is so wonderful, Peter Ilich, that it throws me—as I hoped—into a state of blissful madness; a condition in which one loses consciousness of all that is bitter and offensive in life.... Listening to such music, I seem to soar above all earthly thoughts, my temples throb, my heart beats wildly, a mist swims before my eyes and my ears drink in the enchantment of the music. I feel that all is well with me, and I do not want to be reawakened. Ah, God, how great is the man who has power to give others such moments of bliss!”
From N. F. von Meck.
“March18th(30th), 1877.
“Your march is so wonderful, Peter Ilich, that it throws me—as I hoped—into a state of blissful madness; a condition in which one loses consciousness of all that is bitter and offensive in life.... Listening to such music, I seem to soar above all earthly thoughts, my temples throb, my heart beats wildly, a mist swims before my eyes and my ears drink in the enchantment of the music. I feel that all is well with me, and I do not want to be reawakened. Ah, God, how great is the man who has power to give others such moments of bliss!”
About the end of April, at a moment when Tchaikovsky found himself in great pecuniary straits, he received another commission from his benefactress. This time Frau von Meck asked for an original work for violin and pianoforte, and proposed a very extravagant fee in return.
TCHAIKOVSKY IN 1877TCHAIKOVSKY IN 1877
Tchaikovsky replied as follows:—
“May1st(13th), 1877.“Honoured Nadejda Filaretovna,—In spite of obstinate denials on the part of a friend who is well known to both of us,[49]I have good reason to suppose that your letter, which I received early this morning, is due to a well-intentioned ruse on his part. Even your earlier commissions awoke in me a suspicion that you had more than one reason for suggesting them: on the one hand, youreally wished to possess arrangements of some of my works; on the other—knowing my material difficulties—you desired to help me through them. The very high fees you sent me for my easy tasks forced me to this conclusion. This time I am convinced that the second reason is almost wholly answerable for your latest commission. Between the lines of your letter I read your delicacy of feeling and your kindness, and was touched by your way of approaching me. At the same time, in the depths of my heart, I felt such an intenseunwillingnessto comply with your request that I cannot answer you in the affirmative. I could not bear any insincerity or falsehood to creep into our mutual relations. This would undoubtedly have been the case had I disregarded my inward promptings, manufactured a composition for you without pleasure or inspiration, and received from you an unsuitable fee in return. Would not the thought have passed through your mind that I was ready to undertake any kind of musical work provided the fee was high enough? Would you not have had some grounds for supposing that, had you been poor, I should not have complied with your requests? Finally, our intercourse is marred by one painful circumstance—in almost all our letters the question of money crops up. Of course it is not a degradation for an artist to accept money for his trouble; but, besides labour, a work such as you now wish me to undertake demands a certain degree of what is called inspiration, and at the present moment this is not at my disposal. I should be guilty of artistic dishonesty were I to abuse my technical skill and give you false coin in exchange for true—only with a view to improving my pecuniary situation.“At the present moment I am absorbed in the symphony[50]I began during the winter. I should like to dedicate it to you, because I believe you would find in it an echo of your most intimate thoughts and emotions. Just now any other work would be a burden—work, I mean, that would demand a certain mood and change of thought. Added to this, I am in a very nervous, worried and irritable state, highly unfavourable to composition, and even my symphony suffers in consequence.”
“May1st(13th), 1877.
“Honoured Nadejda Filaretovna,—In spite of obstinate denials on the part of a friend who is well known to both of us,[49]I have good reason to suppose that your letter, which I received early this morning, is due to a well-intentioned ruse on his part. Even your earlier commissions awoke in me a suspicion that you had more than one reason for suggesting them: on the one hand, youreally wished to possess arrangements of some of my works; on the other—knowing my material difficulties—you desired to help me through them. The very high fees you sent me for my easy tasks forced me to this conclusion. This time I am convinced that the second reason is almost wholly answerable for your latest commission. Between the lines of your letter I read your delicacy of feeling and your kindness, and was touched by your way of approaching me. At the same time, in the depths of my heart, I felt such an intenseunwillingnessto comply with your request that I cannot answer you in the affirmative. I could not bear any insincerity or falsehood to creep into our mutual relations. This would undoubtedly have been the case had I disregarded my inward promptings, manufactured a composition for you without pleasure or inspiration, and received from you an unsuitable fee in return. Would not the thought have passed through your mind that I was ready to undertake any kind of musical work provided the fee was high enough? Would you not have had some grounds for supposing that, had you been poor, I should not have complied with your requests? Finally, our intercourse is marred by one painful circumstance—in almost all our letters the question of money crops up. Of course it is not a degradation for an artist to accept money for his trouble; but, besides labour, a work such as you now wish me to undertake demands a certain degree of what is called inspiration, and at the present moment this is not at my disposal. I should be guilty of artistic dishonesty were I to abuse my technical skill and give you false coin in exchange for true—only with a view to improving my pecuniary situation.
“At the present moment I am absorbed in the symphony[50]I began during the winter. I should like to dedicate it to you, because I believe you would find in it an echo of your most intimate thoughts and emotions. Just now any other work would be a burden—work, I mean, that would demand a certain mood and change of thought. Added to this, I am in a very nervous, worried and irritable state, highly unfavourable to composition, and even my symphony suffers in consequence.”
Tchaikovsky’s refusal did not offend Frau von Meck; on the contrary, she was deeply grateful for his honourable and straightforward explanation. The incident only served to strengthen the friendship between them, and the result of their closer and more outspoken intercourse was a remittance of 3,000 roubles to pay his debts. Having made herself his sole creditor, she now became his benefactress and patroness, and from this time forward took charge of his material welfare. But not only in this way did she warm and brighten the course of Tchaikovsky’s life; of greater value was the deep sympathy in which her generosity had its root, a sympathy which shows in every line of her letters.
“I am looking after you for my own sake,” she wrote. “My most precious beliefs and sympathies are in your keeping; your very existence gives me so much enjoyment, for life is the better for your letters and your music; finally, I want to keep you for the service of the art I adore, so that it may have no better or worthier acolyte than yourself. So, you see, my thought for your welfare is purely egotistical and, so long as I can satisfy this wish, I am happy and grateful to you for accepting my help.”
“I am looking after you for my own sake,” she wrote. “My most precious beliefs and sympathies are in your keeping; your very existence gives me so much enjoyment, for life is the better for your letters and your music; finally, I want to keep you for the service of the art I adore, so that it may have no better or worthier acolyte than yourself. So, you see, my thought for your welfare is purely egotistical and, so long as I can satisfy this wish, I am happy and grateful to you for accepting my help.”
To Anatol Tchaikovsky.“Gliebovo,June23rd(July 5th), 1877.“Dear Anatol,—You are right in supposing that I am hiding something from you, but you have made a false guess as to what this ‘something’ really is. Here is the whole matter. At the end of May an event took place which I kept from you and from all my family and friends, so that you should none of you worry yourselves with unnecessary anxieties as to whether I had done wisely or not. I wanted to get the business over and confessit afterwards. I am going to be married. I became engaged at the end of May, and meant to have the wedding early in July, without saying a word to anyone. Your letter shook my resolve. I could not avoid meeting you, and I felt I could not play a comedy of lies as to my reason for not being able to go to Kamenka. Besides I came to the conclusion that it was not right to get married without Dad’s blessing. So I decided to make a clean breast of it. The enclosed letter is for Dad. Do not worry about me. I have thought it over, and I am taking this important step in life with a quiet mind. You will realise that I am quite calm when I tell you—with the prospect of marriage before me—I have been able to write two-thirds of my opera.[51]My bride is no longer very young, but quite suitable in every respect, and possessed of one great attraction: she is in love with me. She is poor, and her name is Antonina Ivanovna Milioukov. I now invite you to my wedding. You and Kotek will be the sole witnesses of the ceremony. Ask father not to say a word about it to anyone. I will write to Sasha and to the rest of my brothers myself.”
To Anatol Tchaikovsky.
“Gliebovo,June23rd(July 5th), 1877.
“Dear Anatol,—You are right in supposing that I am hiding something from you, but you have made a false guess as to what this ‘something’ really is. Here is the whole matter. At the end of May an event took place which I kept from you and from all my family and friends, so that you should none of you worry yourselves with unnecessary anxieties as to whether I had done wisely or not. I wanted to get the business over and confessit afterwards. I am going to be married. I became engaged at the end of May, and meant to have the wedding early in July, without saying a word to anyone. Your letter shook my resolve. I could not avoid meeting you, and I felt I could not play a comedy of lies as to my reason for not being able to go to Kamenka. Besides I came to the conclusion that it was not right to get married without Dad’s blessing. So I decided to make a clean breast of it. The enclosed letter is for Dad. Do not worry about me. I have thought it over, and I am taking this important step in life with a quiet mind. You will realise that I am quite calm when I tell you—with the prospect of marriage before me—I have been able to write two-thirds of my opera.[51]My bride is no longer very young, but quite suitable in every respect, and possessed of one great attraction: she is in love with me. She is poor, and her name is Antonina Ivanovna Milioukov. I now invite you to my wedding. You and Kotek will be the sole witnesses of the ceremony. Ask father not to say a word about it to anyone. I will write to Sasha and to the rest of my brothers myself.”
To his father, I. P. Tchaikovsky.“Gliebovo,June23rd(July 5th), 1877.“Dear Father,—Your son Peter intends to marry. But as he must not be united without your blessing upon his new life, he writes to ask for it. My bride is poor, but a good, honourable woman, who is deeply attached to me. Dear Dad, you know a man does not rush thoughtlessly into marriage at my age, so do not be anxious. I am sure my future wife will do all she can to make my life peaceful and happy.... Take care of yourself, dear, and write to me at once. I kiss your hands.”
To his father, I. P. Tchaikovsky.
“Gliebovo,June23rd(July 5th), 1877.
“Dear Father,—Your son Peter intends to marry. But as he must not be united without your blessing upon his new life, he writes to ask for it. My bride is poor, but a good, honourable woman, who is deeply attached to me. Dear Dad, you know a man does not rush thoughtlessly into marriage at my age, so do not be anxious. I am sure my future wife will do all she can to make my life peaceful and happy.... Take care of yourself, dear, and write to me at once. I kiss your hands.”
To N. F. von Meck.“Moscow,July3rd(15th), 1877.“First of all I must tell you that at the end of May I became engaged, to my own surprise. This is how itcame about. One day I received a letter from a girl whom I had already seen and met. I learnt from this letter that for a long time past she had honoured me with her love. The letter was so warm and sincere that I decided to answer it, which I had always carefully avoided doing in other cases of the kind. Without going into the details of this correspondence, I will merely say that I ended by accepting her invitation to visit her. Why did I do this? Now it seems as though some hidden force drew me to this girl. When we met I told her again that I could only offer gratitude and sympathy in exchange for her love. But afterwards I began to reflect upon the folly of my proceedings. If I did not care for her, if I did not want to encourage her affections, why did I go to see her, and where will all this end? From the letters which followed, I came to the conclusion that, having gone so far, I should make her really unhappy and drive her to some tragic end were I to bring about a sudden rupture. I found myself confronted by a painful dilemma: either I must keep my freedom at the expense of this woman’s ruin (this is no empty word, for she loved me intensely), or I must marry. I could but choose the latter course. Therefore I went one evening to my future wife and told her frankly that I could not love her, but that I would be a devoted and grateful friend; I described to her in detail my character, my irritability, my nervous temperament, my misanthropy—finally, my pecuniary situation. Then I asked her if she would care to be my wife. Her answer was, of course, in the affirmative. The agonies I have endured since that evening defy description. It is very natural. To live thirty-seven years with an innate antipathy to matrimony, and then suddenly, by force of circumstances, to find oneself engaged to a woman with whom one is not in the least in love—is very painful. To give myself time to consider and grow used to the idea, I decided not to upset my original plans, but to spend a month in the country just the same. I did so, and the quiet, rural life among congenial friends, surrounded by beautiful scenery, has had a very beneficial effect. I consoled myself with the thought that we cannot escape our fate, and there was something fatalistic in my meetingwith this girl. Besides, I know from experience that the terrible, agitatingunknownoften proves beneficial andvice versâ. How often we are disappointed in the happiness which we have expected and striven to attain! Let come what come may!“Now a few words as to my future wife. Her name is Antonina Ivanovna Milioukov, and she is twenty-eight. She is rather good-looking, and of spotless reputation. She keeps herself, and lives alone—from a feeling of independence—although she has a very affectionate mother. She is quite poor and of moderate education, but apparently very good and capable of a loyal attachment.“During the month of July I finished a large part of the opera, and might have accomplished more but for my agitated frame of mind. I have never regretted my choice of subject for an instant. I cannot understand how it is that you who love music cannot appreciate Poushkin, who, by the power of his genius, often oversteps the limitations of poetry and enters the illimitable sphere of music. This is no mere phrase. Apart from the substance and form of his verses, they have another quality, something in their sequence of sound which penetrates to our inmost soul. This ‘something’ is music.“Wish that I may not lose courage in the new life which lies before me. God knows I am filled with the best of intentions towards the future companion of my life, and if we are both unhappy I shall not be to blame. My conscience is clear. If I am marrying without love, it is because circumstances have left me no alternative. I gave way thoughtlessly to her first expressions of love; I ought never to have replied to them. But having once encouraged her affection by answering her letter and visiting her, I was bound to act as I have done. But, as I say, my conscience is clear: I have neither lied to her, nor deceived her. I told her what she could expect from me, and what she must not count upon receiving.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Moscow,July3rd(15th), 1877.
“First of all I must tell you that at the end of May I became engaged, to my own surprise. This is how itcame about. One day I received a letter from a girl whom I had already seen and met. I learnt from this letter that for a long time past she had honoured me with her love. The letter was so warm and sincere that I decided to answer it, which I had always carefully avoided doing in other cases of the kind. Without going into the details of this correspondence, I will merely say that I ended by accepting her invitation to visit her. Why did I do this? Now it seems as though some hidden force drew me to this girl. When we met I told her again that I could only offer gratitude and sympathy in exchange for her love. But afterwards I began to reflect upon the folly of my proceedings. If I did not care for her, if I did not want to encourage her affections, why did I go to see her, and where will all this end? From the letters which followed, I came to the conclusion that, having gone so far, I should make her really unhappy and drive her to some tragic end were I to bring about a sudden rupture. I found myself confronted by a painful dilemma: either I must keep my freedom at the expense of this woman’s ruin (this is no empty word, for she loved me intensely), or I must marry. I could but choose the latter course. Therefore I went one evening to my future wife and told her frankly that I could not love her, but that I would be a devoted and grateful friend; I described to her in detail my character, my irritability, my nervous temperament, my misanthropy—finally, my pecuniary situation. Then I asked her if she would care to be my wife. Her answer was, of course, in the affirmative. The agonies I have endured since that evening defy description. It is very natural. To live thirty-seven years with an innate antipathy to matrimony, and then suddenly, by force of circumstances, to find oneself engaged to a woman with whom one is not in the least in love—is very painful. To give myself time to consider and grow used to the idea, I decided not to upset my original plans, but to spend a month in the country just the same. I did so, and the quiet, rural life among congenial friends, surrounded by beautiful scenery, has had a very beneficial effect. I consoled myself with the thought that we cannot escape our fate, and there was something fatalistic in my meetingwith this girl. Besides, I know from experience that the terrible, agitatingunknownoften proves beneficial andvice versâ. How often we are disappointed in the happiness which we have expected and striven to attain! Let come what come may!
“Now a few words as to my future wife. Her name is Antonina Ivanovna Milioukov, and she is twenty-eight. She is rather good-looking, and of spotless reputation. She keeps herself, and lives alone—from a feeling of independence—although she has a very affectionate mother. She is quite poor and of moderate education, but apparently very good and capable of a loyal attachment.
“During the month of July I finished a large part of the opera, and might have accomplished more but for my agitated frame of mind. I have never regretted my choice of subject for an instant. I cannot understand how it is that you who love music cannot appreciate Poushkin, who, by the power of his genius, often oversteps the limitations of poetry and enters the illimitable sphere of music. This is no mere phrase. Apart from the substance and form of his verses, they have another quality, something in their sequence of sound which penetrates to our inmost soul. This ‘something’ is music.
“Wish that I may not lose courage in the new life which lies before me. God knows I am filled with the best of intentions towards the future companion of my life, and if we are both unhappy I shall not be to blame. My conscience is clear. If I am marrying without love, it is because circumstances have left me no alternative. I gave way thoughtlessly to her first expressions of love; I ought never to have replied to them. But having once encouraged her affection by answering her letter and visiting her, I was bound to act as I have done. But, as I say, my conscience is clear: I have neither lied to her, nor deceived her. I told her what she could expect from me, and what she must not count upon receiving.”
Tchaikovsky sent a similar intimation to his sister at Kamenka, and to his brother Modeste. As he had anticipated, his father was the only person who really rejoiced at the news. He replied as follows:—
From I. P. Tchaikovsky.“Pavlovsk,June27th(July9th), 1877.“My dear Son Peter,—Toly gave me your letter in which you ask for my blessing upon your marriage. This news delighted me so that I was ready to jump for joy. God be praised! The Lord’s blessing be upon you! I have no doubt that your chosen bride is equally worthy of the same good wishes which your father—an old man of eighty-three—and all your family bestow upon you; and not your family only, but all who have come in contact with you.“Is it not so, dear Antonina Ivanovna? After yesterday you must give me leave to call you my God-sent daughter, and to bid you love your chosen husband, for he is indeed worthy of it. And you, dear bridegroom, let me know the day and hour of your wedding, and I will come myself (if you agree to it) to give you my blessing....”
From I. P. Tchaikovsky.
“Pavlovsk,June27th(July9th), 1877.
“My dear Son Peter,—Toly gave me your letter in which you ask for my blessing upon your marriage. This news delighted me so that I was ready to jump for joy. God be praised! The Lord’s blessing be upon you! I have no doubt that your chosen bride is equally worthy of the same good wishes which your father—an old man of eighty-three—and all your family bestow upon you; and not your family only, but all who have come in contact with you.
“Is it not so, dear Antonina Ivanovna? After yesterday you must give me leave to call you my God-sent daughter, and to bid you love your chosen husband, for he is indeed worthy of it. And you, dear bridegroom, let me know the day and hour of your wedding, and I will come myself (if you agree to it) to give you my blessing....”
Of all Tchaikovsky’s family, Anatol was the only one able to go to Moscow, and he arrived too late to prevent his brother from taking the rash and foolish step he had decided upon.
The marriage took place on July 6th (18th).
I shall not attempt to follow step by step the whole sad story of my brother’s marriage. First of all, I do not possess the necessary sense of impartiality; secondly, I have no evidence for the other side of the case, nor any hope of procuring it in the future; and thirdly, I do not wish to hurt the legitimate sensitiveness of several people still living, I can only say that from the first hour of his married life Tchaikovsky had to pay the penalty of his rash and ill_considered act and was profoundly miserable.
On the evening of the wedding-day the newly married couple left for St. Petersburg and returned to Moscow at the end of a week. They then paid a short visit to the bride’s mother, who lived in the country, after which it wassettled that Tchaikovsky should go alone to Kamenka, while his wife prepared the new home in Moscow.
On July 26th (August 7th) he wrote to N. F. von Meck: “I leave in an hour’s time. A few days longer, and I swear I should have gone mad.”
To N. F. von Meck.“Kamenka,August2nd(14th), 1877.“If I were to say that I had returned to my normal condition, it would not be true. But this is impossible. Only time can cure me, and I have no doubt that gradually I shall become reconciled. I am quiet here, and begin to look the future in the face without fear. One thing annoys me; I am absolutely incapable of taking up my work. Yet it would be the finest remedy for my morbid state of mind. I must hope that the hunger for work will return ere long.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Kamenka,August2nd(14th), 1877.
“If I were to say that I had returned to my normal condition, it would not be true. But this is impossible. Only time can cure me, and I have no doubt that gradually I shall become reconciled. I am quiet here, and begin to look the future in the face without fear. One thing annoys me; I am absolutely incapable of taking up my work. Yet it would be the finest remedy for my morbid state of mind. I must hope that the hunger for work will return ere long.”
To N. F. von Meck.“August11th(23rd), 1877.“I am much better.... I feelsureI shall now triumph over my difficult and critical situation. I must struggle againstmy feeling of estrangementfrom my wife and try to keep all her good qualities in view. For undoubtedly she has good qualities.“I have so far improved that I have taken in hand the orchestration ofyoursymphony. One of my brothers, whose judgment I value, is very pleased with such parts of it as I have played to him. I hopeyouwill be equally pleased. That is the chief thing.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“August11th(23rd), 1877.
“I am much better.... I feelsureI shall now triumph over my difficult and critical situation. I must struggle againstmy feeling of estrangementfrom my wife and try to keep all her good qualities in view. For undoubtedly she has good qualities.
“I have so far improved that I have taken in hand the orchestration ofyoursymphony. One of my brothers, whose judgment I value, is very pleased with such parts of it as I have played to him. I hopeyouwill be equally pleased. That is the chief thing.”
To N. F. von Meck.“Kamenka,August12th(24th), 1877.“You are right, Nadejda Filaretovna, there are times in life when one must fortify oneself to endure and create for oneself some kind of joy, however shadowy. Here is a case in point: either live with people and know that you are condemned to every kind of misery, or escape somewhere and isolate yourself from every possibility of intercourse,which, for the most part, only leads to pain and grief. My dream has always been to work as long as I had power to do so, and when I felt convinced that I could do no more, to hide myself somewhere, far away from the strife, and look on at the agitations of the human ant-hill. This dream of being at rest in some remote corner has been the great consolation and goal of my life. Now, by my own act, I have deprived myself of all hope of ever reaching this harbour of refuge.... My new tie forces me into the arena of life—there is no escape from it. As you say, there is nothing to be done, but to set to and create some artificial happiness....“Our symphony progresses. The first movement will give me a great deal of trouble as regards orchestration. It is very long and complicated; at the same time I consider it the best movement. The three remaining movements are very simple, and it will be pleasant and easy to orchestrate them. The Scherzo will have quite a new orchestral effect, from which I expect great things. At first only the string orchestra is heard, always pizzicato. In the trio the wood-wind plays by itself, and at the end of the Scherzo all three groups of instruments join in a short phrase. I think this effect will be interesting.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Kamenka,August12th(24th), 1877.
“You are right, Nadejda Filaretovna, there are times in life when one must fortify oneself to endure and create for oneself some kind of joy, however shadowy. Here is a case in point: either live with people and know that you are condemned to every kind of misery, or escape somewhere and isolate yourself from every possibility of intercourse,which, for the most part, only leads to pain and grief. My dream has always been to work as long as I had power to do so, and when I felt convinced that I could do no more, to hide myself somewhere, far away from the strife, and look on at the agitations of the human ant-hill. This dream of being at rest in some remote corner has been the great consolation and goal of my life. Now, by my own act, I have deprived myself of all hope of ever reaching this harbour of refuge.... My new tie forces me into the arena of life—there is no escape from it. As you say, there is nothing to be done, but to set to and create some artificial happiness....
“Our symphony progresses. The first movement will give me a great deal of trouble as regards orchestration. It is very long and complicated; at the same time I consider it the best movement. The three remaining movements are very simple, and it will be pleasant and easy to orchestrate them. The Scherzo will have quite a new orchestral effect, from which I expect great things. At first only the string orchestra is heard, always pizzicato. In the trio the wood-wind plays by itself, and at the end of the Scherzo all three groups of instruments join in a short phrase. I think this effect will be interesting.”
To N. F. von Meck.“Kamenka,August30th(September11th), 1877.“The weather grows more and more autumnal. The fields are bare, and it is time I took my departure. My wife writes that our rooms are now ready....”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Kamenka,August30th(September11th), 1877.
“The weather grows more and more autumnal. The fields are bare, and it is time I took my departure. My wife writes that our rooms are now ready....”
To N. F. von Meck.“Moscow,September12th(24th), 1877.“I have not yet been to the Conservatoire. My classes only begin to-day. The arrangements of our home leave nothing to be desired. My wife has done all she possibly could to please me. It is really a comfortable and pretty home. All is clean, new and artistic.“The orchestration of the first movement of our symphony is quite finished. Now I shall give myself a few days togrow used to my new life. In any case the symphony will not be ready before the end of the winter.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Moscow,September12th(24th), 1877.
“I have not yet been to the Conservatoire. My classes only begin to-day. The arrangements of our home leave nothing to be desired. My wife has done all she possibly could to please me. It is really a comfortable and pretty home. All is clean, new and artistic.
“The orchestration of the first movement of our symphony is quite finished. Now I shall give myself a few days togrow used to my new life. In any case the symphony will not be ready before the end of the winter.”
To Anatol Tchaikovsky.“Moscow,September12th(24th), 1877.“ ... My wife came to meet me. Poor woman, she has gone through some miserable experiences in getting our home ready; while awaiting my arrival she has had to change her cook twice. She had to take one into the police court. Twice she was robbed, and for the last few days she has been obliged to remain at home all day, not daring to leave the place in the care of the cook. But our home pleases me; it is pretty, comfortable, and not altogether wanting in luxury.”
To Anatol Tchaikovsky.
“Moscow,September12th(24th), 1877.
“ ... My wife came to meet me. Poor woman, she has gone through some miserable experiences in getting our home ready; while awaiting my arrival she has had to change her cook twice. She had to take one into the police court. Twice she was robbed, and for the last few days she has been obliged to remain at home all day, not daring to leave the place in the care of the cook. But our home pleases me; it is pretty, comfortable, and not altogether wanting in luxury.”
Shortly after writing this letter Tchaikovsky’s health broke down. According to a telegram which he sent to Petersburg, he left Moscow suddenly on September 24th (October 6th) in a condition bordering upon insanity.
Anatol says that his brother was scarcely recognisable when he met him on the platform of the Nicholas Station in Petersburg; his face had entirely changed in the course of a month. From the station he was taken to the nearest hotel, where, after a violent nervous crisis, he became unconscious, in which state he remained for forty-eight hours. When this crisis was over, the doctors ordered a complete change of life and scene as the sole chance of recovery. Anatol went immediately to Moscow, hastily arranged his brother’s affairs, left his wife to the care of her family, for the time being, and then took the invalid away as soon as possible.
Not once in the whole course of his life—neither at the time nor subsequently—did Tchaikovsky, in speech or writing, lay the blame for this unhappy incident upon his wife. Following his example, therefore, I cannot complete this chapter without exonerating her from every shadow of responsibility for all that happened.
Tchaikovsky himself declared that “she always behaved honourably and with sincerity,” never consciously deceived him and was “unwittingly and involuntarily” the cause of all her husband’s misery.
As to Tchaikovsky’s treatment of his wife, the sternest judge must admit that it was frank and honourable and that he did not attempt to mislead her. Both of them believed, under the influence of an abnormal and fatal exaltation, that, after self-revelation, they understood each other and were honestly convinced they would get on together. It was not until they entered into closer relationship that they discovered, to their horror, they were far from having told each other all; that a gulf of misunderstanding lay between them which could never be bridged over, that they had been wandering as it were in a dream, and had unintentionally deceived each other.
Under the circumstances separation was the only solution of the difficulty, the sole method of regaining their peace of mind and of saving Tchaikovsky’s life.
On October 3rd (15th) the composer reached Berlin, accompanied by his brother Anatol. The dangerous crisis in his illness was over and a slow convalescence began.
Tchaikovsky selected Clarens as his first resting-place, and settled down at the Villa Richelieu on the shore of the Lake of Geneva.
He had only money enough to last five or six weeks; but at the end of that time he had no inclination—nor was he in a condition—to return to his work in Moscow. His constitution was so shaken and impaired by his nervous illness that at least a year’s rest was necessary for his complete restoration.
There was some hope of getting a little money in thewinter, if the Principal of the Petersburg Conservatoire, Karl Davidov, appointed him delegate for the forthcoming exhibition in Paris. But the chance was very uncertain, and even if he were nominated, the office was not very well suited to Tchaikovsky, because it demanded not only great energy, but constant social intercourse, whereas the condition of his health needed complete repose.
All the same, Tchaikovsky would have been glad of the appointment as affording the one means of remaining longer abroad.
This anxiety as to his future counteracted in some degree the benefit derived from the quiet and solitude of Clarens. To escape from his difficulties Tchaikovsky was obliged to have recourse to the kindness of Nicholas Rubinstein and Nadejda von Meck.
Rubinstein interested himself in the matter of the delegation, and wrote as follows:—