PART IV

I

1877-1878

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 something of 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 a devoted 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 (5_d._) 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 up going 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._

“_December_ 18_th_ (30_th_), 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._

“_December_ 19_th_ (31_st_), 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, _February_ 15_th_ (27_th_), 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 say that 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._ 16_th_ (28_th_), 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, _March_ 7_th_ (19_th_), 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 your photographs. 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 Tempest_ was 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 of _The Tempest_ I 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 me I 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 hearing _Francesca 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 your _Oprichnik_ about 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, _March_ 16_th_ (28_th_), 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 you have 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 I have

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._

“_March_ 18_th_ (30_th_), 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.

[Illustration: TCHAIKOVSKY IN 1877]

Tchaikovsky replied as follows:--

“_May_ 1_st_(13_th_), 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, you really

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 intense _unwillingness_ to 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.”

II

_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

“GLIEBOVO, _June_ 23_rd_ (July 5_th_), 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 confess it 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, _June_ 23_rd_ (July 5_th_), 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, _July_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 1877.

“First of all I must tell you that at the end of May I became

engaged, to my own surprise. This is how it came 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

meeting with this girl. Besides, I know from experience that the

terrible, agitating _unknown_ often proves beneficial and _vice

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, _June_ 27_th_ (_July_ 9_th_), 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 was settled 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, _August_ 2_nd_ (14_th_), 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._

“_August_ 11_th_ (23_rd_), 1877.

“I am much better.... I feel _sure_ I shall now triumph over my

difficult and critical situation. I must struggle against _my

feeling of estrangement_ from 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

of _your_ symphony. One of my brothers, whose judgment I value, is

very pleased with such parts of it as I have played to him. I hope

_you_ will be equally pleased. That is the chief thing.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“KAMENKA, _August_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 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, _August_ 30_th_ (_September_ 11_th_), 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, _September_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 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 to grow used to my

new life. In any case the symphony will not be ready before the end

of the winter.”

_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

“MOSCOW, _September_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 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.

III

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 the winter, 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:--

“It has been decided to send you all the money which is left over

from the expenses of your classes in monthly instalments. Try to

calm yourself; take care of your health, and fear nothing. You are

far too highly valued as a musician to be compromised by secondary

considerations.”

Tchaikovsky replied, expressing his gratitude and reporting the progress

of his opera.

“The first act of _Eugene Oniegin_ will soon be in your hands,” he

writes. “I shall be very happy if it pleases you. I composed it

with great enthusiasm. A performance at the Conservatoire is just

my ideal. The opera is intended for a modest setting and a small

theatre.”

_From Nicholas Rubinstein to Tchaikovsky._

“FRIEND PETER,--I am very glad you are getting better and gradually

returning to work. I am full of curiosity about _Eugene Oniegin_.

Be so kind as to assign the parts. Even if they have to be changed

afterwards, it is important to know your views. Can I also count on

the Symphony?

“I have seen Frau von Meck. We talked a great deal about you. I

think she will send you another commission, or money direct.”

Rubinstein was not mistaken. Even before she received Tchaikovsky’s

letter asking for assistance, Nadejda von Meck had decided to take upon

herself the responsibility of his maintenance, and asked him to accept

an annual allowance of 6,000 roubles (£600). In reply to his request,

which was accompanied by many apologies, she wrote as follows:--

“.... Are we really such strangers? Do you not realise how much I

care for you, how I wish you all good? In my opinion it is not the

tie of sex or kindred which gives these rights, but the sense of

mental and spiritual communion. You know how many happy moments you

have given me, how grateful I am, how indispensable you are to me,

and how necessary it is that you should remain just as you were

created; consequently what I do is not done for your sake, but for

my own. Why should you spoil my pleasure in taking care of you, and

make me feel that I am not very much to you after all? You hurt me.

If I wanted something from you, of course you would give it me--is

it not so? Very well, then we cry quits. Do not interfere with my

management of your domestic economy, Peter Ilich.

“I do not know what you think, but for my part I would rather we

kept our friendship and correspondence to ourselves. Therefore in

talking to Nicholas Rubinstein I spoke of you as a complete

stranger; I inquired, as though quite in the dark, your reasons for

leaving Moscow, where you had gone, how long you were going to

remain away, and so on. He was anxious, I thought, to make me take

a warmer interest in you, but I kept to the part of a disinterested

admirer of your talents.”

Thus, thanks to his new friend, Tchaikovsky became an independent man as

regards his material welfare, and a new life opened out before him,

such as hitherto he had only imagined as an unrealisable dream. He had

attained that freedom of existence which was indispensable to his

creative activity. Now, at last, he was at liberty to employ his time as

he pleased, and to arrange his manner of living to suit his own tastes

and requirements.

IV

In consequence of this entire change of circumstances, Tchaikovsky

abandoned his original idea of spending the whole winter in Clarens. In

thanking his benefactress for her generous help, he says:--

“I shall only remain here until--thanks to you--I receive the

wherewithal to go to Italy, which calls me with all its force. It

is very quiet and very beautiful here, but somewhat depressing.

“You say liberty is unattainable, and that there is no method of

procuring it. Perhaps it is impossible to be completely free; but

even this comparative freedom is the greatest joy to me. At least I

can work. Work was impossible in the vicinity of one who was so

much to me externally, while remaining a stranger to my inner life.

I have been through a terrible ordeal, and it is marvellous that my

soul still lives, though deeply wounded.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“CLARENS, _October_ 25_th_ (_November_ 6_th_), 1877.

“Your letter is so warm and friendly that it would suffice of

itself to reawaken in me the desire for life, and to help me to

endure all its miseries. I thank you for everything, my invaluable

friend. I do not suppose that I shall ever have an opportunity of

proving that I am ready to make any sacrifice for you in return; I

think you will never be compelled by circumstances to demand any

supreme service from my friendship; therefore I can only please

and serve you by means of my music. Nadejda Filaretovna, every note

which comes from my pen in future is dedicated to you! To you I owe

this reawakened love of work, and I will never forget for a moment

that you have made it possible to carry on my career. Much, much

still remains for me to do! Without false modesty, I may tell you

that all I have done so far seems to me poor and imperfect compared

with what I _can_, _must_, and _will_ do in the future.

“I like my present quarters very well. Apart from the glorious view

of the lake and mountains of Savoy, with the Dent du Midi, which I

get from my windows, I am pleased with the villa itself.... But I

must confess I am continually haunted by the thought of a long

visit to Italy, so that I have decided to start for Rome with my

brother about a fortnight hence. Afterwards we shall go on to

Naples or Sorrento. After a few days amid the mountains, have you

never had the yearning, from which I think no northerner ever

escapes, for wide horizons and the unbounded expanse of the

plains?... Gradually I am going back to my work, and I can now

definitely say that _our_ Symphony will be finished by December at

the latest, so you will be able to hear it this season. May this

music, which is so closely bound up with the thought of you, speak

to you and tell you that I love you with all my heart and soul, O

my best and incomparable friend!”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“CLARENS, _October_ 30_th_ (_November_ 11_th_), 1877.

“ ... Whenever I think calmly over all I have been through, I come

to the conclusion that there is a Providence who has specially

cared for me. Not only have I been saved from ruin--which seemed at

one time inevitable--but things are now well with me, and I see

ahead the dawn-light of happiness and success. As regards religion,

I must confess I have a dual temperament, and to this day I have

found no satisfactory solution of the problem. On the one hand, my

reason obstinately refuses to accept the dogmatic teaching either

of the orthodox Russian, or of any other Christian Church. For

instance, however much I may think about it, I can see no sense in

the doctrine of retribution and reward. How is it possible to draw

a hard-and-fast line between the sheep and the goats? What is to be

rewarded and what is to be punished? Equally impossible to me is

the belief in immortality. Here I am quite in accord with the

pantheistic view of immortality and the future life.

“On the other hand, my whole upbringing, customs of childhood, and

the poetical image of Christ and all that belongs to His teaching,

are so deeply implanted in me, that involuntarily I find myself

calling upon Him in my grief and thanking Him in my happiness.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“FLORENCE, _November_ 6_th_ (18_th_), 1877.

“I am ashamed, not without reason, to have to write you a

melancholy letter. At first I thought I would not write at all, but

the desire to talk with you a little got the upper hand. It is

impossible to be insincere with you, even when I have the best of

reasons for concealing my thoughts.

“We came here quite unexpectedly. I was so unwell in Milan that I

decided to remain a day here, which our tickets permit us to do. My

indisposition is not of such great importance. The real trouble is

my depression--a wearing, maddening depression, which never leaves

me for a moment. In Clarens, where I was living an absolutely quiet

life, I was often overcome by melancholy. Not being able to account

for these attacks of depression, I attributed them to the

mountains. What childishness! I persuaded myself that I need only

cross the frontiers of Italy, and a life of perfect happiness would

begin! Nonsense! Here I feel a hundred times worse. The weather is

glorious, the days are as warm as in July, there is something to

see, something to distract me, and yet I am tormented by an

overwhelming, gigantic depression. How to account for it I do not

know. If I had not asked all my correspondents to address their

letters to me in Rome, I think I should not travel any further. I

must get as far as that, it is clear, but I am not fit just now for

a tourist’s life.... I have not come here for sight-seeing, but to

cure myself by work. At the present moment it seems to me

impossible to work in Italy, especially in Rome. I regret

_terribly_ the peace and quiet of Clarens, where I had made a

successful effort to return to my work, and I am seriously

wondering whether it might not be better to return there.... What

will become of me when my brother goes? I cannot think of that

moment without a shudder. But I neither wish, nor am I able, to

return to Russia. You see how I keep turning in this _cercle

vicieux_....”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“ROME, _November_ 7_th_ (19_th_), 1877.

“ ... We arrived in Rome quite early this morning. This time I

entered the famous city with a troubled heart. How true it is that

we do not draw our happiness from our surroundings, but from our

inward being! This has been sufficiently proved by my present tour

in Italy.

“ ... I am still quite a sick man. I cannot bear the least noise as

yet. Yesterday in Florence, and to-day in Rome, every vehicle that

rolled by threw me into an insane rage; every sound, every cry

exasperated my nerves. The crowds of people flowing through the

narrow streets annoy me so that every stranger I meet seems to me

an enemy. Now, for the first time, I begin to realise the folly of

my journey to Rome. My brother and I have just been to St. Peter’s:

all I have gained by it is overwhelming physical fatigue. Of the

noisy streets, the bad air, the dirt, I will say nothing. I know my

morbid condition makes me see only the bad side of Rome in all its

hatefulness, while the beauties of the city seem veiled to my eyes;

but this is a poor consolation. Yesterday I discussed with my

brother what we should do next, and came to this conclusion. It is

evident that I cannot continue my tour. If I feel ill in Florence

and Rome, it will be just as bad in Naples. A fortnight hence my

brother must leave me; in order somewhat to prolong our time

together, I have decided to accompany him as far as Vienna. I have

also come to the conclusion that I ought not to be left alone.

Therefore I have sent for my servant, who is leading an idle life

in Moscow. I shall await his coming in Vienna, and then return to

Clarens, where I think of staying.

“To-morrow, or the next day, we shall go to Venice for a few days

before starting for Vienna. Venice is quiet, and I can work there;

and it is very important I should do so....”

_To Nicholas Rubinstein._

“ROME, _November_ 8_th_ (20_th_), 1877.

“I am agitated by uncertainty as to whether the first act[52] will

please you or not. Pray do not give it up on your first

impressions: they are often so deceptive. I wrote that music with

such love and delight! The following numbers were specially dear to

me: (1) the first duet behind the scenes, which afterwards becomes

the quartet; (2) Lensky’s Arioso; (3) the scene in Tatiana’s room;

(4) the chorus of maidens. If you can tell me it pleases you and

Albrecht (I value his opinion so highly), it will make me very

happy. As soon as I have finished the first scene of the second act

and sent it to you, I will attack the Symphony with all zeal, and

so I implore you to keep a place for it at the Symphony Concerts.

“I thank you, dear friend, with all my heart for the many things

you have done for me, and for your kind letter, in which I

recognise with joy your loyal friendship. But, for God’s sake, do

not summon me back to Moscow before next September. I know I shall

find nothing there but terrible mental suffering.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“VENICE, _November_ 11_th_ (23_rd_), 1877.

“DEAR NADEJDA FILARETOVNA,--The last day in Rome compensated for

all my troubles, but it was also rather fatiguing. In the morning I

had to go in search of the Symphony (No. 4), which had been sent

from Clarens. I inquired at the post office, at the station, at

various other offices. Everywhere they received me politely, looked

for the parcel, and failed to find it. Imagine my anxiety. If the

Symphony had been lost, I should never have had the energy to

rewrite it from memory. At last I requested that it should be

diligently sought for, and--behold the parcel was discovered! It

was a great comfort.

“Afterwards I visited the Capitol with my brother. I found much

that was interesting here and which touched me directly--for

instance, the statue of the Dying Gladiator. I cannot say the same

of the Venus of the Capitol, which still leaves me quite cold, as

on my first visit. At two o’clock we went to the Palace of the

Cæsars, and looked into the Villa Borghese as we passed, to see the

collection of pictures. Here, too, I was capable of taking in some

artistic impressions. One picture particularly attracted my

attention--the Death of a Saint (Jerome, if I am not mistaken), by

Domenicchino. But I must tell you frankly that I am no enthusiastic

amateur of pictures, and I lack any profound insight into the

subtleties of painting or sculpture. I soon get tired in the

galleries. Among a number of pictures there are seldom more than

two or three which remain firmly fixed in my mind’s eye; but these

I study in every detail, and endeavour to enter into their spirit,

while I run through the others with a superficial glance....

Besides the picture by Domenicchino, some of Raphael’s pleased me

very much, especially the portraits of Cæsar Borgia and Sixtus

V.[53]

“The grandest, the most overpowering, of all the sights I saw was

the Palace of the Cæsars. What gigantic proportions, what wealth of

beauty! At every step we are reminded of the past; we endeavour to

reconstruct it and the further we explore it, the more vivid are

the gorgeous pictures which crowd the imagination. The weather was

lovely. Every moment we came upon some fresh glimpse of the city,

which is as dirty as Moscow, but far more picturesquely situated,

and possessing infinitely greater historical interest. Quite close

by are the Colosseum and the ruined Palace of Constantine.[54] It

is all so grand, so beautiful, so rare! I am very glad to have left

Rome under this ineffaceable impression. I wanted to write to you

in the evening, but after packing I was too tired to move a finger.

“At six o’clock this morning we arrived in Venice. Although I had

not been able to close my eyes all night, and although it was still

quite dark and cold when we got here, I was charmed with the

characteristic beauty of the place. We are staying at the Grand

Hôtel. In front of our windows is S. Maria della Salute, a

graceful, pretty building on the Canale Grande.”

_To N. F. Von Meck._

“VENICE, _November_ 16_th_ (28_th_), 1877.

“ ... I have received a very comforting letter from my sister, and

am busy with the orchestration of the first scene of the second act

of my _Oniegin_.

“Venice is a fascinating city. Every day I discover some fresh

beauty. Yesterday we went to the Church of the Frati, in which,

among other art treasures, is the tomb of Canova. It is a marvel of

beauty! But what delights me most is the absolute quiet and absence

of all street noises. To sit at the open window in the moonlight

and gaze upon S. Maria della Salute, or over to the Lagoons on the

left, is simply glorious! It is very pleasant also to sit in the

Piazza di San Marco (near the Café) in the afternoon and watch the

stream of people go by. The little corridor-like streets please me,

too, especially in the evening when the windows are lit up. In

short, Venice has bewitched me. To-day I have been considering

whether it would not be better to stay here than at

Clarens--Clarens is quiet, cheap, and nice, but often dull; here

nature is less beautiful, but there is more life and movement, and

this is not of the kind that bewilders and confuses me....

To-morrow I will look for a furnished apartment. If I succeed in

finding one--I shall be just as undecided as before.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“VENICE, _November_ 18_th_ (30_th_), 1877.

“ ... The few days spent here have done me a great deal of good.

First, I have been able to work a little, so that my brother will

take the second scene of the opera--not quite finished--back to

Moscow with him. Secondly, I feel much better, although I was not

very well yesterday. It is only a slight chill, however. Thirdly, I

am quite in love with my beautiful Venice, and have decided to come

back here after parting from my brother in Vienna. Do not laugh,

for Heaven’s sake, at my uncertainty and vacillation. This time my

decision is irrevocable. I have gone so far as to take a very nice

apartment in the Riva dei Chiavoni.

“To-morrow I go to Vienna. On my return I will begin to work at the

Symphony--_our_ Symphony.

“Do you know what enrages me in Venice?--The vendors of the evening

papers. If I go for a walk across the Piazza di San Marco I hear on

every side, ‘_Il Tempo! La Gazzetta di Venezia! Vittoria dei

Turchi!_’ This ‘_Vittoria dei Turchi_’ is shouted every evening.

Why do they never cry one of our actual victories? Why do they try

to attract customers by fictitious Turkish successes? Can it be

that peaceful, beautiful Venice, who once lost her strength in

fighting these same Turks, is as full of hatred for Russia as all

the rest of Western Europe?

“Beside myself with indignation, I asked one of them, ‘Ma dovè la

vittoria?’ It turned out that a Turkish victory was really a

reconnaissance, in which the Russians had had about one hundred

casualties. ‘Is that a victory?’ I asked him angrily. I could not

understand his reply, but he cried no more ‘victories.’ One must

acknowledge the amiability, politeness, and obligingness of the

Italians. These qualities of theirs strike one very forcibly when

one comes direct from Switzerland, where the people are gloomy,

unfriendly, and disinclined for a joke. To-day, when I met the same

vendor of papers, he greeted me civilly, and instead of calling

out, ‘Grande vittoria dei Turchi’--with which words the others were

recommending their wares--he began to cry, ‘Gran combattimento a

Plevna, vittoria dei Russi!’ I knew he lied, but it pleased me all

the same, since it expressed the innate courtesy of a poor man.

“When will it end, this terrible war, in which such unimportant

results have to be won at such vast sacrifices? And yet it must be

fought out to the end, until the enemy is utterly vanquished. This

war cannot and must not be settled by compromises and side issues.

One or the other must give in. But how disgraceful it seems to

speak of such a life-and-death struggle while sitting in a bright,

comfortable, well-lit room, knowing neither hunger nor thirst, and

well protected from bad weather and all other physical deprivations

and discomforts! From moral and spiritual troubles we are none of

us safe. As to my own, I know one remedy and alleviation--my work.

But our strength is not always equal to our work. Oh, my God, if I

could only find strength and gladness of heart for new works! Just

now I can only go on patching up the old ones.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“VIENNA, _November_ 20_th_ (_December_ 2_nd_), 1877.

“ ... Yesterday evening found us in Vienna. The journey across the

Semmering left a fascinating impression. The weather was fine. On

the journey I read and re-read your letter, my dear friend.

“ ... Now it is evident that theoretically you have separated

yourself from the Church and from dogmatic belief. I perceive that

after years of thought you have framed for yourself a kind of

religio-philosophic catechism. But it strikes me you are mistaken

in supposing that parallel with the bulwarks of the old, strong

faith which you have overthrown, you have raised new ones, so sure

and reliable that you can afford to do away entirely with the old

lines of defence. Herein lies precisely the sceptic’s tragedy: once

he has broken the ties which bind him to traditional belief, he

passes from one set of philosophical speculations to another,

always imagining he will discover that inexhaustible source of

strength, so needful for the battle of life, with which the

believer is fully equipped. You may say what you please, but a

faith--not that which proceeds from mere deficiency of reasoning

power and is simply a matter of routine--but a faith founded on

reason and able to reconcile all misconceptions and contradictions

arising from intellectual criticism--such a belief is the supreme

happiness. A man who has both intellect and faith (and there are

many such) is clad, as it were, in a panoply of armour which can

resist all the blows of fate. You say you have fallen away from the

accepted forms of religion and have made a creed for yourself. But

religion is an element of reconciliation. Have you this sense of

being reconciled? I think not. For if you had, you would never have

written that letter from Como. Do you remember? That yearning, that

discontent, that aspiration towards some vague ideal, that

isolation from humanity, the confession that only in music--the

most ideal of all the arts--could you find any solution of these

agitating questions, all proved to me that your self-made religion

did not give that absolute peace of mind which is peculiar to those

who have found in their faith a ready-made answer to all those

doubts which torment a reflective and sensitive nature. And, do you

know--it seems to me you only care so much for my music because I

am as full of the ideal longing as yourself. Our sufferings are the

same. Your doubts are as strong as mine. We are both adrift in that

limitless sea of scepticism, seeking a haven and finding none.

“Are not these the reasons why my music touches you so closely? I

also think you are mistaken in calling yourself a realist. If we

define ‘realism’ as contempt for all that is false and

insincere--in life as in art--you are undoubtedly a ‘realist.’ But

when we consider that a true realist would never dream of seeking

consolation in music, as you do, it is evident you are far more of

an idealist. You are only a realist in the sense that you do not

care to waste time over sentimental, trivial, and aimless dreams,

like so many women. You do not care for phrases and empty words,

but that does not mean you are a realist. Impossible! Realism

argues a certain limited outlook, a thirst for truth which is too

quickly and easily satisfied. A realist does not actually feel

eager to comprehend the essential problems of existence; he even

denies the need of seeking truth, and does not believe in those

who are searching for reconcilement and religion, philosophy, or

art. Art--especially music--counts for nothing with the realist,

because it is the answer to a question which his narrow intellect

is incapable of posing. For these reasons I think you are wrong in

declaring you have enrolled under the banner of realism. You say

music only produces in you a pleasant, purely physical, sensation.

Against this I distinctly protest. You are deceiving yourself. Do

you really only care for music in the same way that I enjoy a

bottle of wine or a pickled gherkin? Nay, you love music as it

should be loved: that is to say, you give yourself up to it with

all your soul and let it exercise its magic spell all unconsciously

upon your spirit.

“Perhaps it may seem strange that I should doubt your

self-knowledge. But, to my mind, you are, first of all, a very good

woman, and have been so from your birth up. You honour what is good

because the aspiration towards the right, as well as the hatred of

lies and evil, is innate in you. You are clever, and consequently

sceptical. An intelligent man cannot help being a sceptic; at least

he must at some period of his life experience the most agonising

scepticism. When your innate scepticism led you to the negation of

tradition and dogma you naturally began to seek some way of escape

from your doubts. You found it _partly_ in the pantheistic point of

view, and _partly_ in music; but you discovered no perfect

reconcilement with faith. Hating all evil and falsehood, you

enclose yourself in your narrow family circle in order to shut out

the consciousness of human wickedness. You have done much good,

because, like your innate love of nature and art, this doing good

is an invincible craving of your soul. You help others, not in

order to purchase that eternal happiness which you neither quite

believe in nor quite deny, but because you are so made that you

cannot help doing good.”

_To N. F. Von Meck._

“VIENNA, _November_ 23_rd_ (_December_ 5_th_), 1877.

“The continuation of my letter:--

“My feeling about the Church is quite different to yours. For me

it still possesses much poetical charm. I very often attend the

services. I consider the liturgy of St. John Chrysostom one of the

greatest productions of art. If we follow the service very

carefully, and enter into the meaning of every ceremony, it is

impossible not to be profoundly moved by the liturgy of our own

Orthodox Church. I also love vespers. To stand on a Saturday

evening in the twilight in some little old country church, filled

with the smoke of incense; to lose oneself in the eternal

questions, _whence_, _why_, and _whither_; to be startled from

one’s trance by a burst from the choir; to be carried away by the

poetry of this music; to be thrilled with quiet rapture when the

Golden Gates of the Iconostasis are flung open and the words ring

out, ‘Praise the name of the Lord!’--all this is infinitely

precious to me! One of my deepest joys!

“Thus, from one point of view, I am firmly united to our Church.

From other standpoints I have--like yourself--long since lost faith

in dogma. The doctrine of retribution, for instance, seems to me

monstrous in its injustice and unreason. Like you, I am convinced

that if there is a future life at all, it is only conceivable in

the sense of the indestructibility of matter, in the pantheistic

view of the eternity of nature, of which I am only a microscopic

atom. I cannot believe in a personal, individual immortality.

“How shall we picture to ourselves eternal life after death? As

endless bliss? But such endless joy is inconceivable apart from its

opposite--eternal pain. I entirely refuse to believe in the latter.

Finally, I am not sure that life beyond death is desirable, for it

would lose its charm but for its alternations of joy and sorrow,

its struggle between good and evil, darkness and light. How can we

contemplate immortality as a state of eternal bliss? According to

our earthly conceptions, even bliss itself becomes wearisome if it

is never broken or interrupted. So I have come to the conclusion,

as the result of much thinking, that there is no future life. But

conviction is one thing, and feeling and instinct another. This

denial of immortality brings me face to face with the terrible

thought that I shall never, never, again set eyes upon some of my

dear dead. In spite of the strength of my _convictions_, I shall

never reconcile myself to the thought that my dear mother, whom I

loved so much, actually _is not_; that I shall never have any

chance of telling her how, after twenty-three years of separation,

she is as dear to me as ever.

“You see, my dear friend, I am made up of contradictions, and I

have reached a very mature age without resting upon anything

positive, without having calmed my restless spirit either by

religion or philosophy. Undoubtedly I should have gone mad but for

_music_. Music is indeed the most beautiful of all Heaven’s gifts

to humanity wandering in the darkness. Alone it calms, enlightens,

and stills our souls. It is not the straw to which the drowning man

clings; but a true friend, refuge, and comforter, for whose sake

life is worth living. Perhaps there will be no music in heaven.

Well, let us give our mortal life to it as long as it lasts.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“VIENNA, _November_ 26_th_ (_December_ 8_th_), 1877.

“I am still in Vienna. Yesterday I heard that my servant would

leave Moscow on Saturday. Although I have given him the most minute

instructions what to do on the journey, I have no idea how he will

cross the frontier, not knowing a single word of any foreign

language. I fancy there will be many tragic-comic episodes.

Sometimes I think it is not very wise to have a Russian servant.

And yet--I do not know what I should have done, since I cannot

endure complete solitude. Besides which I know it will be a comfort

to my brother to feel I am not quite alone. I have seen Wagner’s

_Walküre_. The performance was excellent. The orchestra surpassed

itself; the best singers did all within their powers--and yet it

was wearisome. What a Don Quixote is Wagner! He expends his whole

force in pursuing the impossible, and all the time, if he would but

follow the natural bent of his extraordinary gift, he might evoke a

whole world of musical beauties. In my opinion Wagner is a

symphonist by nature. He is gifted with genius which has wrecked

itself upon his tendencies; his inspiration is paralysed by

theories which he has invented on his own account, and which,

_nolens volens_, he wants to bring into practice. In his efforts to

attain _reality_, _truth_, and _rationalism_ he lets _music_ slip

quite out of sight, so that in his four latest operas it is, more

often than not, conspicuous by its absence. I cannot call that

music which consists of kaleidoscopic, shifting phrases, which

succeed each other without a break and never come to a close, that

is to say, never give the ear the least chance to rest upon musical

form. Not a single broad, rounded melody, nor yet one moment of

repose for the singer! The latter must always pursue the orchestra,

and be careful never to lose his note, which has no more importance

in the score than some note for the fourth horn. But there is no

doubt Wagner is a wonderful symphonist. I will just prove to you by

one example how far the symphonic prevails over the operatic style

in his operas. You have probably heard his celebrated

_Walkürenritt_? What a great and marvellous picture! How we

actually seem to see these fierce heroines flying on their magic

steeds amid thunder and lightning! In the concert-room this piece

makes an extraordinary impression. On the stage, in view of the

cardboard rocks, the canvas clouds, and the soldiers who run about

very awkwardly in the background--in a word, seen in this very

inadequate theatrical heaven, which makes a poor pretence of

realising the illimitable realms above, the music loses all its

powers of expression. Here the stage does not enhance the effect,

but acts rather like a wet blanket. Finally I cannot understand,

and never shall, why the _Nibelungen_ should be considered a

literary masterpiece. As a national saga--perhaps, but as a

libretto--distinctly not!

“Wotan, Brünnhilda, Fricka, and the rest are all so impossible, so

little human, that it is very difficult to feel any sympathy with

their destinies. And how little life! For three whole hours Wotan

lectures Brünnhilda upon her disobedience. How wearisome! And with

it all, there are many fine and beautiful episodes of a purely

symphonic description.

“Yesterday Kotek[55] and I looked through a new symphony by Brahms

(No. I in C minor), a composer whom the Germans exalt to the skies.

He has no charms for me. I find him cold and obscure, full of

pretensions, but without any real depths. Altogether it seems to me

Germany is deteriorating as regards music. I believe the French are

now coming to the front. Lately I have heard Délibes’ very clever

music--in its own style--to the ballet _Sylvia_, I became

acquainted with this music in the pianoforte arrangement some time

ago, but the splendid performance of it by the Vienna orchestra

quite fascinated me, especially the first part. _The Swan Lake_ is

poor stuff compared to _Sylvia_. Nothing during the last few years

has charmed me so greatly as this ballet of Délibes and _Carmen_.”

_To N. F. von Meek._

“VIENNA, _November_ 27_th_ (_December_ 9_th_), 1877.

“Kotek and my brother have gone to the Philharmonic concert, at

which my favourite Third Symphony of Schumann is being played. I

preferred to remain at home alone. I was afraid I might meet some

of the local musicians with whom I am acquainted. If only I came

across one, by to-morrow I should have to call on at least ten

musical ‘lions’, make their acquaintance, and express my gratitude

for their favours. (Last year, without any initiative on my part,

my overture _Romeo and Juliet_ was performed here and unanimously

hissed.) No doubt I should do much towards making my works known

abroad if I went the round of the influential people, paying visits

and compliments. But, Lord, how I hate that kind of thing! If you

could only hear the offensively patronising tone in which they

speak of Russian music! One reads in their faces: ‘Although you are

a Russian, my condescension is such that I honour you with my

attention.’ God be with them! Last year I met Liszt. He was

sickeningly polite, but all the while there was a smile on his lips

which expressed the above words pretty plainly. At the present

moment, as you will understand, I am less than ever in the mood to

be civil to these gentlemen.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“VIENNA, _November_ 29_th_ (_December_ 10_th_), 1877.

“My brother only left at a quarter to eleven. I will not go into my

feelings; you know what they are. My servant arrived yesterday at

five o’clock. I was quite wrong in supposing he would encounter any

serious difficulties on account of his ignorance of the language;

and equally wrong as to his first impressions of foreign lands. He

is, like all Russian peasants, as plucky as he is quick-witted, and

knows how to get out of the most difficult situations; consequently

he crossed the frontier as easily as though he had been in the

habit of making the journey frequently. As to his impressions, he

thinks the houses in Vienna far inferior to those in Moscow, and

Moscow altogether incomparably more beautiful. The news of the

capture of Plevna has made the separation from my brother more

bearable. When the waiter brought my early coffee yesterday, with

the announcement, ‘Plevna has fallen,’ I nearly embraced him! It

seems from the papers as though Austria was not best pleased, and

was rather aggrieved at the capitulation of the flower of the

Turkish army.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“VENICE, _December_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 1877.

“ ... There is one thing in your letter with which I cannot agree

in the least--your view of music. I particularly dislike the way in

which you compare music with a form of intoxication. I think this

is quite wrong. A man has recourse to wine in order to stupefy

himself and produce an illusion of well-being and happiness. But

this dream costs him very dear! The reaction is generally terrible.

But in any case wine can only bring a momentary oblivion of all our

troubles--no more. Has music a similar effect? Music is no

illusion, but rather a revelation. Its triumphant power lies in the

fact that it reveals to us beauties we find in no other sphere; and

the apprehension of them is not transitory, but a perpetual

reconcilement to life. Music enlightens and delights us. It is

extremely difficult to analyse and define the process of musical

enjoyment, but it has nothing in common with intoxication. It is

certainly not a physiological phenomenon. Of course the

nerves--therefore to some extent our physical organs--take part in

our musical impressions and, in this sense, music gives physical

delight: but you must own it is exceedingly difficult to draw a

hard-and-fast line between the physical and psychical functions;

for instance, thought is a physiological process in so far as it

pertains to the functions of the brain. But when all is said and

done, this is only a matter of words. If we both look upon the

enjoyment of music from opposite points of view, at least one thing

is certain: our love of it is equally strong, and that is

sufficient for me. I am glad you apply the word _divine_ to the art

to which I have dedicated my life.

“In your philosophy I altogether approve your views of good and

evil. These views are perhaps rather fatalistic, but full of

Christian charity towards your weak and sinful fellow-creatures.

You are quite right in saying that it is foolish to expect wisdom

and virtue from a person not endowed with these qualities. Here

again I hit upon the obvious difference between your personality

and mine; I have always compelled myself to regard the evil in

man’s nature as the inevitable negation of good. Taking this point

of view (which originates, if I am not mistaken, with Spinoza), I

ought never to feel anger or hatred. Actually, however, no moment

passes in which I am not prepared to lose my temper, to hate and

despise my fellow-creatures, just as though I was not aware that

each person acts according to the decree of fate. I know that you

are a stranger to the least feeling of spite or contempt. You elude

the blows aimed at you by others, and never retaliate. In short,

you carry your philosophy into your workaday life. I am different;

I think one thing and do another.

“I will just give you an instance. I have a friend called

Kondratiev; he is a very nice, pleasant fellow, with only one

fault--egotism. But he can cloak this failing under such charming,

gentlemanly disguises that it is impossible to be angry with him

for long. In September, when I was passing through the climax of my

suffering in Moscow, and was looking about in a paroxysm of

depression for someone to come to my aid, Kondratiev--who was then

living on his property in the Government of Kharkov--chanced to

write to me one of his usual kindly letters, assuring me of his

friendship. I did not want to reveal my state to my brothers at

that time, for fear of making them unhappy. My cup of misery was

overflowing. I wrote to Kondratiev, telling him of my terrible and

hopeless condition. The meaning of my letter, expressed between the

lines, was: ‘I am going under, save me! Rescue me, but be quick

about it!’ I felt sure that he, a well-to-do and independent man,

who was--as he himself declared--ready to make any sacrifice for

friendship’s sake, would immediately come to my assistance.

Afterwards you know what happened. Not until I was in Clarens did I

receive the answer to my letter, which had reached Moscow a week

after my flight from thence. In this reply Kondratiev said he was

sorry for my plight, and concluded with the following words: ‘Pray,

dear friend, pray. God will show you how to overcome your sad

condition.’ A cheap and simple way of getting out of the

difficulty! To-night I have been reading the third volume of

Thackeray’s splendid novel _Pendennis_. ‘The Major’ is a living

type, who frequently reminds me of Kondratiev. One episode recalled

my friend so vividly that I sprang out of bed, then and there, and

wrote him in terms of mockery which disclosed all my _temper_. When

I read your letter I felt ashamed. I wrote to him again, and asked

pardon for my unreasonable anger. See what a good influence you

have on me, dear friend! You are my Providence and my comforter!”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“VENICE, _December_ 9_th_ (21_st_), 1877.

“I am working diligently at the orchestration of _our_ Symphony,

and am quite absorbed in the task.

“None of my earlier works for orchestra have given me such trouble

as this; but on none have I expended such love and devotion. I

experienced a pleasant surprise when I began to work at it again.

At first I was only actuated by a desire to bring the unfinished

Symphony to an end, no matter what it cost me. Gradually, however,

I fell more and more under the spell of the work, and now I can

hardly tear myself away from it.

“Dear Nadejda Filaretovna, I may be making a mistake, but it seems

to me this Symphony is not a mediocre work, but the best I have

done so far. How glad I am that it is _ours_, and that, hearing it,

you will know how much I thought of you with every bar. Would it

ever have been finished but for you? When I was still in Moscow and

believed my end to be imminent, I made the following note upon the

first sketch, which I had quite forgotten until I came upon it just

now: ‘In case of my death I desire this book to be given to N. F.

von Meck.’ I wanted you to keep the manuscript of my last

composition. Now I am not only well, but have to thank you for

placing me in such a position that I can devote myself entirely to

my work, and I believe a composition is taking form under my pen

which will not be destined to oblivion. I may be wrong, however;

all artists are alike in their enthusiasm for their latest work. In

any case, I am in good heart now, thanks to the interest of the

Symphony. I am even indifferent to the various petty annoyances

inflicted upon me by the hotel-keeper. It is a wretched hotel; but

I do not want to leave until the question of my brother’s coming is

decided.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“VENICE, _December_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 1877.

“To-day I have received the pleasant news that Modeste and his nice

pupil are coming to join me. The boy’s father (Konradi) has only

consented to this arrangement on condition that I will go to some

place where the climate is suitable for his son. He suggests San

Remo, where there are plenty of comfortable hotels and pensions....

I have had a letter from my brother Anatol, which was very

comforting. They are just as fond of me as ever at Kamenka; I am

quite at rest on this score. I had a fancy that they only pitied

me, and this hurt me very deeply! Lately I have begun to receive

letters from them ... but my brother has reassured me that all the

folk at Kamenka--a group of beings who are very, very dear to

me--have forgiven me, and understand I acted blindly, and that my

fault was involuntary.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“MILAN, _December_ 16_th_ (28_th_), 1877.

“I only arrived here at four o’clock, and after a short walk in the

charming town went to the theatre in the evening. Unfortunately,

not to La Scala, which was closed to-night, but to Dal Verme, where

four years ago _A Life for the Tsar_ was produced. This evening

_Ruy Blas_, by Marcetti, was given. This opera has made a stir in

Italy for some years, so I hoped to hear something interesting. It

proved, however, to be a dull, commonplace imitation of Verdi, but

lacking the strength and sincere warmth which characterise the

coarse, but powerful, works of this composer. The performance was

worse than mediocre. Sometimes it awoke sad thoughts in my mind. A

young queen comes upon the stage, with whom everyone is in love.

The singer who took this part seemed very conscientious and did her

utmost. How far she was, however, from resembling a beautiful,

queenly woman who has the gift of charming every man she sets eyes

upon! And the hero, Ruy Blas! He did not sing so badly, but instead

of a handsome young hero, one saw--a lackey. Not the smallest

illusion! Then I thought of my own opera. Where shall I find a

Tatiana such as Poushkin dreamed of, and such as I have striven to

realise in music? Where is the artist who can approach the ideal

Oniegin, that cold-hearted dandy, impregnated to the marrow of his

bones with the fashionable notion of ‘good tone’? Where is there a

Lensky, that youth of eighteen, with the flowing locks and the

gushing and would-be-original manners of a poetaster _à la_

Schiller? How commonplace Poushkin’s charming characters will

appear on the stage, with all its routine, its drivelling

traditions, its veterans--male and female--who undertake without a

blush to play the parts of girl-heroines and beardless youths!

Moral: it is much pleasanter to write purely instrumental music

which involves fewer disappointments. What agony I have had to go

through during the performance of my operas, more especially

_Vakoula_! What I pictured to myself had so little resemblance to

what I actually saw on the stage of the Maryinsky Theatre! What an

Oxane, what a Vakoula! You saw them?

“After the opera to-night there was a very frivolous ballet with

transformation scenes, a harlequin, and all manner of astonishing

things; but the music was dreadfully commonplace. At the same time

it amused while the opera performance irritated me. Yet _Ruy Blas_

is an excellent operatic subject.

“From Venice I carried away a charming little song. I had two

pleasant musical experiences while in Italy. The first was in

Florence. I cannot remember whether I told you about it before. One

evening Anatol and I suddenly heard someone singing in the street,

and saw a crowd in which we joined. The singer was a boy about ten

or eleven, who accompanied himself on a guitar. He sang in a

wonderfully rich, full voice, with such warmth and finish as one

rarely hears, even among accomplished artists. The intensely tragic

words of the song had a strange charm coming from these childish

lips. The singer, like all Italians, showed an extraordinary

feeling for rhythm. This characteristic of the Italians interests

me very much, because it is directly contrary to our folksongs as

sung by the people.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“SAN REMO, _December_ 20_th_, 1877 (_January_ 1_st_, 1878).

“I have found an abode in the Pension “Joli”; four poorly furnished

rooms which form a little separate flat at a comparatively low

rent.

“The situation of San Remo is truly enchanting. The little town

lies on a hill, and is closely packed together. The lower town

consists almost exclusively of hotels, which are all overcrowded.

San Remo has become the fashion since our Empress stayed here.

To-day, without exaggeration, we are having summer weather. The sun

was almost unbearable, even without an overcoat. Everywhere one

sees olive trees, palms, oranges, lemons, heliotrope, jasmine--in

short, it is gloriously beautiful. And yet--shall I tell you or

not? When I walk by the sea I am seized with a desire to go home

and pour out all my yearning and agitations in a letter to you, or

to Toly. Why? Why should a simple Russian landscape, a walk through

our homely villages and woods, a tramp over the fields and steppes

at sunset, inspire me with such an intense love of nature that I

throw myself down on the earth and give myself up to the

enchantment with which all these humble things can fill me? Why? I

only observe the fact without attempting to explain it.

“I am very glad, however, that I continued my walk, for had I

listened to my inner promptings, you would have had to endure

another of my jeremiads. I know I shall feel quite differently

to-morrow, especially when I begin the finale of my Symphony; but

to-day? I am unequal to describing exactly what I feel, or what I

want. To return to Russia--no. It would be terrible to go back; for

I know I shall return a different man.

“And here?--There is no more lovely spot on earth than San Remo,

and yet I assure you that neither the palms, nor the oranges, nor

the beautiful blue sea, nor the mountains, make the impression upon

me which they might be expected to do. Consolation, peace,

well-being I can only draw from within. The success of the

Symphony, the consciousness that I am writing something good, will

reconcile me to-morrow to all the friction and worry of previous

days. The arrival of my brother will be a great joy. I have a

curious feeling towards nature--at least towards such a luxuriant

nature as surrounds me here. It dazzles me, gets on my nerves,

makes me angry. I feel at such moments as though I were going out

of my mind. But enough of all this ... really I am like the old

woman whose fate Poushkin describes in his fable of ‘The Fisherman

and the little Fish.’ The greater reason I have to be happy, the

more discontented I become. Since I left Russia a few dear souls

have shown me such proofs of affection as would suffice to make the

happiness of a hundred men. I see that as compared to millions of

people who are really unhappy, I should regard myself as a spoilt

child of fortune, and yet I am not happy, not happy, not happy.

There are moments of happiness. There is also that preoccupation

with my work which often possesses me so entirely that I forget

everything not directly connected with my art. But happiness does

not exist for me. However, here is my jeremiad after all; it seems

to have been inevitable! And it is ridiculous, besides, being in

some sort indelicate. But since once for all you are my best

friend, dear Nadejda Filaretovna, must I not tell you all, _all_

that goes on in my queer, morbid soul? Forgive me this. To-morrow I

shall regret it; to-day it has been a relief to grumble to you a

little. Do not attach too much importance to it. Do you know what I

sometimes feel on such days as this? It comes over me suddenly that

no one really loves me, or can love me, because I am a pitiable,

contemptible being. And I have not strength to put away such

thoughts ... but there--I am beginning my lamentations over again.

“I quite forgot to tell you, I spent a day in Genoa. In its way it

is a fine place. Do you know Santa Maria di Carignano, from the

tower of which one gets such a wonderful view over the whole town?

Extraordinarily picturesque!”

Shortly after Tchaikovsky left Russia for this tour abroad, he was asked

to represent his country as musical delegate at the Paris Exhibition.

The part was not suited to his nervous and retiring nature, but, as the

prospect seemed remote, he had not given a definite refusal, and by

December had almost entirely forgotten the proposal. Then, to his

extreme annoyance, he received a communication from the Minister of

Finance, nominating him to the post with a fee of 1,000 francs per

month. Tchaikovsky was thrown into the greatest consternation at this

news, as we may gather from the letters he wrote at this time.

“How shall I escape from this dilemma?” he says to Nadejda von

Meck. “I cannot prevent my brother’s coming here, because I have no

idea where he is just now.... Neither is there time for me to take

counsel with my friends. Who knows, perhaps it might be good for

me to come out of my cell and plunge, against my will, into the

stream of Paris life? But if only you knew what it would cost me!

It goes without saying that I have not been able to do a stroke of

work to-day. O God, when shall I eventually find peace?”

_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

“SAN REMO, _December_ 23_rd_, 1877 (_January_ 4_th_), 1878.

“ ... The day before yesterday I tried to imagine what you would

say if you were here. I believe you would advise me to go to Paris.

“But if you saw my miserable face to-day, and could watch me

striding up and down my room like a madman, you would certainly

say--Stay where you are! Now that I have decided to refuse the post

I shall be tormented with the thought that you, Nadejda von Meck,

and the others, will be vexed with me.... There is one thing I have

hidden from you; since the day you left I have taken several

glasses of brandy at night, and during the day I drink a good deal.

I cannot do without it.

“I never feel calm except when I have taken a little too much. I

have accustomed myself so much to this secret tippling that I feel

a kind of joy at the sight of the bottle I keep near me. I can only

write my letters after a nip. This is a proof that I am still out

of health.

“In Paris I should have to be drinking from morning till night to

be equal to all the excitement. My hope is in Modeste. A quiet life

in a pleasant spot and plenty of work--that is what I need. In a

word, for God’s sake do not be angry with me that I cannot go to

Paris.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“SAN REMO, _December_ 24_th_, 1877 (_January_ 5_th_, 1878).

“I have just received your letter, and must answer it fully. The

young Petersburg composers are very gifted, but they are all

impregnated with the most horrible presumptuousness and a purely

amateur conviction of their superiority to all other musicians in

the universe. The one exception, in later days, has been

Rimsky-Korsakov. He was also an ‘auto-dictator’ like the rest, but

recently he has undergone a complete change. By nature he is very

earnest, honourable, and conscientious. As a very young man he

dropped into a set which first solemnly assured him he was a

genius, and then proceeded to convince him that he had no need to

study, that academies were destructive to all inspiration and dried

up creative activity. At first he believed all this. His earliest

compositions bear the stamp of striking ability and a lack of

theoretical training. The circle to which he belonged was a mutual

admiration society. Each member was striving to imitate the work of

another, after proclaiming it as something very wonderful.

Consequently the whole set suffered from one-sidedness, lack of

individuality and mannerisms. Rimsky-Korsakov is the only one among

them who discovered, five years ago, that the doctrines preached by

this circle had no sound basis, that their mockery of the schools

and the classical masters, their denial of authority and of the

masterpieces, was nothing but ignorance. I possess a letter dating

from that time which moved me very deeply. Rimsky-Korsakov was

overcome by despair when he realised how many unprofitable years he

had wasted, and that he was following a road which led nowhere. He

began to study with such zeal that the theory of the schools soon

became to him an indispensable atmosphere. During one summer he

achieved innumerable exercises in counterpoint and sixty-four

fugues, ten of which he sent me for inspection. From contempt for

the schools, Rimsky-Korsakov suddenly went over to the cult of

musical technique. Shortly after this appeared his symphony and

also his quartet. Both works are full of obscurities and--as you

will justly observe--bear the stamp of dry pedantry. At present he

appears to be passing through a crisis, and it is hard to predict

how it will end. Either he will turn out a great master, or be lost

in contrapuntal intricacies.

“C. Cui is a gifted amateur. His music is not original, but

graceful and elegant; it is too coquettish--‘made up’--so to speak.

At first it pleases, but soon satiates us. That is because Cui’s

speciality is not music, but fortification, upon which he has to

give a number of lectures in the various military schools in St.

Petersburg. He himself once told me he could only compose by

picking out his melodies and harmonies as he sat at the piano. When

he hit upon some pretty idea, he worked it up in every detail, and

this process was very lengthy, so that his opera _Ratcliff_, for

instance, took him ten years to complete. But, as I have said, we

cannot deny that he has talent of a kind--and at least taste and

instinct.

“Borodin--aged fifty--Professor of Chemistry at the Academy of

Medicine, also possesses talent, a very great talent, which however

has come to nothing for the want of teaching, and because blind

fate has led him into the science laboratories instead of a vital

musical existence. He has not as much taste as Cui, and his

technique is so poor that he cannot write a bar without assistance.

“With regard to Moussorgsky, as you very justly remark, he is ‘used

up.” His gifts are perhaps the most remarkable of all, but his

nature is narrow and he has no aspirations towards self-perfection.

He has been too easily led away by the absurd theories of his set

and the belief in his own genius. Besides which his nature is not

of the finest quality, and he likes what is coarse, unpolished, and

ugly. He is the exact opposite of the distinguished and elegant

Cui.

“Moussorgsky plays with his lack of polish--and even seems proud of

his want of skill, writing just as it comes to him, believing

blindly in the infallibility of his genius. As a matter of fact his

very original talent flashes forth now and again.

“Balakirev is the greatest personality of the entire circle. But he

relapsed into silence before he had accomplished much. He possesses

a wonderful talent which various fatal hindrances have helped to

extinguish. After having proclaimed his agnosticism rather widely,

he suddenly became ‘pious.’ Now he spends all his time in church,

fasts, kisses the relics--and does very little else. In spite of

his great gifts, he has done a great deal of harm. For instance, he

it was who ruined Korsakov’s early career by assuring him he had no

need to study. He is the inventor of all the theories of this

remarkable circle which unites so many undeveloped, falsely

developed, or prematurely decayed, talents.

“These are my frank opinions upon these gentlemen. What a sad

phenomenon! So many talents from which--with the exception of

Rimsky-Korsakov--we can scarcely dare to hope for anything serious.

But this is always our case in Russia: vast forces which are

impeded by the fatal shadow of a Plevna from taking the open field

and fighting as they should. But all the same, these forces exist.

Thus Moussorgsky, with all his ugliness, speaks a new idiom.

Beautiful it may not be, but it is new. We may reasonably hope that

Russia will one day produce a whole school of strong men who will

open up new paths in art. Our roughness is, at any rate, better

than the poor, would-be-serious pose of a Brahms. The Germans are

hopelessly played out. With us there is always the hope that the

moral Plevna will fall, and our strength will make itself felt. So

far, however, very little has been accomplished. The French have

made great progress. True, Berlioz has only just begun to be

appreciated, ten years after his death; but they have many new

talents and opponents of routine. In France the struggle against

routine is a very hard matter, for the French are terribly

conservative in art. They were the last nation to recognise

Beethoven. Even as late as the forties they considered him a

_madman_ or an _eccentric_. The first of French critics, Fétis,

bewailed the fact that Beethoven had committed so many sins against

the laws of harmony, and obligingly _corrected_ these mistakes

twenty-five years later.

“Among modern French composers Bizet and Délibes are my favourites.

I do not know the overture _Patrie_, about which you wrote to me,

but I am very familiar with Bizet’s opera _Carmen_. The music is

not profound, but it is so fascinating in its simplicity, so full

of vitality, so sincere, that I know every note of it from

beginning to end. I have already told you what I think of Délibes.

In their efforts towards progress the French are not so rash as our

younger men; they do not, like Borodin and Moussorgsky, go beyond

the bounds of possibility.”

V

_To N. F. von Meck._

“SAN REMO, _January_ 1_st_ (13_th_), 1878.

“Returning to San Remo, I found a mass of letters and your

telegram. This time I actually heard from you the first

intelligence of Radetzky’s victory.[56] Thank you for the good news

and all your wishes. Whatever may chance, the year before me can

bring nothing worse than the last. At any rate the present leaves

nothing to be desired, except for my unhappy disposition, which

always exaggerates the evil and does not sufficiently rejoice in

the good. Among my letters was one from Anatol, who writes a great

deal about my wife and the whole unhappy affair. All goes well, but

directly I begin to think over the details of a past which is still

too recent, my misery returns. I have also received a letter from

the committee of the Russian section of the Paris Exhibition, which

has made me regret my refusal. My conscience still pricks me. Is it

not foolish and egotistical on my part to decline the office of

delegate? I write this to you, because I am now in the habit of

telling you _everything_....”

_To N. G. Rubinstein._

“SAN REMO, _January_ 1_st_ (13_th_), 1878.

“ ... From Albrecht’s telegram, which I found here on my return

from Milan, I gather that you are vexed with me for having declined

to act as delegate. Dear friend, you know me well; could I really

have helped the cause of Russian music in Paris? You know how

little gift I have for organising. Added to which there is my

misanthropical shyness, which is becoming a kind of incurable

malady. What would have been the result? I should only worry myself

to death with both the French and the Russian rabble, and nothing

would be carried out. As regards myself, or any personal profit it

might bring me, it will be sufficient to say that, without

exaggeration, I would rather be condemned to penal servitude than

act as delegate in Paris. Were I in a different frame of mind, I

might agree that the visit could be of use to me; but not at

present. I am ill, mentally and physically; just now I could not

live in any situation in which I had to be busy, agitated, and

conspicuously before the world.... Now as regards the symphony (No.

4) I despatched it to you from Milan on Thursday. Possibly it may

not please you at first sight, therefore I beg you not to be too

hasty in your judgment, but only to write me your opinion after you

have heard it performed. I hope you will see your way to bringing

it out at one of the later concerts. It seems to me to be my best

work. Of my two recent productions--the opera and the symphony--I

give decided preference to the latter.... You are the one conductor

in all the world on whom I can rely. The first movement contains

one or two awkward and recurrent changes of time to which I call

your special attention. The third movement is to be played

_pizzicato_; the quicker the better, but I do not quite know how

fast it is possible to play _pizzicato_.”

_To S. I. Taneiev._

“SAN REMO, _January_ 2_nd_ (14_th_), 1878.

“ ... Very probably you are quite right in saying that my opera is

not effective for the stage. I must tell you, however, I do not

care a rap for such effectiveness. It has long been an established

fact that I have no dramatic vein, and now I do not trouble about

it. If it is really not fit for the stage, then it had better not

be performed! I composed this opera because I was moved to express

in music all that seems to cry out for such expression in _Eugene

Oniegin_. I did my best, working with indescribable pleasure and

enthusiasm, and thought very little of the treatment, the

effectiveness, and all the rest. I spit upon ‘effects’! Besides,

what are effects? For instance, if _Aïda_ is effective, I can

assure you I would not compose an opera on a similar subject for

all the wealth of the world; for I want to handle human beings, not

puppets. I would gladly compose an opera which was completely

lacking in startling effects, but which offered characters

resembling my own, whose feelings and experiences I shared and

understood. The feelings of an Egyptian Princess, a Pharaoh, or

some mad Nubian, I cannot enter into, or comprehend. Some instinct,

however, tells me that these people must have felt, acted, spoken,

and expressed themselves quite differently from ourselves.

Therefore my music, which--entirely against my will--is impregnated

with Schumannism, Wagnerism, Chopinism, Glinkaism, Berliozism, and

all the other ‘isms’ of our time, would be as out of keeping with

the characters of _Aïda_ as the elegant speeches of Racine’s

heroes--couched in the second person plural--are unsuited to the

real Orestes or the real Andromache. Such music would be a

_falsehood_, and all falsehoods are abhorrent to me. Besides, I am

reaping the fruits of my insufficient harvest of book-learning. Had

I a wider acquaintance with the literatures of other countries, I

should no doubt have discovered a subject which was both suitable

for the stage and in harmony with my taste. Unfortunately I am not

able to find such things for myself, nor do I know anyone who could

call my attention to such a subject as Bizet’s _Carmen_, for

example, one of the most perfect operas of our day. You will ask

what I actually require. I will tell you. Above all I want no

kings, no tumultuous populace, no gods, no pompous marches--in

short, none of those things which are the attributes of ‘grand

opera.’ I am looking for an intimate yet thrilling drama, based

upon such a conflict of circumstance as I myself have experienced

or witnessed, which is capable of touching me to the quick. I have

nothing to say against the fantastic element, because it does not

restrict one, but rather offers unlimited freedom. I feel I am not

expressing myself very clearly. In a word, Aïda is so remote, her

love for Radames touches me so little--since I cannot picture it in

my mind’s eye--that my music would lack the vital warmth which is

essential to good work. Not long since I saw _L’Africaine_ in

Genoa. This unhappy African, what she endures! Slavery,

imprisonment, death under a poisoned tree, in her last moment the

sight of her rival’s triumph--and yet I never once pitied her! But

what effects there were: a ship, a battle, all manner of dodges!

When all is said and done, what is the use of these effects?...

With regard to your remark that Tatiana does not fall in love with

Oniegin at first sight, allow me to say--you are mistaken. She

falls in love at once. She does not learn to know him first, and

then to care for him. Love comes suddenly to her. Even before

Oniegin comes on the scene she is in love with the hero of her

vague romance. The instant she sets eyes on Oniegin she invests him

with all the qualities of her ideal, and the love she has hitherto

bestowed upon the creation of her fancy is now transferred to a

human being.

“The opera _Oniegin_ will never have a success; I feel already

assured of that. I shall never find singers capable, even

partially, of fulfilling my requirements. The routine which

prevails in our theatres, the senseless performances, the system of

retaining invalided artists and giving no chance to younger ones:

all this stands in the way of my opera being put on the stage. I

would much prefer to confide it to the theatre of the

Conservatoire. Here, at any rate, we escape the commonplace routine

of the opera, and those fatal invalids of both sexes. Besides

which, the performances at the Conservatoire are private, _en petit

comité_. This is more suitable to my modest work, which I shall not

describe as an opera, if it is published. I should like to call it

‘lyrical scenes,’ or something of that kind. This opera has no

future! I was quite aware of this when I wrote it; nevertheless, I

completed it and shall give it to the world if Jurgenson is willing

to publish it. I shall make no effort to have it performed at the

Maryinsky Theatre; on the contrary, I should oppose the idea as far

as possible. It is the outcome of an invincible inward impulse. I

assure you one should only compose opera under such conditions. It

is only necessary to think of stage effects to a certain extent. If

my enthusiasm for _Eugene Oniegin_ is evidence of my limitations,

my stupidity and ignorance of the requirements of the stage, I am

very sorry; but I can at least affirm that the music _proceeds in

the most literal sense from my inmost being_. It is not

manufactured and forced. But enough of _Oniegin_.

“Now a word as to my latest work, the Fourth Symphony, which must

have reached Moscow by now. What will you think of it? I value your

opinion highly, and fear your criticism. I know you are absolutely

sincere, that is why I think so much of your judgment. I cherish

one dream, one intense desire, which I hardly dare disclose, lest

it should seem selfish. You must write and play, and play and

write, for your own self, and you ought not to waste time on

_arrangements_. There are but two men in Moscow--nay, in the whole

world--to whom I would entrust the arrangement of my symphony for

four hands. One of these is Klindworth, and the other a certain

person who lives in the _Oboukhov pereoulok_. The latter would be

all the dearer to me, if I were not afraid of asking too much. Do

not hesitate to refuse my request. Yet if you feel able to say

‘yes,’ I shall jump for joy, although my corpulence would be rather

an impediment to such behaviour.”

_To K. K. Albrecht._

“SAN REMO, _January_ 8_th_ (20_th_), 1878.

“To-day I received your letter. Had it come a fortnight ago I

should no doubt have reflected whether in refusing the office of

delegate I had done something foolish or wrong. Now, however, the

matter is decided, and on mature consideration I am convinced I was

wise not to undertake a business so antipathetic to my

temperament.... Let us thoroughly consider the question. In what

way could I have been useful as a delegate: First, to the cause of

Russian music, and secondly, to myself?

“1. _As regards Russian music...._ What could I have done, under

the circumstances, to interest the Parisians in our music? How

could I (unless funds were forthcoming) arrange concerts and

evenings for chamber music? What a poor figure I should have cut

beside the other delegates, who were well supplied with money! But

even had funds been forthcoming, what could I have done? Can I

conduct anything? I might have beaten time to my own compositions,

but I could not fill up the programmes with my works. I must, on

the contrary, have put them aside in order to bring forward the

compositions of Glinka, Dargomijsky, Serov, Rimsky-Korsakov, Cui,

and Borodin. And for all this I should have had to prepare myself,

unless I risked bringing disgrace upon Russian music. That I should

have disgraced it is certain. Then all Russia would have blamed me

afterwards, and with justification. I do not deny the fact that a

man of temperament, skill, and talent for organisation could do

much. But you know that apart from my speciality I am a useless

sort of being. So, you see, I should have been of _no service to

Russian music_, even if the Government had allowed me sufficient

money to carry out any plans.

“2. _As concerns myself...._ I must say that the idea of making the

acquaintance of the Parisian musical lights seemed to me the most

terrible part of the business. To make myself amiable and pay court

to all the ragtag and bobtail is not in my line. Pride shows itself

in many different ways. In my case it takes the form of avoiding

all contact with people who do not know or appreciate my worth. For

instance, it would be unbearable to have to stand humbly before

Saint-Saëns and to be honoured by his gracious condescension, when

in my heart of hearts I feel myself _as far above him as the Alps_.

In Paris my self-respect (which is very great in spite of my

apparent modesty) would suffer hourly from having to mix with all

kinds of celebrities who would look down upon me. To bring my works

to their notice, to convince them that I am of some

consequence--this is impossible to me.... Now let us leave the

question of my own reputation and speak of my health. Physically I

feel very well, at any rate better than could be expected; but

mentally I am still far from sound. In a word, I am on the verge of

insanity. I can only live in an atmosphere of complete quiet, quite

away from all the turmoil of great cities. In order that you may

realise how changed I am, let me tell you that now I spit--yes,

spit upon the thought of all success or notoriety abroad. I beg and

pray one thing only: to be let alone. I would gladly be dropped in

some remote desert, if I could thus avoid contact with my

fellow-men.... I cannot live without work, and when I can no longer

compose I shall occupy myself with other musical matters. But I

will not lift a finger to push my works in the world, because I do

not care about it one way or the other. Anyone can play or sing my

works if they please; if no one pleases--it is all the same to me,

for, as I tell you, I _spit, spit, spit_ upon the whole business!!!

Once again, I repeat: were I rich I should live in complete

seclusion from the world and only occasionally visit Moscow, to

which I am deeply attached.... I am grieved, my dear Karl, that you

are vexed with me. But listen: I have learnt from bitter experience

that we cannot do violence to our nature without being punished for

it. My whole self, every nerve, every fibre in me, protests against

undertaking this post of delegate, and I subscribe to this protest.

“Karl, I recommend to you most highly my latest work. I mean my

symphony. Feel kindly towards it, for I cannot be at rest without

your praise. You do not guess how I value your opinion. Give

Kashkin my best thanks for his letter and show him this one by way

of reply, as it will serve for him too. Your warm words about

_Eugene Oniegin_ are 1,000,000,000,000 times more to me than the

condescension of any Frenchmen. I embrace you both, and also

Rubinstein. But as to fame, I _spit, spit_, yes, _spit_ upon it.”

_To. N. F. von Meck._

“SAN REMO, _January_ 14_th_ (26_th_), 1876.