Chapter X: Part IV: I (1)

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.

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.