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