II To Anatol Tchaikovsky
“Gliebovo, June 23rd (July 5th), 1877.
“Dear Anatol,—You are right in supposing that I am hiding something from you, but you have made a false guess as to what this ‘something’ really is. Here is the whole matter. At the end of May an event took place which I kept from you and from all my family and friends, so that you should none of you worry yourselves with unnecessary anxieties as to whether I had done wisely or not. I wanted to get the business over and 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 23rd (July 5th), 1877.
“Dear Father,—Your son Peter intends to marry. But as he must not be united without your blessing upon his new life, he writes to ask for it. My bride is poor, but a good, honourable woman, who is deeply attached to me. Dear Dad, you know a man does not rush thoughtlessly into marriage at my age, so do not be anxious. I am sure my future wife will do all she can to make my life peaceful and happy.... Take care of yourself, dear, and write to me at once. I kiss your hands.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Moscow, July 3rd (15th), 1877.
“First of all I must tell you that at the end of May I became engaged, to my own surprise. This is how 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 27th (July 9th), 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 2nd (14th), 1877.
“If I were to say that I had returned to my normal condition, it would not be true. But this is impossible. Only time can cure me, and I have no doubt that gradually I shall become reconciled. I am quiet here, and begin to look the future in the face without fear. One thing annoys me; I am absolutely incapable of taking up my work. Yet it would be the finest remedy for my morbid state of mind. I must hope that the hunger for work will return ere long.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“August 11th (23rd), 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 12th (24th), 1877.
“You are right, Nadejda Filaretovna, there are times in life when one must fortify oneself to endure and create for oneself some kind of joy, however shadowy. Here is a case in point: either live with people and know that you are condemned to every kind of misery, or escape somewhere and isolate yourself from every possibility of intercourse, which, for the most part, only leads to pain and grief. My dream has always been to work as long as I had power to do so, and when I felt convinced that I could do no more, to hide myself somewhere, far away from the strife, and look on at the agitations of the human ant-hill. This dream of being at rest in some remote corner has been the great consolation and goal of my life. Now, by my own act, I have deprived myself of all hope of ever reaching this harbour of refuge.... My new tie forces me into the arena of life—there is no escape from it. As you say, there is nothing to be done, but to set to and create some artificial happiness....
“Our symphony progresses. The first movement will give me a great deal of trouble as regards orchestration. It is very long and complicated; at the same time I consider it the best movement. The three remaining movements are very simple, and it will be pleasant and easy to orchestrate them. The Scherzo will have quite a new orchestral effect, from which I expect great things. At first only the string orchestra is heard, always pizzicato. In the trio the wood-wind plays by itself, and at the end of the Scherzo all three groups of instruments join in a short phrase. I think this effect will be interesting.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Kamenka, August 30th (September 11th), 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 12th (24th), 1877.
“I have not yet been to the Conservatoire. My classes only begin to-day. The arrangements of our home leave nothing to be desired. My wife has done all she possibly could to please me. It is really a comfortable and pretty home. All is clean, new and artistic.
“The orchestration of the first movement of our symphony is quite finished. Now I shall give myself a few days 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 12th (24th), 1877.
“... My wife came to meet me. Poor woman, she has gone through some miserable experiences in getting our home ready; while awaiting my arrival she has had to change her cook twice. She had to take one into the police court. Twice she was robbed, and for the last few days she has been obliged to remain at home all day, not daring to leave the place in the care of the cook. But our home pleases me; it is pretty, comfortable, and not altogether wanting in luxury.”
Shortly after writing this letter Tchaikovsky’s health broke down. According to a telegram which he sent to Petersburg, he left Moscow suddenly on September 24th (October 6th) in a condition bordering upon insanity.
Anatol says that his brother was scarcely recognisable when he met him on the platform of the Nicholas Station in Petersburg; his face had entirely changed in the course of a month. From the station he was taken to the nearest hotel, where, after a violent nervous crisis, he became unconscious, in which state he remained for forty-eight hours. When this crisis was over, the doctors ordered a complete change of life and scene as the sole chance of recovery. Anatol went immediately to Moscow, hastily arranged his brother’s affairs, left his wife to the care of her family, for the time being, and then took the invalid away as soon as possible.
Not once in the whole course of his life—neither at the time nor subsequently—did Tchaikovsky, in speech or writing, lay the blame for this unhappy incident upon his wife. Following his example, therefore, I cannot complete this chapter without exonerating her from every shadow of responsibility for all that happened.
Tchaikovsky himself declared that “she always behaved honourably and with sincerity,” never consciously deceived him and was “unwittingly and involuntarily” the cause of all her husband’s misery.
As to Tchaikovsky’s treatment of his wife, the sternest judge must admit that it was frank and honourable and that he did not attempt to mislead her. Both of them believed, under the influence of an abnormal and fatal exaltation, that, after self-revelation, they understood each other and were honestly convinced they would get on together. It was not until they entered into closer relationship that they discovered, to their horror, they were far from having told each other all; that a gulf of misunderstanding lay between them which could never be bridged over, that they had been wandering as it were in a dream, and had unintentionally deceived each other.
Under the circumstances separation was the only solution of the difficulty, the sole method of regaining their peace of mind and of saving Tchaikovsky’s life.
On October 3rd (15th) the composer reached Berlin, accompanied by his brother Anatol. The dangerous crisis in his illness was over and a slow convalescence began.