XVII
Tchaikovsky’s life moved in spiral convolutions. At every turn his way seemed to lie through the same spiritual phases. The alternations of light and shade succeeded each other with a corresponding regularity. When speaking of the depression which darkened his last years, I emphasised the fact that he had gone through a similar condition of mind before every decisive change in his existence. The acute moral tension which preceded his retirement from the Ministry of Justice was followed by the calm and happy summer of 1862. To his glad and hopeful mood at the beginning of 1877 succeeded the crisis which compelled him to go abroad for rest and change. So, too, this year, 1893, opened with a period of serene content, for which the creation of his Sixth, or so-called “Pathetic,” Symphony was mainly accountable. The composition of this work seems to have been an act of exorcism, whereby he cast out all the dark spirits which had possessed him in the preceding years.
The first mention of this Symphony occurs in a letter to his brother Anatol, dated February 10th (22nd), 1893, in which he speaks of being completely absorbed in his new project. The following day, writing to Vladimir Davidov, he enters into fuller particulars:—
“I must tell you how happy I am about my work. As you know, I destroyed a Symphony which I had partly composed and orchestrated in the autumn. I did wisely, for it contained little that was really fine—an empty pattern of sounds without any inspiration. Just as I was starting on my journey (the visit to Paris in December, 1892) the idea came to me for a new Symphony. This time with a programme; but a programme of a kind which remains an enigma to all—let them guess it who can. The work will be entitled “A Programme Symphony” (No. 6). This programme is penetrated by subjective sentiment. During my journey, while composing it in my mind, I frequently shed tears. Now I am home again I have settled down to sketch out the work, and it goes with such ardour that in less than four days I have completed the first movement, while the rest of the Symphony is clearly outlined in my head. There will be much that is novel as regards form in this work. For instance, the Finale will not be a great Allegro, but an Adagio of considerable dimensions. You cannot imagine what joy I feel at the conviction that my day is not yet over, and that I may still accomplish much. Perhaps I may be mistaken, but it does not seem likely. Do not speak of this to anyone but Modeste.”
After an interval of three years Tchaikovsky once more conducted a concert of the Moscow Musical Society on February 14th (26th). This was in response to a letter from Safonov begging him to make up their former personal differences and to take part again in the work of Nicholas Rubinstein, of imperishable memory. The Overture-Fantasia Hamlet was played at this concert for the first time in Moscow.
About the end of February Tchaikovsky again returned to Moscow to hear a new Suite From Childhood’s Days, by George Konius, which pleased him very much. Through the influence of the Grand Duke Constantine, Tchaikovsky succeeded in getting an annual pension of 1,200 roubles (£120) for the struggling young composer.
At this time he suffered from a terrible attack of headache, which never left him, and threatened to become a chronic ailment. It departed, however, with extraordinary suddenness on the fourteenth day after the first paroxysm.
On March 11th (23rd) he visited Kharkov, where he remained till the 16th (28th), and enjoyed a series of triumphs similar to those he had experienced in Odessa earlier in the year.
By March 18th (30th) Tchaikovsky was back in Klin. Here he received news that Ippolitov-Ivanov was leaving Tiflis to join the Moscow Conservatoire. In his answer, which is hardly a letter of congratulation, Tchaikovsky refers to his last Symphony, which he does not intend to tear up, to the sketch of a new Pianoforte Concerto, and to several pieces for piano which he hopes to compose in the near future.
He spent the Easter holidays in the society of his relatives and intimate friends in Petersburg, and, but for the hopeless illness of his oldest friend, the poet Apukhtin, this visit would have been a very quiet and cheerful interlude in his life.
To Vladimir Davidov.
“Klin, April 15th (27th), 1893.
“I am engaged in making musical pancakes.187 To-day I have tossed the tenth. It is remarkable; the more I do, the easier and pleasanter the occupation grows. At first it was uphill work, and the first two pieces are the outcome of a great effort of will; but now I can scarcely fix the ideas in my mind, they succeed each other with such rapidity. If I could spend a whole year in the country, and my publisher was prepared to take all I composed, I might—if I chose to work à la Leikin—make about 36,000 roubles a year!”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“Moscow, April 22nd (May 4th), 1893.
“Ah, dear Modi, I do not believe I shall get the thirty pieces written! I have finished eighteen in fifteen days and brought them with me to Moscow. But now I must stay here four days (the performance at the Conservatoire, one morning with the Synodal singers, and my birthday with old friends), then go on to Nijny and return here in time for the first performance of Rakhmaninov’s Aleko. I shall not be home before the 30th (May 12th), and I start on the 10th (22nd) of May,... but perhaps I may knock off a few songs very quickly.”
To P. Jurgenson.
“Klin, May 2nd, 1893.
“I intended to ask my old fee—100 roubles for each number. Now, in consequence of the number of paying propositions made to me (I swear it is true), I must put up my prices a little. But I will not forget that you have also published my greater works, from which you will not derive any profit for a long time to come. So let it stand at the old fee.... It is a pity I had not more time for writing.
“Should anything happen to Karl,188 and the family be in need, do not hesitate to help them out of my present, or future, funds....”
To P. Jurgenson.
“Petersburg, May 6th (18th), 1893.
“... As regards my fee, I must tell you that Gutheil has never made me any proposals, because all Russian publishers know that I am not to be caught by any bait they may offer. But abroad my relations with you are not understood, therefore I often receive advances from other countries. Many of them (André of Offenbach) have offered me far higher fees than I get from you (of course, I am only speaking of short compositions).... I cannot lose sight of the fact that many of my symphonies and operas have cost you more than they bring in. Of course, they will sell better some day, but at present I do not like to bleed you. You are not as rich as an Abraham, a Schott, or a Simrock.... If (on your honour) you do not consider it too much to give me another fifty, I will agree to it. Naturally I shall be very glad, for this has been a heavy year.
“I want nothing for the Mozart,189 because I have not put much of myself into it.”
To Vladimir Davidov.
“Berlin, May 15th (27th), 1893.
“... This time I wept and suffered more than ever, perhaps because I let my thoughts dwell too much on our last year’s journey. It is purely a psychophysical phenomenon! And how I loathe trains, the atmosphere of railway carriages, and fellow-travellers!... I travel too much, that is why I dislike it more and more. It is quite green here, and flowers blooming everywhere—but it does not give me any pleasure, and I am only conscious of an incredible and overwhelming home-sickness.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“London, May 17th (29th), 1893.
“I arrived here early this morning. I had some difficulty to find a room—all the hotels are packed. The concert takes place on May 20th (June 1st), after which I must rush around for about a week, for the Cambridge ceremony does not come off until the 11th or 12th, and on the 13th—our 1st of June—I begin my homeward journey. I am continually thinking of you all. I never realise all my affection for you so much as when away from home, and oppressed with loneliness and nostalgia.”
To Vladimir Davidov.
“London, May 17th (29th), 1893.
“Is it not strange that of my own free will I have elected to undergo this torture? What fiend can have suggested it to me? Several times during my journey yesterday I resolved to throw up the whole thing and turn tail. But what a disgrace to turn back for no good reason! Yesterday I suffered so much that I could neither sleep nor eat, which is very unusual for me. I suffer not only from torments which cannot be put into words (there is one place in my new Symphony—the Sixth—where they seem to me adequately expressed), but from a dislike to strangers, and an indefinable terror—though of what the devil only knows. This state makes itself felt by internal pains and loss of power in my legs. However, it is for the last time in my life. Only for a heap of money will I ever go anywhere again, and never for more than three days at a time. And to think I must kick my heels here for another fortnight!! It seems like eternity. I arrived early this morning, viâ Cologne and Ostend. The crossing took three hours, but it was not rough.... On the steps of my hotel I met the French pianist Diemer, and to my great astonishment found myself delighted to see him. He is an old acquaintance, and very well disposed towards me. In consequence of our meeting I had to go to his ‘Recital.’ Saint-Saëns also takes part in the concert at which I am conducting.”
Profiting by the presence in England of the composers who were about to receive the honorary degree at Cambridge, the Philharmonic Society gave two concerts in which they took part. At the first of these Tchaikovsky conducted his Fourth Symphony with brilliant success. According to the Press notices, none of his works previously performed had pleased so well, or added so much to his reputation in England.
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“London, May 22nd (June 3rd), 1893.
“... The concert was brilliant. It was unanimously agreed that I had a real triumph, so that Saint-Saëns, who followed me, suffered somewhat from my unusual success. Of course, this is pleasant enough, but what an infliction London life is during the ‘season’! Luncheons and dinners which last an interminable time. Yesterday the directors of the Philharmonic gave a dinner at the Westminster Club in honour of Saint-Saëns and myself. It was very smart and luxurious; we sat down to table at seven and rose at 11.30 p.m. (I am not exaggerating). Besides this I am invited to concerts daily and cannot refuse to go. To-day, for instance, I went to Sarasate’s concert. He is most kind and amiable to me. Last time I was here in the winter and in bad weather, so that I got no idea of what the town is really like. The devil knows Paris is a mere village compared to London! Walking in Regent Street and Hyde Park, one sees so many carriages, so much splendid and luxurious equipment, that the eye is fairly dazzled. I have been to afternoon tea at the Embassy. Our secretary at the Embassy here, Sazonov, is a charming man. What a number of people I see, and how tired I get! In the morning I suffer a great deal from depression, and later I feel in a kind of daze. I have but one thought: to get it all over.... At Cambridge I will keep a full diary. It seems to me it will be a very droll business. Grieg is ill. All the other recipients will come....”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“London, May 29th (June 10th), 1893.
“This letter will not be in time to reach you in ‘Peter.’... I have not had a chance of writing. This is an infernal life. Not a moment’s peace: perpetual agitation, dread, home-sickness, fatigue. However, the hour of escape is at hand. Besides which, I must say I find many excellent folks here, who show me every kind of attention. All the doctors designate have now arrived except Grieg, who is too ill. Next to Saint-Saëns, Boïto appeals most to me. Bruch is an unsympathetic, inflated sort of personage. I go to Cambridge the day after to-morrow, and do not stay at an hotel, but in the house of Dr. Maitland, who has written me a very kind letter of invitation. I shall only be there one night. On the day of our arrival there will be a concert and dinner, and on the following day—the ceremony. By four o’clock it will be all over.”
In 1893, in consequence of the fiftieth anniversary of the Cambridge University Musical Society, the list of those who received the Doctor’s degree, honoris causa, was distinguished by an unusual number of musicians: Tchaikovsky, Saint-Saëns, Boïto, Max Bruch and Edvard Grieg.
The festivities at Cambridge began on June 12th (new style) with a concert, the programme of which included a work by each of the five recipients of the musical degree, and one by Dr. Stanford,190 the director of the society.
The programme was as follows: (1) Fragment from Odysseus for soli, chorus, and orchestra (Max Bruch); (2) Fantasia for pianoforte and orchestra, Africa, the composer at the piano (Saint-Saëns); (3) Prologue from Mefistofele for solo, chorus, and orchestra (Boïto); (4) Symphonic poem, Francesco, da Rimini (op. 32), (Tchaikovsky); (5) Peer Gynt Suite (op. 46) (Grieg); (6) Ode, The East to the West, for chorus and orchestra (op. 52) (Stanford).
The various numbers were conducted by the respective composers, with the exception of Grieg’s Suite and the Fantasia Africa, which were given under the bâton of Dr. Stanford.
The singers were Mr. and Mrs. Henschel, Mme. Marie Brema, and Plunket Green.
In his Portraits et Souvenirs Saint-Saëns has given the following description of this concert, and I cannot refrain from interrupting my narrative in order to quote what the French composer says of my brother’s Francesca.
“Piquant charms and dazzling fireworks abound in Tchaikovsky’s Francesca da Rimini, which bristles with difficulties, and shrinks from no violence of effect. The gentlest and kindest of men has let loose a whirlwind in this work, and shows as little pity for his interpreters and hearers as Satan for sinners. But the composer’s talent and astounding technique are so great that the critic can only feel pleasure in the work. A long melodic phrase, the love-song of Paola and Francesca, soars above this tempest, this bufera infernale, which attracted Liszt before Tchaikovsky, and engendered his Dante Symphony. Liszt’s Francesca is more touching and more Italian in character than that of the great Slavonic composer; the whole work is so typical that we seem to see the profile of Dante projected in it. Tchaikovsky’s art is more subtle, the outlines clearer, the material more attractive; from a purely musical point of view the work is better. Liszt’s version is perhaps more to the taste of the poet or painter. On the whole, they can fitly stand side by side; either of them is worthy of Dante, and as regards noise, both leave nothing to be desired.”191
The concert was followed by a banquet in the hall of King’s College, at which a hundred guests sat down to table. As it was purely a musical festivity, only those who were to receive the honorary musical degree were invited to this banquet. The place of honour, next to the chairman, was given to Saint-Saëns, the eldest of the guests. Never had Tchaikovsky greater reason to congratulate himself upon his comparative youth, for, together with the honour, the difficult task of replying to a toast on behalf of his colleagues fell to the lot of Saint-Saëns.
After the dinner came a brilliant reception to the composers in the hall of the Museum.
Besides the musicians, there were several other recipients of the honorary degree, including the Maharajah of Bohonager, Lord Herschel, Lord Roberts, Dr. Julius Stupitza, Professor of English Philology in the University of Berlin, and the Irish scholar, Standish O’Grady.
On the morning of June 13th all the future doctors assembled in the Arts School and attired themselves in their splendid doctors’ robes of red and white; after which they took up their positions, and the procession started. Saint-Saëns, in the volume already quoted, says:
“We were attired in ample robes of silk, parti-coloured scarlet and white, with full sleeves, and on our heads college-caps of black velvet with gold tassels. Thus decked out, we walked in procession through the town, under a tropical sun. At the head of the group of doctors went the King of Bohonager in a turban of cloth of gold, sparkling with fabulous jewels and a diamond necklace. Dare I confess that, as the enemy of the commonplace, and of the neuter tints of our modern garb, I was enchanted with the adventure?
“The people stood on each side of the railings, and cheered us with some enthusiasm, especially Lord Roberts.”
“Meanwhile the Senate House, in which the degrees were conferred, had become crowded with undergraduates and guests. The former were not merely spectators, but—as we afterwards discovered—participated in the event. When the Vice-Chancellor and other members of the Senate had taken their places, the ceremony began. Each recipient rises in turn from his seat, while the public orator recounts his claims to recognition in a Latin oration. Here the undergraduates begin to play their part. According to ancient tradition, they are allowed to hiss, cheer, and make jokes at the expense of the new doctors. At every joke the orator waits until the noise and laughter has subsided, then continues to read aloud. When this is done, the recipient is led up to the Vice-Chancellor, who greets him as doctor in nomine Patri, Filii et Spiritus Sancti. This formula was not used in the case of the Maharajah.”
The oration delivered in honour of Tchaikovsky ran as follows:—
“Russorum ex imperio immenso hodie ad nos delatus est viri illustris, Rubinsteinii, discipulus insignis, qui neque Italiam neque Helvetiam inexploratam reliquit, sed patriae carmina popularia ante omnia dilexit. Ingenii Slavonici et ardorem fervidum et languorem subtristem quam feliciter interpretatur! Musicorum modorum in argumentis animo concipiendis quam amplus est! in numeris modulandis quam distinctus! in flexionibus variandis quam subtilis! in orchestrae (ut aiunt) partibus inter se diversis una componendis quam splendidus! Talium virorum animo grato admiramur ingenium illud facile et promptum, quod, velut ipsa rerum natura, nulla, necessitate coactum sed quasi sua sponte pulcherrimum quidque in luminis oras quotannis submittit.
“Audiamus Propertium:
“‘aspice quot submittit humus formosa colores;
et veniunt hederae sponte sua melius.’
“Etiam nosmet ipsi hodie fronti tam felici hederae nostrae corollam sponte imponimus.
“Duco ad vos Petrum Tchaikovsky.”
After the ceremony there was a breakfast given by the Vice-Chancellor, at which all attended in their robes. At the end of the meal, in obedience to the tradition of centuries, a loving-cup was passed round.
The breakfast was followed by a garden-party, the hostess being the wife of the Vice-Chancellor.
By evening Tchaikovsky was back in London, where he gave a farewell dinner to some of his new friends. Among these I must mention the fine baritone, Eugene Oudin. Tchaikovsky was soon very sincerely attached to him, both as a man and an artist. Upon his initiative Oudin was invited to sing at the Symphony Concerts in Moscow and Petersburg.
The following day Tchaikovsky left for Paris.
To P. Jurgenson.
“Paris, June 3rd (15th), 1893.
“Cambridge, with its peculiar customs which retain much that is medieval, with its colleges that resemble monasteries, and its buildings recalling a remote past, made a very agreeable impression upon me.”
To N. Konradi.
“Paris, June 3rd (15th), 1893.
“At Cambridge I stayed with Professor Maitland. This would have been dreadfully embarrassing for me, if he and his wife had not proved to be some of the most charming people I ever met; and Russophiles into the bargain, which is the greatest rarity in England. Now all is over, it is pleasant to look back upon my visit to England, and to remember the extraordinary cordiality shown to me everywhere, although, in consequence of my peculiar temperament, while there, I tormented and worried myself to fiddle-strings.”
Tchaikovsky’s home-coming was by no means joyful. The shadow of death was all around him. Hardly had he heard of the death of his old friend Karl Albrecht than a letter from the Countess Vassiliev-Shilovsky informed him that her husband had passed away. Besides this, Apukhtin lay dying in Petersburg, and in Moscow another valued friend, Zvierev, was in an equally hopeless condition.
A few years earlier one such grief would have affected Tchaikovsky more keenly than all of them taken together seemed to do at this juncture. Now death appeared to him less enigmatical and fearful. Whether his feelings were less acute, or whether the mental sufferings of later years had taught him that death was often a deliverance, I cannot say. I merely lay emphasis on the fact that, in spite of the discomforting news which met him in all directions, from the time of his return from England to the end of his life, Tchaikovsky was as serene and cheerful as at any period in his existence.
He looked forward with joy to meeting his nephew Vladimir Davidov at Grankino, in the government of Poltava. He always felt well in the glorious air of the steppes.
From Grankino he went to stay with his brother Nicholas at Oukolovo.
To Vladimir Davidov.
“July 19th (31st), 1893.
“I spent two very pleasant days in Moscow. Tell Modi I was very ill the day after he left. They said it was from drinking too much cold water at dinner and supper.... The day after to-morrow I start upon the Symphony again. I must write letters for the next two days.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“July 22nd (August 3rd), 1893.
“I am up to my eyes in the Symphony. The further I go, the more difficult the orchestration becomes. Twenty years ago I should have rushed it through without a second thought, and it would have turned out all right. Now I am turning coward, and have lost my self-confidence. I have been sitting all day over two pages, yet they will not come out as I wish. In spite of this, the work makes progress, and I should not have done so much anywhere else but at home.
“Thanks to Alexis’ exertions, my house has a very coquettish appearance. All is in order; a mass of flowers in the garden, good paths, and a new fence with gates. I am well cared for. And yet I get terribly bored unless I am working....”
To Vladimir Davidov.
“August 3rd (15th), 1893.
“The Symphony which I intended to dedicate to you—although I have now changed my mind192—is progressing. I am very well pleased with its contents, but not quite so satisfied with the orchestration. It does not realise my dreams. To me, it will seem quite natural, and not in the least astonishing, if this Symphony meets with abuse, or scant appreciation at first. I certainly regard it as quite the best—and especially the ’most sincere’—of all my works. I love it as I never loved any one of my musical offspring before.”
To P. Jurgenson.
“Klin, August 12th (24th), 1893.
“Dear Friend,—I have finished the orchestration of the new Symphony.... I have made the arrangement for four hands myself, and must play it through, so I have asked the youngest Konius to come here, that we may try it together. As regards the score and parts, I cannot put them in order before the first performance, which takes place in Petersburg on October 16th (28th).... On my word of honour, I have never felt such self-satisfaction, such pride, such happiness, as in the consciousness that I am really the creator of this beautiful work.”
To the same.
“Klin, August 20th (September 1st), 1893.
“I shall take the Symphony with me to Petersburg to-day. I promise not to give away the score. The arrangement for four hands needs a thorough revision. I have entrusted this to Leo Konius. I wished him to receive a fee of at least 100 roubles, but he refused....”
Tchaikovsky spent two days with Laroche in Petersburg. Even the prospect of his journey to Hamburg did not suffice to damp his cheerful frame of mind. He does not appear to have written any letters during his absence from Russia, which was of very brief duration.
“On his return from Hamburg he met me in St. Petersburg,” says Modeste, “and stayed with me a day or two. I had not seen him so bright for a long time past. He was keenly interested in the forthcoming season of the Musical Society, and was preparing the programme of the fourth concert, which he was to conduct.
“At this time there was a change in the circumstances of my own life. Having finished the education of N. Konradi, I decided to set up housekeeping with my nephew Vladimir Davidov, who had completed his course at the School of Jurisprudence and was now an independent man. My brother was naturally very much interested in all the arrangements of our new home.
“At this time we discussed subjects for a new opera. Peter Ilich’s favourite author in later life was George Eliot. Once during his travels abroad he had come across her finest book, The Mill on the Floss, and from that time he considered she had no rival but Tolstoi as a writer of fiction. Adam Bede, Silas Marner, and Middlemarch stirred him to the greatest enthusiasm, and he read them over and over again. He cared less for Romola, but was particularly fond of Scenes from Clerical Life. For a time he seriously contemplated founding the libretto of his next opera upon The Sad Fortunes of the Rev. Amos Barton. He wished me to read the tale and give him my opinion: I must confess that, from his own account of it, I persuaded him to give up the idea.
“I do not know if I actually convinced him, or whether he lost interest in it himself, but he never referred to this tale again when he spoke of other subjects for a libretto.
“We separated early in September, and he went to our brother Anatol, who was spending the summer and autumn with his family at Mikhailovskoe.”
Here he enjoyed a very happy visit. “It is indescribably beautiful,” he wrote to Modeste. “It is altogether pleasant and successful. The weather is wonderful. All day long I wander in the forest and bring home quantities of mushrooms.”
His high opinion of the new Symphony was still unchanged, for he wrote to the Grand Duke Constantine Constantinovich on September 21st (October 3rd), “Without exaggeration I have put my whole soul into this work.” Yet in spite of his cheerful attitude, a momentary cloud of depression passed over him at this time. Writing to Modeste from Moscow, a few days later, he says: “Just lately I have been dreadfully bored and misanthropical. 1 do not know why. I sit in my room and see no one but the waiter. I long for home, work, and my normal existence.”
On September 25th he returned to Klin for the last time.
To Anna Merkling.
“September 29th (October 11th), 1893.
“I am now very busy with the orchestration of the Pianoforte Concerto. I shall soon appear on the banks of the Neva. You will see me about the 10th.”
On October 7th (19th) Tchaikovsky left Klin never to return. The following day he intended to be present at the memorial service for his friend Zvierev and then to go on to Petersburg. As the train passed the village of Frolovskoe, he pointed to the churchyard, remarking to his fellow-travellers: “I shall be buried there, and people will point out my grave as they go by.” He repeated this wish to be buried at Frolovskoe while talking to Taneiev at the memorial service for Zvierev. Beyond these two references to his death, prompted no doubt by the sad ceremony with which he was preoccupied, Tchaikovsky does not appear to have shown any symptoms of depression or foreboding.
Kashkin has given the following account of his friend’s last visit to Moscow:—
“We met at the memorial service in the church, and afterwards Peter Ilich went to Zvierev’s grave. On October 9th (21st) he had promised to go to the Conservatoire to hear the vocal quartet (‘Night’) which he had arranged from Mozart’s pianoforte Fantasia. The master’s music had not been altered, Tchaikovsky had only written words to it.... Madame Lavrovsky had promised that her pupils should learn the work. We assembled in the concert hall of the Conservatoire, and I sat with Tchaikovsky. The quartet was beautifully sung... Tchaikovsky afterwards told me this music had the most indescribable charm for him, but he could not explain, even to himself, why this simple melody gave him such pleasure....
“At that time Pollini, the Director of the Hamburg Opera, was staying in Moscow. He was an ardent admirer of Tchaikovsky, and had given some of his operas in Hamburg. When—as invited—I went to supper with Tchaikovsky at the Moscow Restaurant, I met Pollini, Safonov, and two foreign guests. We talked over Pollini’s idea of making a great concert tour through Russia, with a German orchestra under a Russian conductor... Tchaikovsky was to conduct his own works and Safonov the rest of the programme.... After the others had gone, and Peter Ilich and I were left to ourselves, he told me all about Cambridge, and spoke very warmly of the Professor in whose house he had stayed, and of one of the other recipients of the honorary degree—Arrigo Boïto, who had charmed him with his intellect and culture.... Unconsciously the talk turned to our recent losses: to the death of Albrecht and Zvierev. We thought of the gaps time had made in our circle of old friends and how few now remained. Involuntarily the question arose: Who will be the next to take the road from which there is no return? With complete assurance of its truth, I declared that Tchaikovsky would outlive us all. He disputed the probability, but ended by saying he had never felt better or happier in his life. He had to catch the night mail to Petersburg, where he was going to conduct his Sixth Symphony, which was still unknown to me. He said he had no doubt as to the first three movements, but the last was still a problem, and perhaps after the performance in Petersburg he should destroy the Finale and replace it by another. The concert of the Musical Society in Moscow was fixed for October 23rd (November 4th). We arranged, if we should not see each other there, to meet at the Moscow Restaurant, for Tchaikovsky was anxious to introduce the singer Eugene Oudin to the musical circle in Moscow. Here our conversation ended. Tchaikovsky went to the station. It never occurred to me to see him off, for neither of us cared for that kind of thing; besides, we should meet again in a fortnight. We parted without the least presentiment that it was for the last time.”