“Moscow, January 29th (February 10th), 1877.
“Dear Sergius,—My concert will not come off. In spite of gigantic efforts on my part, I cannot raise the necessary funds.
“I am in despair.
“I can write no more to-day. Forgive me for the trouble I have given you over my unlucky plans. Thank you for your letter.”
In spite of the bitterness left by the comparative failure of Vakoula, and the many other blows which his artistic ambitions had to suffer, Tchaikovsky, after his return to Moscow, did not lose his self-confidence, nor let his energy flag for a moment. On the contrary, although grieved at the fate of his “favourite offspring, Vakoula,” and at his unlucky début as a composer in Vienna and Paris, although suffering from a form of dyspepsia, he was not only interested in the propaganda of his works abroad, but composed his Variations on a Rococo Theme for violoncello, and corresponded with Stassov about an operatic libretto. The choice of the subject—Othello—emanated from Tchaikovsky himself. When Stassov tried to persuade him that this subject was not suitable to his temperament, he refused to listen to arguments, and would only consider this particular play. About the middle of September Stassov sent him the rough sketch which he began to study zealously. But it went no further. On January 30th Stassov wrote to him: “Do as you will, but I have not finished Othello yet. Hang me if you please—but it is not my fault.” Tchaikovsky himself had also begun to feel less eager, for he remarks in a letter to Stassov that he is not to trouble about a new subject.
At this time the composer was in such good health, and so active-minded, that he gave up his original intention of spending Christmas at Kamenka, and stayed on in Moscow.
In December Tchaikovsky wrote to his sister, A. Davidov:—
“A short time ago Count Leo Tolstoi was here. He called upon me, and I am proud to have awakened his interest. On my part, I am full of enthusiasm for his ideal personality.”
For a long time past—since the first appearance of Tolstoi’s works—Tchaikovsky had been one of his most ardent admirers, and this admiration had gradually become a veritable cult for the name of Tolstoi. It was characteristic of the composer that everything he cared for, but did not actually know face to face, assumed abnormal proportions in his imagination. The author of Peace and War seemed to him, in his own words, “not so much an ordinary mortal as a demi-god.” At that time the personality and private life—even the portrait—of Tolstoi were almost unknown to the great public, and this was a further reason why Tchaikovsky pictured him as a sage and a magician. And lo, this Olympian being, this unfathomable man, descended from his cloud-capped heights and held out his hand to Tchaikovsky.
Ten years later we find in Tchaikovsky’s “diary” the following record of this meeting:—