“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 7th (19th), 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?