To. N. F. von Meck.
“San Remo, January 14th (26th), 1876.
“Two nights running we have had a gale from the northwest. It howled and whistled until I had the shivers. Last night it rattled and shook my window so that I could not sleep and began to think over my life. I do not know whence it came, but suddenly a very pleasant thought passed through my mind. I thought that I had never yet shown my gratitude to you in its fullest extent, my best and dearest friend. I saw clearly that all you are doing for me, with such untiring goodness and sympathy, is so beyond measure generous that I am not really worthy of it. I recollected the crisis when I found myself on the verge of an abyss, and believed that all was over, that nothing remained but to vanish from the face of the earth, and how, at the same time, an inward voice reminded me of you and predicted that you would hold out your hand to me. The inner voice proved true. You and my brothers have given me back my life. Not only am I still living, but I can work; without work life has no meaning for me. I know you do not want me to be pouring out assurances of my gratitude every moment; but let me say once for all that I owe you everything, everything; that you have not only given me the means to come through a very difficult crisis without anxiety, but have brought the new elements of light and gladness into my life. I am now speaking of your friendship, my dear, kind Nadejda Filaretovna, and I assure you since I have found in you so eternally good a friend, I can never be quite unhappy again. Perhaps the time will come when I shall no longer require the material assistance you have bestowed upon me with such admirable delicacy of feeling, such fabulous generosity; but I shall never be able to do without the moral aid and comfort I have derived from you. With my undecided character, which is innate in me, and with my faculty for getting out of heart, I am happy in the consciousness of having so good a friend at hand, who is always ready to help me and point out the right course of action. I know you will not only be the upholder of my good and wise achievements, but also a judge of my faults; a compassionate judge, however, who has my welfare at heart. All this I said to myself as I lay awake last night, and determined to write it to you to-day. In doing so I am merely satisfying my great desire to open my heart to you.
“Such a strange coincidence happened this morning! A letter from N. Rubinstein[57] was put into my hands. He has returned from his journey, and lost no time in replying to my letter, in which I excused myself for shirking the duties of delegate. His letter breathes savage wrath. This would not matter so much, but that the whole tone of the communication is so dry, so lacking in cordial feeling, so exaggerated! He says my illness is a mere fraud, that I am only putting it on, that I prefer the dolce far niente aspect of life, that I am drifting away from my work, and that he deeply regrets having shown me so much sympathy, because it has only encouraged my indolence!!! etc., etc.”
This lack of sympathy and complete misunderstanding of his motives provoked a sharp reply on Tchaikovsky’s part. But in calmer moments he saw clearly all the artistic benefit he had derived from N. Rubinstein’s friendship, and never ceased to feel grateful for it.
To Nicholas Rubinstein.
“San Remo, January 14th (26th), 1878.
“ ... I received your letter to-day. It would have annoyed me very much, had I not told myself you were keeping in view my ultimate recovery. To my regret, however, you seem to see what is good for me precisely where I—and several others—see what is inimical to my health; in the very thing which appears to me an unprofitable and aimless exertion.... All you have written to me, and also your manner of saying it, only proves how little you know me, as I have frequently observed on former occasions. Possibly you may be right, and I am only putting it on; but that is precisely the nature of my illness.... From your letter I can only gather the impression that in you I possess a great benefactor, and that I have proved an ungrateful and unworthy recipient of your favours. It is useless to try this tone! I know how much I am indebted to you; but, in the first place, your reproaches cool my gratitude, and, secondly, it annoys me when you pose as a benefactor in a matter in which you have proved yourself quite the reverse.
“ ... But, enough of this. Let us rather speak of those things in which you have really been my benefactor. Not possessing any gifts as a conductor, I should certainly have failed to make a name, had not so admirable an interpreter of my works been always at hand. Without you I should have been condemned to perpetual maltreatment. You are the one man who has rightly understood my works. Your extraordinary artistic instinct enables you to take a difficult work—without any previous study—and carry it through with only two rehearsals. I must beg you once again to bring this power to bear upon my opera and symphony. As regards the former—much as I desire it—I shall not be hurt if you find it impossible to perform it this season. The symphony, on the other hand, must be given soon, for in many ways it would seriously inconvenience me if the performance were postponed.... I have often told you that in spite of my loathing for the duties of a professor, and the thought of being tied for life to the Conservatoire, custom has now made it impossible for me to live anywhere but in Moscow and in your society.”
To N. F. von Meck.