To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“Brailov, May 17th (29th), 1878.
“Seated in the carriage, after you left me, of course I dissolved in tears. The recollection of our meeting in Milan came back to me. How jolly it was! The journey to Genoa and afterwards! How beautiful it all seemed to me—and it was nearly six months ago! Here followed a fresh burst of tears.
“One of my fellow-travellers, who seemed to know this neighbourhood, told us that Brailov belonged to the banker Meck, had cost three million roubles, and brought the owner a yearly income of 700,000 roubles, and other nonsense. I was very much excited on the journey. In the waiting-room at Shmerinka I was greeted by the same waiter—you remember him—who served our supper; I told him to inquire whether any horses had been sent from Brailov. Two minutes later Marcel appeared. He is not a Frenchman, but a native. He was very attentive and amiable. His coat and hat were infinitely superior to mine, so that I felt quite embarrassed as I took my seat in the luxuriously appointed carriage, while he mounted the box beside the coachman. The house is really a palace. At Marcel’s invitation I entered the dining-room, where a huge silver samovar steamed on the table, together with a coffee-pot upon a spirit-lamp, cups of rare china, eggs, butter, etc. I observed that Marcel had received his instructions; he did not attempt to converse, nor to stand behind my chair, but just served what was necessary and went away. He inquired how I desired to arrange my day. I ordered my midday meal at one o’clock, tea at nine, and a cold supper. After coffee I explored the house, which contains a series of separate suites of rooms. A large wing, built in stone for the accommodation of guests, is arranged like a kind of hotel; a long corridor with rooms on each side, which are always kept exactly as though they were inhabited. The first floor, which I occupy, is furnished with the utmost comfort. There are many bookcases containing very interesting illustrated publications. In the music-room, a grand piano, a very fine harmonium, and plenty of music. In Nadejda Filaretovna’s study there are a few pictures. At one o’clock I had dinner, a very exquisite, but rather slight, repast. The Zakouska (hors d’œuvre) excellent, the wine ditto. After dinner I looked through the music and strolled in the garden. At four o’clock I ordered the carriage and took a drive. The neighbourhood of Brailov is not very pretty. There is no view from the windows. The garden is extensive and well stocked, especially with lilacs and roses, but it is not picturesque, nor sufficiently shady. On the whole I like the house best....”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Brailov, May 18th (30th), 1878.
“How lovely, how free, it is in your country home! The sun has set, and over the wide fields in front of the main entrance the heat is already giving way to the cool evening breeze. The lilacs scent the air, and the cockchafers break the stillness with their bass note. The nightingale is singing in the distance. How glorious it is!”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Brailov, May 21st (June 2nd), 1878.
“My life at Brailov flows tranquilly on. In the early morning after coffee I stroll in the garden, and then slip out through the little wooden door in the wall near the stable, and, jumping the ditch, find myself in the old, forsaken garden of the monastery, where the monks used to wander of old, but which is now tenanted by all kinds of birds. Not infrequently the oriole and the nightingale are seen there. This garden is apparently deserted, for the paths are so overgrown and the greenery so fresh that one could fancy oneself in the heart of the forest. First I wander through it, then sit down in a shady place for an hour or so. Such moments of solitude amid the flowers and green branches are incomparable; then I can watch every form of organic life which manifests itself silently, without a sound, yet speaks more forcibly of the illimitable and the eternal than the rumbling of bridges and all the turmoil of the streets. In one of your letters you say I shall not find a Gorge de Chaudière at Brailov. I do not want it! Such places satisfy one’s curiosity rather than one’s heart and imagination; one sees more English tourists than birds and flowers; they bring more fatigue than enjoyment.