To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“Rome, February 26th (March 10th), 1881.
“I can just imagine how you are making fun of my worldliness! I cannot understand where I get strength to endure this senseless existence! Naturally, I am annoyed, and my visit to Rome is spoilt—but I have not altogether lost heart, and find occasional opportunities of enjoying the place. O society! What can be more appalling, duller, more intolerable? Yesterday I was dreadfully bored at Countess X.’s, but so heroically did I conceal my feelings that my hostess in bidding me good-bye said: ‘I cannot understand why you have not come to me before. I am sure that after to-night you will repent not having made my acquaintance sooner.’ This is word for word! She really pities me! May the devil take them all!”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“Naples, March 3rd (15th), 1881.
“Yesterday I was about to write to you when Prince Stcherbatiov came to tell me of the Emperor’s death,[83] which was a great shock to me. At such moments it is very miserable to be abroad. I long to be in Russia, nearer to the source of information, and to take part in the demonstrations accorded to the new Tsar ... in short, to be living in touch with one’s own people. It seems so strange after receiving such news to hear them chattering at table d’hôte about the beauties of Sorrento, etc.
“The Grand Dukes wanted to take me with them to Athens and Jerusalem, which they intended to visit a few days hence. But this has fallen through, for all three are on their way to Petersburg by now.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“March 13th (25th), 1881.
“Dear Modi,—In Nice I heard by telegram from Jurgenson that Nicholai Grigorievich (Rubinstein) was very ill. Then two telegrams followed from the Grand Hotel (1) that his state was hopeless, (2) that he had already passed away. I left Nice at once. Mentally, I endured the torments of the damned during my journey. I must confess, to my shame, I suffered less from the sense of my irreparable loss, than from the horror of seeing in Paris—in the Grand Hotel too—the body of poor Rubinstein. I was afraid I should not be able to bear the shock, although I exerted all my will_power to conquer this shameful cowardice. My fears were in vain. The body had been taken to the Russian church at six o’clock this morning. At the Hotel I found only Madame Tretiakov,[84] who never left Nicholas Rubinstein during the last six days of his life. She gave me all details.”[85]