In the course of their correspondence, which extended over thirteen years, Nadejda Filaretovna had referred more than once to her pecuniary embarrassments and to her fears of becoming bankrupt. But each time she had added that the allowance made to Tchaikovsky could be in no way affected, since she had assured it to him for life, and that the sum of 6,000 roubles a year was of no consequence to her one way or the other. In November, 1889, she had spoken again of her business anxieties, but, as usual, without any reference to Tchaikovsky’s pension. On the contrary, in the summer of 1890 she showed her willingness to help him still further by advancing him a considerable sum. Consequently this news fell upon the composer like a bolt from the blue, and provoked the following reply:—
To N. F. von Meck.
“Tiflis, September 22nd (October 4th), 1890.
“Dearest Friend,—The news you communicated to me in your last letter caused me great anxiety; not on my account, however, but on your own. It would, of course, be untrue were I to say that such a radical change in my budget did not in any way affect my financial position. But it ought not to affect me so seriously as you apparently fear. In recent years my earnings have considerably increased, and there are indications that they will continue to do so. Therefore, if I am accountable for any fraction of your endless cares and anxieties, I beg you, for God’s sake, to be assured that I can think of this pecuniary loss without any bitterness. Believe me, this is the simple truth; I am no master of empty phraseology. That I shall have to economise a little is of no importance. What really matters is that you, with your requirements and large ways of life, should have to retrench. This is terribly hard and vexatious. I feel as though I wanted to lay the blame on someone (you yourself are certainly above reproach), but I do not know who is the real culprit. Besides, not only is my indignation quite useless, but I have no right to interfere in your family affairs. I would rather ask Ladislaw Pakhulsky to tell me what you intend to do, where you will live, and how far you will be straitened as to means. I cannot think of you except as a wealthy woman. The last words of your letter have hurt me a little,[150] but I do not think you meant them seriously. Do you really think me incapable of remembering you when I no longer receive your money? How could I forget for a moment all you have done for me, and all for which I owe you gratitude? I may say without exaggeration that you saved me. I should certainly have gone out of my mind and come to an untimely end but for your friendship and sympathy, as well as for the material assistance (then my safety anchor), which enabled me to rally my forces and take up once more my chosen vocation. No, dear friend, I shall always remember and bless you with my last breath. I am glad you can now no longer spend your means upon me, so that I may show my unbounded and passionate gratitude, which passes all words. Perhaps you yourself hardly suspect how immeasurable has been your generosity. If you did, you would never have said that, now you are poor, I am to think of you ‘sometimes.’ I can truly say that I have never forgotten you, and never shall forget you for a moment, for whenever I think of myself my thoughts turn directly to you.
“I kiss your hands, with all my heart’s warmth, and implore you to believe, once and for all, that no one feels more keenly for your troubles than I do.
“I will write another time about myself and all I am doing. Forgive my hasty, badly written letter: I am too much upset to write well.”
To the above letter we need only add that Tchaikovsky, with his usual lack of confidence, greatly exaggerated to himself the consequences of this loss. A few days later he wrote to Jurgenson:—
“Now I must start quite a fresh life, on a totally different scale of expenditure. In all probability I shall be compelled to seek some occupation in Petersburg which will bring me in a good salary. This is very, very humiliating—yes, humiliating is the word!”
But this “humiliation” soon passed away. About this time his pecuniary situation greatly improved, and the success of Pique Dame more than covered the loss of his pension.
Soon, too, he was relieved as to the fate of Nadejda Filaretovna, for he learnt that her fears of ruin had been unfounded, and her financial difficulties had almost completely blown over. But with this relief—strange as it may appear—came also a sense of injury which Tchaikovsky carried to the grave. No sooner was he assured that his friend was as well off as before, than he began to persuade himself that her last letter had been nothing “but an excuse to get rid of him on the first opportunity”; that he had been mistaken in idealising his relations with his “best friend”; that the allowance had long since ceased to be the outcome of a generous impulse, and that Nadejda Filaretovna was no longer as grateful to him for his ready acceptance of her help, as he was to receive it.