“Such were my relations with her,” he wrote to Jurgenson, “that I never felt oppressed by her generous gifts; but now they weigh upon me in retrospect. My pride is hurt; my faith in her unfailing readiness to help me, and to make any sacrifice for my sake is betrayed.”
In his agony of wounded pride Tchaikovsky was driven to wish that his friend had really been ruined, so that he “might help her, even as she had helped him.” To these painful feelings was added all the bitterness involved in seeing their ideal connection shattered and dissolved. He felt as though he had been roughly awakened from some beautiful dream, and found in its stead “a commonplace, silly joke, which fills me with disgust and shame.”
But the worst blow was yet to come. Shortly after receiving Nadejda von Meck’s letter, Tchaikovsky’s circumstances—as we have already said—improved so greatly that it would not have been difficult for him to have returned her the sum she had allowed him. He believed, however, that this would have hurt her feelings, and he could not bring himself to mortify in the smallest degree the woman who had actually been his saviour at the most critical moment of his life. The only way out of this painful situation seemed the continuance of his correspondence with her, as though nothing had happened. His advances, however, met with nothing but silent opposition on the part of Nadejda Filaretovna, and this proved the unkindest cut of all. Her indifference to his fate, her lack of interest in his work, convinced him that things had never been what they seemed, and all the old ideal friendship now appeared to him as the whim of a wealthy woman—the commonplace ending to a fairy tale; while her last letter remained like a blot upon the charm and beauty of their former intercourse. Neither the great success of Pique Dame, nor the profound sorrow caused by the death of his beloved sister, in April, 1891, nor even his triumphs in America, served to soften the blow she had inflicted.
On June 6th (18th), 1891, he wrote from Moscow to Ladislaw Pakhulsky:—
“I have just received your letter. It is true Nadejda Filaretovna is ill, weak, and her nerves are upset, so that she can no longer write to me as before. Not for the world would I add to her sufferings. I am grieved, bewildered, and—I say it frankly—deeply hurt that she has ceased to feel any interest in me. Even if she no longer desired me to go on corresponding directly with her, it could have been easily arranged for you and Julia Karlovna to have acted as links between us. But she has never once inquired through either of you how I am living, or what I am doing. I have endeavoured, through you, to re-establish my correspondence with Nadejda Filaretovna, but not one of your letters has contained the least courteous reference to my efforts. No doubt you are aware that in September last she informed me that she could no longer pay my pension. You must also know how I replied to her. I wished and hoped that our relations might remain unchanged. But unhappily this seemed impossible, because of her complete estrangement from me. The result has been that all our intercourse was brought to an end directly I ceased to receive her money. This situation lowers me in my own estimation; makes the remembrance of the money I accepted from her well-nigh intolerable; worries and weighs upon me more than I can say. When I was in the country last autumn I re-read all her letters to me. No illness, no misfortune, no pecuniary anxieties could ever—so it seemed to me—change the sentiments which were expressed in these letters. And yet they have changed. Perhaps I idealised Nadejda Filaretovna because I did not know her personally. I could not conceive change in anyone so half-divine. I would sooner have believed that the earth could fail beneath me than that our relations could suffer change. But the inconceivable has happened, and all my ideas of human nature, all my faith in the best of mankind, have been turned upside down. My peace is broken, and the share of happiness fate has allotted me is embittered and spoilt.
“No doubt Nadejda Filaretovna has dealt me this cruel blow unconsciously and unintentionally. Never in my life have I felt so lowered, or my pride so profoundly injured as in this matter. The worst is that, on account of her shattered health, I dare not show her all the troubles of my heart, lest I should grieve or upset her.
“I may not speak out, which would be my sole relief. However, let this suffice. Even as it is, I may regret having said all this—but I felt the need of giving vent to some of my bitterness. Of course, I do not wish a word to be said to her.
“Should she ever inquire about me, say I returned safely from America and have settled down to work in Maidanovo. You may add that I am well.
“Do not answer this letter.”
Nadejda Filaretovna made no response to this communication. Pakhulsky assured Tchaikovsky that her apparent indifference was the result of a serious nervous illness, but that in her heart of hearts she still cared for her old friend. He returned the above letter to Tchaikovsky, because he dare not give it to Nadejda Filaretovna during her illness, and did not consider himself justified in keeping it.