“I hardly know how to advise you, dear Anton Stepanovich. I would prefer not to do so. If you had some private means, I could only rejoice in the prospect of your going to the Caucasus for a time. But it saddens me to think of you in the provinces, remote from musical centres, overburdened with tiresome work, solitary and unable to hear good music. You cannot imagine how it depresses me to think of men like Rimsky-Korsakov, Liadov, and yourself being obliged to worry with teaching. But how can it be helped? I think if you bear it for another two years, and work hard, little by little, you may manage to live by composition only. I know in my own case this is not impossible. I earn enough now to keep a large family, if need were. I may tell you in conclusion, that Tiflis is a fascinating town, and life there is pleasant.”
To Anatol Tchaikovsky.
“Maidanovo, July 8th (20th), 1891.
“ ... Do not be vexed that I stayed so long in Petersburg without coming to see you in Reval.[170] ... From your letter I gather that you are pretty comfortable there, although you mention many difficulties you have to contend with. I think one must be very politic and tactful in these things, then we can get over most difficulties. In the diplomatic service we must often faire bonne mine au mauvais jeu. There is nothing for it! I think you would find Valoniev’s diary interesting. He was governor of one of the Baltic provinces, and relates a great deal that is interesting. At that time Souvarov, the extreme Liberal, ruled in these provinces. In the long run the spirit of Pobiedonostsiev is better than the spirit of Souvorov.”
Towards the end of July a misfortune befell Tchaikovsky which was the cause of much subsequent anxiety. While he was taking his afternoon constitutional, and Alexis was resting in his room, a thief, who probably entered through the window, carried off the clock which had been given to him by Nadejda von Meck in 1888. This clock, which was beautifully decorated with a figure of Joan of Arc on one side, and on the other with the Apollo of the Grand Opéra, upon a background of black enamel, had been specially made in Paris, and cost 10,000 francs. For years Tchaikovsky had hardly consented to be parted from this gift, even for the necessary cleaning and repairs. It was his chief souvenir of his relations with his friend and benefactress. The police of Moscow and Klin were communicated with at once, but to no purpose: the clock was never recovered.
To V. Davidov.
“August 1st(13th), 1891.
“ ... I am now reading your “Chevrillon on Ceylon,”[171] and thinking of you. I do not altogether share your enthusiasm. These modern French writers are terribly affected; they have a kind of affectation of simplicity which disgusts me almost as much as Victor Hugo’s high-sounding phrases, epithets, and antitheses. Everything that your favourite recounts in such a clever and lively style might be told in very simple and ordinary language, neither in such brief and broken sentences, nor yet in long periods with the subject and predicate in such forced and unnatural positions. It is very easy to parody this gentleman:—
“Une serviette de table négligemment attachée à son cou, il dégustait. Tout autour des mouches, avides, grouillantes, d’un noir inquiétant volaient. Nul bruit sinon un claquement de machoirs énervant. Une odeur moite, fétide, écœurante, lourde, répandait un je ne sais quoi d’animal, de carnacier dans l’air. Point de lumière. Un rayon de soleil couchant, pénétrant comme par hasard dans la chambre nue et basse, éclairait par-ci, par-là tantôt la figure blême du maître engurgitant sa soupe, tantôt celle du valet, moustachue, à traits kalmouks, stupide et rampante. On devinait un idiot servi par un idiot. 9 heures. Un morne silence régnait. Les mouches fatiguées, somnolentes, devenues moins agitées, se dispersaient. Et lá-bas, dans le lointain, par la fenêtre, on voyait une lune, grimaçante, enorme, rouge, surgir sur l’horizon embrasé. Il mangeait, il mangeait toujours. Puis l’estomac bourré, la face écarlate, l’œil hagard, il se leva et sortit, etc., etc., etc. I have described my supper this evening. I think Zola was the discoverer of this mode of expression.”
To A. Alferaki.