“If you are in pecuniary difficulties,” he wrote to Y., “come to your sincere friend (myself), who now earns so much from his operas and will be delighted to help you. I promise not a soul shall hear of it; but it will be a great pleasure to me.”
“Please write at once to K., that he is to send Y. twenty-five roubles a month. He may pay him three months in advance.”
There would be no difficulty in multiplying such instances. Not only his neighbour’s need, but the mere whim of another person, awoke in Tchaikovsky the desire of fulfilment. He always wished to give all and receive nothing. It is not surprising, therefore, that there were occasionally periods—as in September and October, 1891—when he found himself penniless and felt the shortness of funds, chiefly because he was unable to help others.
His correspondence with concert agents, publishers and all kinds of applicants had become a great burden to him in those days.
All these things conduced to that mood of melancholy which is reflected in the letters written at this time.
At the end of October he went to Moscow, to be present at the first performance of Pique Dame, and to conduct Siloti’s concert, at which his Symphonic Fantasia, The Voyevode, was brought out.
To the Grand Duke Constantine Constantinovich.
“Moscow, October 31st (November 12th), 1891.
“It is difficult to say how deeply your precious lines touched and delighted me. Naturally I felt in my heart of hearts that you had not forgotten me—but it is pleasant to have some clear evidence that amid all your varied and complicated occupations, and while under the impression of a profound family sorrow, you still found time to think of me.
“I was very pleased to make Fet’s acquaintance. From his ‘Reminiscences,’ which were published in the Russky Viestnik, I fancied it would not be very interesting to converse with him. On the contrary, he is most agreeable company, full of humour and originality. If your Highness only knew how enchanting his summer residence is! The house and park—what a cosy retreat for a poet in his old age! Unluckily, as his wife complained to me, the poet does not enjoy life in these poetical surroundings at all. He sits at home all day, dictating verses, or his translation of Martial, to his lady secretary. He read me many new poems, and I was surprised at the freshness and youthfulness of his inspiration. We both regretted your Highness could not devote yourself entirely to poetry. If only you could repose in summer in just such a solitary spot! But, alas! it is not possible....