Letter 1108 - Revision history

Tony at 12:52, 5 July 2024

2024-07-05T12:52:09Z

← Older revision		Revision as of 14:52, 5 July 2024
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	\|Translated text={{right\|''[[Paris]]''<br/>''13/25 February'' 1879}}		\|Translated text={{right\|''[[Paris]]''<br/>''13/25 February'' 1879}}
	My dear chap! I was just at the post office and received your letter, while yesterday from Switzerland I received your message too, which didn't catch me there. You know, I even feel ashamed, knowing how extensive your vast correspondence is, to be receiving such large and interesting letters from you so frequently. In your letter from yesterday you wrote to me regarding Saint-Croix. I blushed with shame. I assure you that I would have gone with pleasure, had I not completely forgotten about this assignment. I had every intention of finding out where it (i.e. Saint-Croix) is situated, and yet I forgot! Please, forgive me.		My dear chap! I was just at the post office and received your letter, while yesterday from Switzerland I received your message too, which didn't catch me there. You know, I even feel ashamed, knowing how extensive your vast correspondence is, to be receiving such large and interesting letters from you so frequently. In your letter from yesterday, you wrote to me regarding Saint-Croix. I blushed with shame. I assure you that I would have gone with pleasure, had I not completely forgotten about this assignment. I had every intention of finding out where it (i.e. Saint-Croix) is situated, and yet I forgot! Please, forgive me.

	I'm living a hermit's existence here, and only go out onto the street twice, in order to satisfy the needs of my stomach, and to wash myself a little. It would be unfair to [[Paris]] if I were to say that I'm bored here. My room is now in the back yard of the hotel, very quiet, and no-one bothers me, so I'm working no less than in Switzerland. I go to the theatres occasionally, I have many books — well, in short I'm living very well, but still in my heart I secretly sigh about my dear Villa Richelieu. I was destined for such a life, and only similar terms of existence can wholly satisfy me. No city and no amount of brilliance and noise can give that wonderful sensation of absolute peace, absolute freedom, which is only possible in the quiet and isolated corners of the world. And furthermore, if you add to this the beauty of nature such as on the shores of Lake Geneva, then so much the better. However, a Russian cannot live permanently in Switzerland. There is no horizon, and ultimately the mountains are stifling and oppressive. If my circumstances do not change, then I hope to live in my beloved [[Clarens]] for 2 or 3 months each winter.		I'm living a hermit's existence here, and only go out onto the street twice, in order to satisfy the needs of my stomach, and to wash myself a little. It would be unfair to [[Paris]] if I were to say that I'm bored here. My room is now in the back yard of the hotel, very quiet, and no-one bothers me, so I'm working no less than in Switzerland. I go to the theatres occasionally, I have many books — well, in short I'm living very well, but still in my heart I secretly sigh about my dear Villa Richelieu. I was destined for such a life, and only similar terms of existence can wholly satisfy me. No city and no amount of brilliance and noise can give that wonderful sensation of absolute peace, absolute freedom, which is only possible in the quiet and isolated corners of the world. And furthermore, if you add to this the beauty of nature such as on the shores of Lake Geneva, then so much the better. However, a Russian cannot live permanently in Switzerland. There is no horizon, and ultimately the mountains are stifling and oppressive. If my circumstances do not change, then I hope to live in my beloved [[Clarens]] for 2 or 3 months each winter.
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	On Sunday I experienced a tremendous musical delight. At one of the concerts (in the Châtelet, where the ''[[Colonne]]'' orchestra plays), they gave one of my favourite things: [[Berlioz]]'s "''La Damnation de Faust''". It was performed very well. I hadn't heard good music for such a long time that I wallowed in the empyrean, which was no little facilitated by the fact that I was alone, that no familiar faces whatsoever were sitting near me, that [[Langer]] wasn't dropping important bombshells, [[Kondratyev]] wasn't poking his finger in my side during the parts he likes, etc. But what a thing this is! Poor [[Berlioz]]! While he was alive they didn't want to know him here. Now the newspapers call him: "''Le grand Hector!''".		On Sunday I experienced a tremendous musical delight. At one of the concerts (in the Châtelet, where the ''[[Colonne]]'' orchestra plays), they gave one of my favourite things: [[Berlioz]]'s "''La Damnation de Faust''". It was performed very well. I hadn't heard good music for such a long time that I wallowed in the empyrean, which was no little facilitated by the fact that I was alone, that no familiar faces whatsoever were sitting near me, that [[Langer]] wasn't dropping important bombshells, [[Kondratyev]] wasn't poking his finger in my side during the parts he likes, etc. But what a thing this is! Poor [[Berlioz]]! While he was alive they didn't want to know him here. Now the newspapers call him: "''Le grand Hector!''".

	I took no little pleasure from yesterday's production at the Comédie Française. Today the so-called ''Mardi gras'' is being celebrated here, and the streets are fully with fancy dress. I mingled amongst them after dinner and then returned home, ordered tea to be served, and while smugly drinking my tea I am writing letters to nice people. Lord, I suppose, strictly speaking, I am happy! Could I every have dreamed that I would enjoy life so much! Sometimes, it seems that, like Sobakevich (who, having never been ill, said that this was not ''to the good''), this is all an illusion, and that some sort of misfortunes are being prepared for me.		I took no little pleasure from yesterday's production at the Comédie Française. Today the so-called ''Mardi gras'' is being celebrated here, and the streets are fully with fancy dress. I mingled amongst them after dinner and then returned home, ordered tea to be served, and while smugly drinking my tea I am writing letters to nice people. Lord, I suppose, strictly speaking, I am happy! Could I every have dreamed that I would enjoy life so much! Sometimes it seems that, like Sobakevich (who, having never been ill, said that this was not ''to the good''), this is all an illusion, and that some sort of misfortunes are being prepared for me.

	Until we meet, dear chap!		Until we meet, dear chap!

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{{letterhead
|Date=13/25 February 1879
|To=[[Pyotr Jurgenson]]
|Place=[[Paris]]
|Language=Russian
|Autograph=[[Klin]] (Russia): {{RUS-KLč}} (a{{sup|3}}, No. 2234)
|Publication={{bib|1901/24|Жизнь Петра Ильича Чайковского ; том 2}} (1901), p. 264–265 (abridged)<br/>{{bib|1938/40|П. И. Чайковский. Переписка с П. И. Юргенсоном ; том 1}} (1938), p. 83–84<br/>{{bib|1963/6|П. И. Чайковский. Полное собрание сочинений ; том VIII}} (1963), p. 109–110
}}
==Text and Translation==
{{Lettertext
|Language=Russian
|Translator=Brett Langston
|Original text={{right|''Париж''<br/>''13/25 февр[аля]'' 1879}}
Душа моя! Был сейчас на почте и получил твоё письмо, а вчера из Швейцарии мне прислал и тоже твоё послание, не заставшее меня. Знаешь что: мне даже совестно, зная, до какой степени обширна твоя переписка, получать от тебя столь часто, столь большие и интересные письма. Во вчерашнем письме ты пишешь мне насчёт S[ain]t-Croix. Я покраснел от стыда. Уверяю тебя, что я съездил бы с удовольствием, если б совершенно не забыл об этом поручении. Я все собирался узнать, где она (т. е. S[ain]t-Croix) находится, да так и позабыл! Извини, пожалуйста.

Я здесь живу сущим пустынником и только два раза выхожу на улицу, чтобы удовлетворить потребности желудка и промяться немножко. Было бы неблагодарно относительно Парижа, если б я сказал, что скучаю здесь. Помещение моё теперь на заднем дворе гостиницы, очень тихое, и никто меня не беспокоит, так что работаю не меньше, чем в Швейцарии. Бываю в театрах изредка, имею много книг, ну, словом, живу очень хорошо, но всё-таки в тайне души вздыхаю о своей милой вилле Ришелье. Я создан для такой жизни, и только подобные условия существования могут вполне удовлетворять меня. Никакой город и никакой блеск и шум не могут дать того чудного ощущения совершенного покоя, совершенной свободы, которые возможны в тихих и изолированных уголках мира. А если ещё к этому прибавить красоты такой природы, как на берегах Женевского озера, — то чего же лучше. Однако ж, постоянно жить в Швейцарии русскому нельзя. Горизонта нет, и горы в конце концов давят и душат. Если мои обстоятельства не переменятся, то я надеюсь каждую зиму месяца 2–3 жить в моем возлюбленном Clarens.

В воскресенье я испытал громадное музыкальное наслаждение. В одном концерте (в Châtelet, где играет оркестр ''Colonn'а'') давалась одна из любимейших моих вещей: «''La Damnation de Faust''» Берлиоза. Исполнение было очень хорошее. Я так давно не слышал хорошей музыки, что плавал в эмпиреях, чему немало способствовало то, что я был один, что никакие знакомые рожи около меня не сидели, что Лангер не делал многозначительных мин, Кондратьев не тыкал меня пальцем в бок в тех местах, где ему нравится, и т. д. Но что это за вещь! Бедный Берлиоз! Пока он был жив, его здесь знать не хотели. Теперь в газетах его называют: «''Le grand Hector''!».

Немалое удовольствие доставило мне также вчерашнее представление в Comédie Française. Сегодня здесь празднуется так называемый ''Mardi gras'', по улице масса ряженых, толкотня, суета. Я потолкался среди них после обеда и вернулся домой, велел подать чаю, благодушествую за чайком и пишу письма милым людям. Господи, до чего я, собственно говоря, благополучен! Мог ли я когда-нибудь мечтать, что буду так наслаждаться жизнью! Иногда мне, как Собакевичу (который, никогда не быв болен, говорил, что это не ''к добру''), кажется, что все это непрочно и что мне готовятся какие-нибудь напасти.

До свиданья, душа моя!
{{right|Твой, П. Чайковский}}
''Адрес мой: Rue de Rivoli, Hôtel Meurice''. Останусь ещё 16 дней.

|Translated text={{right|''[[Paris]]''<br/>''13/25 February'' 1879}}
My dear chap! I was just at the post office and received your letter, while yesterday from Switzerland I received your message too, which didn't catch me there. You know, I even feel ashamed, knowing how extensive your vast correspondence is, to be receiving such large and interesting letters from you so frequently. In your letter from yesterday you wrote to me regarding Saint-Croix. I blushed with shame. I assure you that I would have gone with pleasure, had I not completely forgotten about this assignment. I had every intention of finding out where it (i.e. Saint-Croix) is situated, and yet I forgot! Please, forgive me.

I'm living a hermit's existence here, and only go out onto the street twice, in order to satisfy the needs of my stomach, and to wash myself a little. It would be unfair to [[Paris]] if I were to say that I'm bored here. My room is now in the back yard of the hotel, very quiet, and no-one bothers me, so I'm working no less than in Switzerland. I go to the theatres occasionally, I have many books — well, in short I'm living very well, but still in my heart I secretly sigh about my dear Villa Richelieu. I was destined for such a life, and only similar terms of existence can wholly satisfy me. No city and no amount of brilliance and noise can give that wonderful sensation of absolute peace, absolute freedom, which is only possible in the quiet and isolated corners of the world. And furthermore, if you add to this the beauty of nature such as on the shores of Lake Geneva, then so much the better. However, a Russian cannot live permanently in Switzerland. There is no horizon, and ultimately the mountains are stifling and oppressive. If my circumstances do not change, then I hope to live in my beloved [[Clarens]] for 2 or 3 months each winter.

On Sunday I experienced a tremendous musical delight. At one of the concerts (in the Châtelet, where the ''[[Colonne]]'' orchestra plays), they gave one of my favourite things: [[Berlioz]]'s "''La Damnation de Faust''". It was performed very well. I hadn't heard good music for such a long time that I wallowed in the empyrean, which was no little facilitated by the fact that I was alone, that no familiar faces whatsoever were sitting near me, that [[Langer]] wasn't dropping important bombshells, [[Kondratyev]] wasn't poking his finger in my side during the parts he likes, etc. But what a thing this is! Poor [[Berlioz]]! While he was alive they didn't want to know him here. Now the newspapers call him: "''Le grand Hector!''".

I took no little pleasure from yesterday's production at the Comédie Française. Today the so-called ''Mardi gras'' is being celebrated here, and the streets are fully with fancy dress. I mingled amongst them after dinner and then returned home, ordered tea to be served, and while smugly drinking my tea I am writing letters to nice people. Lord, I suppose, strictly speaking, I am happy! Could I every have dreamed that I would enjoy life so much! Sometimes, it seems that, like Sobakevich (who, having never been ill, said that this was not ''to the good''), this is all an illusion, and that some sort of misfortunes are being prepared for me.

Until we meet, dear chap!
{{right|Yours, P. Tchaikovsky}}
''My address: Rue de Rivoli, Hôtel Meurice''. I'm staying here 16 more days.
}}