“If she will not consent to give up the stage, I, on my part, hesitate to sacrifice my future; for it is clear that I shall lose all opportunity of making my own way, if I blindly follow in her train. You see, Dad, my situation is a very difficult one. On the one hand, I love her heart and soul, and feel I cannot live any longer without her; on the other hand, calm reason bids me to consider more closely all the misfortunes with which my friends threaten me. I shall wait, my dear, for your views on the subject.
“I am quite well, and my life goes on as usual--only I am unhappy now she is not here.”
Tchaikovsky received the following letter in reply:--
“_December_ 29_th_, 1868 (_January_ 10_th_, 1869).
“MY DEAR PETER,--You ask my advice upon the most momentous event in your life.... You are both artists, both make capital out of your talents; but while she has made both money and fame, you have hardly begun to make your way, and God knows whether you will ever attain to what she has acquired. Your friends know your gifts, and fear they may suffer by your marriage--I think otherwise. You, who gave up your official appointment for the sake of your talent, are not likely to forsake your art, even if you are not altogether happy at first, as is the fate of nearly all musicians. You are proud, and therefore you find it unpleasant not to be earning sufficient to keep a wife and be independent of her purse. Yes, dear fellow, I understand you well enough. It is bitter and unpleasant. But if you are both working and earning together there can be no question of reproach; go your way, let her go hers, and help each other side by side. It would not be wise for either of you to give up your chosen vocations until you have saved enough to say: ‘This is _ours_, we have earned it in common.’
“Let us analyse these words: ‘In marrying a famous singer you will be playing the pitiable part of attendant upon her journeys; you will live on her money and lose your own chances of work.’ If your love is not a fleeting, but solid sentiment, as it ought to be in people of your age; if your vows are sincere and unalterable, then all these misgivings are nonsense. Married happiness is based upon mutual respect, and you would no more permit your wife to be a kind of servant, than she would ask you to be her lackey. The travelling is not a matter of any importance, so long as it does not prevent your composing--it will even give you opportunities of getting your operas or symphonies performed in various places. A devoted friend will help to inspire you. When all is set down in black and white, with such a companion as your chosen one, your talent is more likely to progress than to deteriorate. (2) Even if your first passion for her does cool somewhat, will ‘nothing remain but disenchantment and depression’? But why should love grow cold? I lived twenty-one years with your mother, and during all that time I loved her just the same, with the ardour of a young man, and respected and worshipped her as a saint.... There is only one question I would ask you; have you proved each other? Do you love each other truly, and for all time? I know your character, my dear son, and I have confidence in you, but I have not as yet the happiness of knowing the dear woman of your choice. I only know her lovely heart and soul through you. It would be no bad thing if you proved each other, not by jealousy--God forbid--but by time....