the coldest of all.

In May, 1877, his friend Kashkin suspected him of being engaged. In
July, Kashkin was amazed to find him married. Just once Kashkin saw the
couple together. Then Tschaikovski grew very distant to his friends and
eccentric in his manner; a little later he fled to Moscow, and in a few
days came word that he was dangerously ill. Later there were threats of
suicide, but it was all a mystery.

We know now that late in June, 1877, Tschaikovski announced definitely
to his brother Anatol, that he was engaged to, and would soon marry,
Antonina Ivanovna Miljukova. He said little of the girl, except that
she was not very young and was very poor; she was free from scandal,
however, and she loved him deeply. He hoped the marriage would be
happy; and he asked the father's blessing. The father's letter showed
an enthusiasm the son's lacked.

Before Anatol could reach Moscow, Tschaikovski was Benedick--July 6,
1877, he being then within three years of forty. The curious details of
the courtship are told by the composer himself in a letter to Frau von
Meek, a wealthy idolatress of his genius, with whom he had one of those
affairs called Platonic, and of whom more later. To her he wrote:

"One day I received a letter from a girl I had known for some time. I
learned from it that she loved me. The letter was couched in such warm,
frank terms that I concluded to answer it--something I have always
avoided doing in previous cases of this sort. Without rehearsing the
details of this correspondence I must mention that the result of the
letters was that I followed the wish of my future wife and called to
see her. Why did I do this? Now it seems to me that some invisible
power forced me to it. At our meeting I assured her that in return for
her love I could give her nothing but sympathy and gratitude. But later
I reproached myself for the carelessness of my action. If I did not
love her and did not wish to incite her further love for me, why did I
call on her and how could all this end? By the following letter I saw
that I had gone too far; that if I now turned from her suddenly it
would make her unhappy and possibly drive her to a tragic fate.

"So the weighty alternative posed itself: Either I got my liberty at
the cost of a life, or I married. The latter was my only possible
choice. So one evening I went to see her, declared openly that I could
not love her, but that I would always be her grateful friend; I
described