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Updated: June 20, 2025
Therefore wish me, while I wish you "Success and happiness! And Kashkine, crushing the letter savagely into a ball, muttered, between his teeth: "Ah! 'transformation'! we'll all drink to that! But, by God, it'll never come to him now!" By a quarter before two o'clock on the afternoon of October 9, 1890, the Symphony Hall of the Moscow Conservatoire was filled to the doors.
All was said in that look, though presently, with a slow smile, these words were added: "I call you to witness, Kashkine, that our Ivan herewith weds the Lady Ophelia for the space of one month; the condition being that we listen to the manuscript on the night of its completion. Nay, you shall not refuse me, Gregoriev. I tell you no subjects but those connected with Russia can fire me.
Italy! melody embodied: harmony made visible: Mozart paraphrased: Kingdom into which all artists must seek entrance; fairy-land come true! Kashkine read his letter with relief, with resentment, finally, with laughter. But Ivan's earnest invitation to him to spend the winter in Florence could not be accepted. He had already been absent far too long. Russia claimed him.
It was, indeed, during this summer, though Kashkine has erroneously attributed them to a later year, that he produced the celebrated "Songs of the Steppes," those "Chansons sans Paroles," which the world hums still, even after a vogue which would, in six months, have killed anything less original, less intangibly charming and uncommon.
Nicholas died in the French capital on the evening of March 11th; and Ivan, struck to the heart, crept yet closer into the solitude and isolation of Klin, where, for three months, he yielded himself to Tosca and opium, till a second catastrophe in the Russian musical world was averted only by Kashkine, who routed out his friend and forcibly insisted on beginning rehearsals for "Boris Telekin"; which opera saw its première in November; and became the sensation of the season.
And finally Piotr, who dared anything for his master, sent, secretly, for Kashkine whom he believed endowed with miraculous powers wherever his Prince was concerned. But for once Kashkine's presence seemed powerless to rouse the composer from his lassitude: a feat which was eventually accomplished by one who knew him more intimately than any man.
"Laroche!" shouted Ivan. "Irresponsible; and too much money." "Um a oh this new man we hear of Monsieur Kashkine, of Moscow." "He's literary, rather than musical. No real time for classes." "Wieniawski, then?" "By nature a virtuoso. It would be rather a pity to waste his technique and pin him down to a teacher's life. With a composer, the thing's different.
Not only Kashkine, but all those who heard of Ivan at this time, believed that, behind his eccentricities, there still lurked a sardonic grin at his own behavior; than which there can surely be no healthier sign! Yet, towards the very end, he committed an act which once more plunged the most indulgent of his friends into exasperated anger with his folly.
However, with Ivan Mikhailovitch, time was never a thing to be considered. He was a man of eternity." Into their two hours together on that last Moscow day, the friends crowded much important conversation. Ivan unfolded his plans for the future; and discussed those manuscripts he had brought back, and which he afterwards intrusted to Kashkine to be delivered to his publishers.
Which one remained to him? Ah! there were two: old Nicholas, the unswerving, the devoted; and Kashkine, who owed him nothing, who had given was to give so much! Why was it that they counted so lightly in the scales against these others?
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