In 1875 Tschaikovski was a wreck.  In 1876 he suddenly wrote his brother:  “I have resolved to marry—­the resolve is beyond recall;” and again:  “The result of my thought is the firm resolve to marry with whomsoever it may be.”  His photograph at this time has a worn, hunted look, and he has become addicted to cold baths, of which his new plan was 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 minutely my character, the irritability, the unevenness of my temperament, my diffidence—­finally my financial condition.