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Chaikovsky 1969 CD2

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Part Two
I asked not to be disturbed.
I beg your pardon, Madame, but Mister Rubinstein has arrived.
Hello, Nikolai Grigorievich. What's happened?
Nothing's happened, don't get upset, for God's sake.
The reason I've come is to talk to you about Pyotr Ilyich.
Yes, come this way.
I'm listening to you.
Pyotr Ilyich has asked me to look after his divorce.
I have spoken to that woman
and at first she stubbornly refused and then asked for 10,000 rubles.
Unfortunately, neither Pyotr Ilyich, nor we his friends
have never had that much money. Nor will we ever have it.
Which is why I've had the impertinence...
And Pyotr Ilyich will be rid of this unhappy situation?
Yes, of course.
Oh God, how simple it is.
What's the matter?
You can not imagine what he means to me:
Pyotr Ilyich...
or rather his music.
I want to weep when I hear his music.
I want to die from an unspoken sadness.
A sadness I must hold close to me,
because one's best self is in it,
which is being destroyed every hour by everyday life.
I know, you're probably thinking now it's just a whim of a silly woman,
of a hysterical millionaires.
But I have known poverty, Nikolai Grigorievich.
I was not born to luxury.
There was a time when I had to nourish a family on 20 kopecks a day.
I was married off at the age of sixteen.
And I spent my best years dealing with mumps, measles, colds...
I even had to handle my husband's affairs
because he was helpless running his business, he was a weak person.
But all that was only the material side.
And I've tried so hard to find my ideal in life...
I've yearned for spiritual intimacy.
And now that I've found it...
I shall not give it up to anyone.
I will do anything to make sure that Pyotr Ilyich is free and happy.
To see that he is free to do his work.
Nadezhda Filaretovna, you are an amazing person.
I admire you and respect you.
Good afternoon, Nikolai Grigorievich.
Well, how are we progressing?
- Slowly. - What do you mean, slowly?
There's a difficult passage here. The composer's made it too hard.
All these divergent octaves.
It would have been easier if they were parallel.
What is it, Nikolai Grigorievich?
It's nothing. I'm not ready to die yet.
Pyotr Ilyich didn't write this for the convenience of lazy students.
Don't be offended.
Listen how I shall play this concerto Thursday in Paris.
And remember, this piece will become the favorite of virtuosos.
I am telling you this. Me! Rubinstein!
To die in Paris. To come all this way for that. It's absurd.
You've got money these days. Shall we drink to the dear departed?
There's a nice cafe nearby.
I've settled down for good in Paris.
As they say, a prisoner of the boulevards...
Yes, when you stop and think, it's so strange!
There was a man, impetuous, noisy,
a man who really loved life, generous, enjoying...
Oh pardon, having an eye for the ladies,
well-known throughout the world, and suddenly pschtt... an empty place.
Nothing remains of interpretive artists.
There's memory of him, his school, his disciples, his pupils.
All the new things he brought to music.
Cold comfort, my friend. His pupils, disciples, his school...
Nikolai Grigorievich would've scrapped everything for another day of life.
I would do the same thing with my criticism, as well.
And so would you... with all your compositions.
Perhaps with those I've written, yes, but not with my future work, no.
Are you hoping to create something that will let you defeat death?
I've already told you... Go away.
This is my Maniunya, alias Therese. She can't speak a word of Russian.
Let's drink to God's servant Nikolai.
Guerman, what has happened to you?
Why do you need Paris with its boulevards and all this?..
What have you got against my Maniunya?
And how is she different from your von Meck?
Oh, I'm sorry... I forgot she isn't as rich, is she?
Today you won't succeed in offending me.
Couldn't you have waited until tomorrow?
I've never set eyes on Baroness von Meck and I never will.
I see what you mean... You are Dante and she is Beatrice.
And with all your intelligence...
Come back home to Russia. I beg you.
Everything is all right.
I love this city.
Living here makes me feel constantly nostalgic for Russia,
I find traveling abroad very restful,
but I could never live anywhere but Russia.
You're a lucky man. But the Russian writer, Ivan Turgenev
will probably be taken back to Russia, like poor Nikolai Grigorievich,
in a plain wooden box on a baggage train.
And how I would like to go home,
to see with my own eyes what is going on there.
Things are going badly at home, lvan Sergeyevich.
Tokillour Sovereign, our Emperor!
What are our young people coming to?
Pyotr Ilyich,
I agree, all that is dreadful.
But the terrorists have acted only from the highest and purest motives.
How can you unite purity and bloodshed?
Who knows, we may be on the threshold of something important,
a threshold you and I might have trouble crossing,
but this new generation may see something across this threshold
that even my writer's imagination can not foresee.
God will provide. Go away!
What's the matter with you? I'll give you something you won't like!
Just take a look at yourself! A loafer!
Who is going to replace Nikolai Grigorievich at the conservatory?
The whole musical Moscow will miss him.
Suppose you were suggested to take over his responsibilities?
Never! That's not my affair.
I would say that is your duty now.
The late Nikolai Grigorievich was often accusing me
of not having a sense of public duty.
But I'm not good at arguing with people.
Of all that persuading, insisting and demanding. I can't do that.
For instance, my opera "The Maid of Orleans" is open in gin St. Petersburg,
and I'm staying on here because I want to escape the turmoil.
And how do you feel?
Are you satisfied with The Maid of Orleans?
Of all the music I have written, this is the best.
Why have you stopped reading? Go on.
Why should I go on? They're only saying awful things.
Well, that's fine. Let's hear what these awful things are.
Well, if you want to hear such trash, it's up to you.
"'The Maid of Orleans' is the poorest of all Tchaikovsky's operas.
Most irritating is the thinness and unimportance of the musical forms.
The themes strike one with their emptiness,
their lack of taste, their middle-class sentimentality. "
Listen, this is interesting.
"Anyone who is convicted of stealing soap
must immediately wash with it until it disappears. "
- Give me my pince-nez. - How should I know where it is?
All right, I'll try to read it without my glasses.
I'm not going to let you ruin your eyes.
- How dare you! - I dare!
You can fire me if you don't like it.
Some idiots write trash and others...
If they tried composing music,
you'd see what I'd write about them...
Don't take it so much to heart, dear Pyotr Ilyich.
What do you care what these spiteful people think?
You know very well that you are a great composer,
and that your music will live long after they have disappeared.
No, Nadezhda Filaretovna,
I'm afraid the truth is that I'm finished.
I'm dissatisfied with my old work and don't know any new way.
Each time I seem to discover a path
which will lead me to something new, it turns out to be a dead end.
This feeling will pass, my dear.
You're just tired. You must rest.
My God! Oh, merciful God...
You seem to know how to feel my distress,
and to come to my aid at the most difficult period of my life.
It's nothing more than distance that separates us from each other.
We have long become nearly the same being.
In your music we have found this intimacy we know.
In this sense I have no rival.
In that domain it is I who reign supreme.
Pyotr Ilyich, I wonder if you've ever been in love?
I don't believe so.
You love your music much too much to be able to love any woman.
How can I answer you...
Yes, and no...
If you put that question differently -
Have I known the full happiness of love...
then I would answer, no.
No. No.
But if you were to ask, if I have known the full power of love,
its immeasurable strength, its driving force...
then I would say, yes!
Yes! Yes!
Don't you feel it in my music?
Sometimes I'm convinced that music only increases man's unhappiness
because it shows more than anything that happiness can exist.
A happiness that is magnificent and real.
It taunts you because it can not be reached.
When I first heard that you had gotten married...
I felt something was torn from my heart.
It made me feel so bitter,
and when I found out you were unhappy with this woman, I rejoiced.
I hated that woman.
But I would have hated her a thousand times more
if you'd been happy with her.
You see I'm not so fine and unselfish as you thought I was.
Yes, you are amazing. You are marvelous.
No one's been closer to me than you ever before.
I'd like to make some sacrifice to show how devoted I am,
to repay you somehow for everything
you've done for me.
Is there anything I can do?
Be happy. I don't ask for anything more
than I already have.
I want no change in our relationship.
What I feel when I think of you,
belongs to me,
and I can find with in myself the solution to any difficulty.
Come here.
Here you will find a house where no one will disturb you,
where you can rest and find your inspiration once again.
Mama, is it true you've never seen Pyotr Ilyich?
That you don't know him at all?
It's true I've never seen him,
but even so I feel I know him well.
But wouldn't you like to meet him?
Don't lean over like that, you'll fall in!
Matryona, who was here?
Madame von Meck was here.
- With whom? - She was alone.
Oh! Thank you.
"I can no longer think of you as a myth.
I want to see you, the real you, a man who is infinitely dear to me.
I have the right because I love you as no one else loves you."
Pyotr Ilyich, can we serve lunch?
What did you say? Lunch?
"Today, we are having a celebration in your honor.
Come, my dear, my invaluable friend. I am expecting you."
This is all foolishness. It's absurd!
How can she lose her head like this?
Good Lord! You'd do better to shut up.
You're never going to lose your head.
Julia, you know perfectly well how I feel about Nadezhda Filaretovna.
I can't bear watching her torture herself over that...
There are other things you've no trouble bearing.
How long have you been planning to talk to my mother about us?
The only thing you're good for is to hate Tchaikovsky silently
because he doesn't take your so-called compositions seriously.
- Julia, that's unfair. - Be quiet, you failure!
Running away like this! In the middle of the night.
And what for?
Traveling, traveling, dragging around... All our lives!
Gypsies! That's what we are!
But at least Gypsies have horses.
And now we have insulted a very important lady.
Why? Because she wants only the best for us,
She says: " Live quietly. Don't worry about a thing.
Just write your music, and I will listen to it.
I don't want anything else from you, just let me take care of you. "
But we are too proud. We don't need anything.
Nothing! Not peace, nor love,
or shelter, or home.
Try to understand. What she expects from me, I can't give her.
I can't wait for the moment we can leave,
Have the carts gotten here?
Yes, but the drivers want their money right now, and I...
No. They'll begin to drink and then break everything. They can wait.
Is my mother still out walking?
She's saying good bye.
A letter from Mister Tchaikovsky.
Here. It's for you.
"Dear Vladislav Albertovich,
I have received your letter telling me
that Nadezhda Filaretovna is ill, weak,
depressed, and that she can not write herself.
For nothing in the world would I wish her to suffer because of me,
but would it not be possible
for you and Julia Karlovna to act as go-betweens?
I have tried to establish, with your help,
a correspondence with Nadezhda Filaretovna,
but each of your letters has been nothing more than a polite refusal.
Apparently, Nadezhda Filaretovna has completely given up interest in me.
She has always seemed to me the perfect human being
and I cannot conceive of inconstancy in a demi-Goddess.
I thought that the universe might crumble into dust rather
than Nadezhda Filaretovna might change her feelings towards me.
I know that Nadezhda Filaretovna is practically ruined,
and I am happy that, precisely now,
when I have ceased to receive her help,
I can convey to her the full extent of my gratitude.
A gratitude without bound, and completely inexpressible in words.
I shall remember her until my last breath,
and I shall bless her.
If she shows any desire to know what I am doing,
tell her that I have returned, safe and sound, from my travels in Europe
and am working on 'The Queen of Spades', an opera based on Pushkin."
Vladislav Abertovich, has the mail come?
Nadezhda Filaretovna, my dear,
is it possible that you still hope?
Don't you realize
that this man no longer needs your help now,
and so has completely lost interest in you?
When I first came into your employ,
you told me something I still remember,
you said that among the many servants of the Arts,
there were very few who were worthy of admiration and love.
You've created an idol for yourself, to whom you've devoted your life.
As soon as he has known fame, he forgot about you.
Fame is a matter of fashion.
There was a time when people preferred Zagoskin to Gogol.
And who reads him now?
You know, time puts things into perspective.
It'll always be a mystery to me how you, with your knowledge of people,
could write for 13 years to that man and not realize
that he is completely selfish and egotistical.
Yes, one can live side by side for 13 years and be mistaken about someone.
I am talking about you, Vladislav Albertovich.
You have understood nothing, not the character of Pyotr Ilyich,
nor his music, nor the nature of our relations.
Which is why you will go down in history as Pahulsky
and he as Tchaikovsky.
Don't be afraid, for God's sake.
I have no intention of harming you.
I've come to beg a favor.
It would be easy for you to make me happy
without it costing you anything.
I've been told that you can foretell three winning cards.
Can you?
It was but a joke, I swear!
Who jokes about this?
I must know if these three cards will always work.
For whom are you keeping this secret?
Your grandchildren? But they are already rich.
Too rich to know the true value of money. I know its value.
The secret of the three cards won't be wasted.
Don 't refuse my request! Reveal your secret to me.
What good can it do you?
You selfish witch!
I will make you talk!
The old woman! You? What are you doing here?
Why are you laughing like that?
You witch, you have driven me mad!
What do you want of me?
You want my life?
Take it!
Vladislav Albertovich! Hello!
- Good day. - How nice to see...
Vladislav Albertovich, what's the matter?
Why hasn't Nadezhda Filaretovna answered my letters?
She's been taken ill with an incurable mental illness.
My God! It happened so suddenly! But why?
You ask why?
Doesn't it even enter your mind that you might be the one to blame?
Vladislav Albertovich!
Listen to me. What has made you think during all these years
that you have the right to abuse the trust and love of everyone?
Do you think your music forgives you everything?
There is a God. And there will be justice.
And God will punish you!
What is it?
I have never in my life
felt so well and happy.
I'm satisfied with my symphony.
There's only some work to do on the end...
But perhaps I shall rewrite it.
Perhaps... I don't know.
Perhaps I will...
I don't know.
You may go, Alyosha. I need to be alone.
Pyotr Ilyich died
eight days after that concert.
Directed by lgor TALANKiN
Music arrangement by composer and conductor Dimitri TIOMKIN
Director of Photography Margarita PILIKHINA
Production Designers A. BORISOV, Y u. KLADIENKO
Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky Innokenty SMOKTU NOVSKY
Nadezhda Filaretovna von Meck Antonina SHURANOVA
Alyosha Yevgeny LEONOV
Nikolai Rubinstein Vladislav STRZHELCHIK
Julia von Meck Alla DEMIDOVA
Pahulsky Kiri ILLAVROV
Guerman Laroche Yevgeny YEVSTIGNEYEV
MiIiukova - Lilia YUDINA Turgenev - Bruno FREINDLIKH
Soloists and performers
Concertmaster M. GRIGORIEV
The End
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