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 honour.
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?
Travelling, travelling,
dragging around... All our lives!
Gypsies! That's what we are!
But al 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 goodbye.
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 cannot 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 Albertovich,
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