All language subtitles for Tchaikovsky (1969) Part II

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 ever 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 cannot 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 rich woman.

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
at the age of sixteen.

And I spent my best years dealing
with mumps, measles, colds...

I even had to handle
my husband's business,

because he was helpless.
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 octaves
in contrary motion.

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
on Thursday in Paris.

And remember, this piece will become
the favourite of virtuosos.

I am telling you this.
I! 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 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, excuse me.
- Here it is.

with an eye for the ladies,

well-known throughout the world, and
suddenly pschtt... gone.

Nothing remains of interpretative
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 have 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?

[FRENCH] - Buy a rug? Look.
- I don't understand.

- Or this one here. It's not expensive.
- No. I don't understand.

Or this one is a
Moroccan blanket. Look.

I've already told you...
Go away.

What do you want?

How are you? It's been a long time.
We've missed you.

Oh, my dear. Come here.
Come and talk to us.

- This is Petya, my Russian friend.
- Hello, sir.

- How do you do?

This is my Maniunya, alias Therese.

She can't speak a word of Russian,
but she's good for boom-boom.

"Boom-boom"?
What is "boom-boom"?

Oh, it's just a drink.

- A kind of beer?
- Yes, a kind of beer.

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.

- Excuse me, madam.
- Of course.

And with all your intelligence...
[FRENCH] Goodbye, madam.

Come back home to Russia. I beg you.

Alyosha.
Coachman!

What happened? You argued?
He's angry with you?

Tell me.
Tell me what happened.

Talk to me.
You don't want to say anything?

- Everything is all right.
- Oh, my dear.

I love this city.

Living here makes me feel
constantly nostalgic for Russia,

I find travelling 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,
Ivan Sergeyevich.

To kill our 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
cannot foresee.

Look - what did I tell you? God
will provide food. They're Russian.

- And how do you know they're Russian?
- Trust me. Watch.

Excellent gentlemen.
Help a poor war veteran.

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 opening in 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 whether 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 cannot be reached.

When I first heard that
you had got 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 marvellous.

No one's ever been closer to me
than you are.

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 within 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 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 should stop talking.

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 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,

Are the carts here yet?

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 Mr 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 realise

that this man no longer
needs your help,

and has therefore 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 realise

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 Pachulski

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 favour.

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
Igor TALANKIN

Screenplay by B. METALNIKOV
Yu. NAGIBIN, I. TALANKIN

Music arrangement by
composer and conductor Dimitri TIOMKIN

Director of Photography
Margarita PILIKHlNA

Production Designers
A. BORISOV, Yu. KLADIENKO

Sound by
Yu. RABINOVICH, V. SHMELKIN

Cast

Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky
Innokenty SMOKTUNOVSKY

Nadezhda Filaretovna von Meck
Antonina SHURANOVA

Alyosha
Yevgeny LEONOV

Desiree
Maya PLISETSKAYA

Nikolai Rubinstein
Vladislav STRZHELCHIK

Julia von Meck
Alla DEMIDOVA

Pachulski
Kirill LAVROV

Guerman Laroche
Yevgeny YEVSTlGNEYEV

Miliukova - Lilia YUDINA
Turgenev - Bruno FREINDLIKH

Soloists and performers

Lev VLASENKO
Vladimir ATLANTOV

Irina ARKHIPOVA
Valentina LEVKO

Galina OLEINICHENKO
Yuri MAZUROK

Concertmaster M. GRIGORIEV

The End